Chapter Text
January, 1993
“Dean!” Dad snapped. “Quit messin’ around and pay attention—you’re doing this by yourself on the way back.”
They were at a bus station in Topeka, on the way to Uncle Bobby’s. Dad said Dean had to stop taking his medicine once a year and burn it out, or it wouldn’t work anymore. But he couldn’t stay at home, because it would make Dad sick too—and Sammy when he got older. And it had been a year since Dean started taking his medicine, so he was going to Bobby’s for the first time.
Dean let go of Sammy’s hand—Sam pouted—and went to stand by his dad in line at the counter.
“Do you remember where the first stop is?” Dad asked.
“Denver.”
“Good.” Dad clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder; it made Dean smile, it was almost like Dad was proud of him. “And if you get confused on the way back, what do you do?”
“I’ll go to the counter at the station, or to the bus driver, and tell them I’m dyslexic—” Dean had no idea what that meant— “so I can’t read very good and I need help getting back to Lawrence, Kansas. But I’m not going to talk to anyone else.”
“That’s right,” Dad said.
The bus ride to Denver took forever. It was boring even with Sammy there; Dean thought he’d probably go crazy on the way home when he was by himself.
Then they switched buses in Salt Lake. Dad told Dean he had to remember every place they stopped.
Finally, almost an entire day after they left home, they arrived in Boise, Idaho.
Bobby wasn’t there yet, but Dad said he would be, for sure. Even if the bus that Dad and Sam were taking home came before Bobby, Dean was supposed to stay and wait for him at the station. Besides, next time, Dad and Sam wouldn’t come with him anyway—so Dean had to not be scared of being by himself.
“Why can’t I stay with Dean and Uncle Bobby?” Sam whined.
He’d been whining about it for the whole trip. And usually Dean thought it was annoying when Sam acted like that, but he wanted to know too. He didn’t understand why Bobby wouldn’t get sick from Dean, but Dad and Sam would.
“Because I said so and if I have to say it again you’re getting popped in the fuckin’ mouth, you hear me?”
“Yeah, Dad.” Sam rolled his eyes—Dean had to make sure he never did that, Dad would smack the shit out of him for it. Sammy was allowed to do all kinds of stuff Dean wasn’t.
Then Sam put his backpack in his lap and dug around inside. “I made you something, Dean.”
“Really?” Dean asked, smiling and excited. Dean got presents on his birthday and on Christmas, but Sam just got stuff all the time—like books and new toys.
“Yeah, look.” Sam unfolded a big sheet of paper. It was a map of the United States—Sam just started teaching Dean about geography this year, so he knew about a lot more places than Kansas now.
There were stars drawn on the map, each in different colors, and next to them, written with big, block-letters in Sam’s wide, childish scrawl, were the names of all the places Dean would have to stop at on his trip back home: Salt Lake, Denver, Topeka, Lawrence. And then Sam gave him four envelopes, labeled in different colors like the map: Salt Lake was blue, Denver was green, Topeka was red, Lawrence was orange.
“Dad’s going to give you enough money for all the stops, so Bobby can help you split it up in these envelopes and you can just give them to the person at the ticket counter; that way if you forget where you’re supposed to go, or if it’s too hard for you to read the signs, you won’t get lost.”
“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean said.
“Oh, one more thing! Your walkie-talkie!”
Dean smiled at his little brother. “These won’t work when we’re so far apart. But … I know our phone number, I’ll call you when I’m at Bobby’s house.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah, Sammy—”
“Dean probably won’t be able to call us, Sam,” Dad interrupted.
“But Uncle Bobby has a phone! You talked to him before we left!” Sam argued.
“Yeah, but Dean’s going to be sick, remember? You’ll both just have to wait until he’s better and comes home.”
“If he’s sick he should go to the doctor!” Sam said.
“Betas like Dean don’t go to the doctor. Talk back to me again, Samuel, I dare you.” Then he looked at Dean. “And I don’t want to hear another word out of you until Bobby gets here. Quit bothering your brother.”
Dean sank down into his seat; Sammy caught his eye and mouthed, “I’m sorry.” Dean shrugged; he was used to it.
It had been a really long time since Dean saw Bobby: Sam was just a little baby and Mom was still alive. So at first he didn’t notice when Bobby walked in.
“John!” an unfamiliar voice said, making Dean turn his head toward the door.
His dad stood up and went to greet the other man—a handshake that turned into a brotherly hug.
“Bobby!” Dad said when they parted. “Look at you, you old sack of shit.”
Uncle Bobby laughed, even though Dad was being pretty mean.
“I look better’n you.” Then Uncle Bobby turned his attention to Sam and Dean. “You boys got big!" he said.
“Yeah, I’m really tall for my age!” Sam said. “I’m almost as tall as Dean now, and Dad says I’m gonna get way bigger than him—I’m an alpha, did you know that?”
“Sure did, bud,” Uncle Bobby said, chuckling. He reached out to shake Dean’s hand. “You’re almost a man now.”
Dean blushed. But he shouldn’t do that— men didn’t blush.
“Thanks for letting me stay with you,” Dean said.
“Don’t mention it, kiddo.”
“You got here just in time,” Dad said to Uncle Bobby. “Our bus is leaving in a few minutes, so Sam and I have to get going. Thanks for doing this Bob.” Then he looked at Dean. “Behave yourself. You know what the rules are and you know what happens when you break them.”
Then Dad hugged Uncle Bobby again, and he didn’t hug Dean. But Sam did.
“I’m gonna miss you so much,” Sam said. Then he started crying, face pressed in the crook of Dean’s neck—and Sammy was allowed to cry because he was just a little kid. “It’s not fair! I wanna go to Uncle Bobby’s too!”
“Sam, quit acting like a baby,” Dad said, tugging him by the collar of his shirt away from Dean’s embrace.
“Bye, Sammy,” Dean said, waving as Dad and Sam walked toward the station doors.
Sam’s lip quivered, like he was trying not to sob, and he waved back. It made Dean so sad that he couldn’t even think about it. He thought he would die if he let himself be so sad.
On the way to Uncle Bobby’s, Dean got to ride in the front seat. And he was never allowed to ride shotgun in Dad’s car. Ever since Sam got tall enough, he was allowed up there, though. But Uncle Bobby said that some rules were dumb enough that they were made for breaking. And Dad wasn’t here; and Dean was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to smell that Dean sat in the front seat like he could when Dean had gotten too curious about himself.
For the first time, Dean rode in the shotgun seat. And Uncle Bobby even let him change the music. It was awesome.
Then, a few hours later when they got the the scrapyard where Uncle Bobby lived, Bobby made Sloppy Joes for dinner and after showed Dean to the room where he would be staying. It was just a regular, boring room. It didn’t even have a TV, and Dean was disappointed. But he didn’t really feel very good now, he was getting sick—Dad told him not to take his medicine today—and he just wanted to lie down in the musty looking bed.
When he woke up, it was dark—midnight dark. And Dean was drenched in sweat—his sheets and clothes were so wet with it that it felt like he’d jumped into a pool with them. And between his legs it felt hot and throbbing and wet … slimy. Dean wanted to touch it. But he wasn’t allowed to touch it. He rubbed his blurry eyes—it felt like his arms were filled with sand when he lifted them—and his vision didn’t clear. Dean sobbed.
Dad said Dean was going to get sick. But he couldn’t have meant this sick. Dean was dying.
“Bobby!” he tried to scream, but it only came out as a croak.
He dragged himself out of bed, landing on the floor with a loud, heavy thud that made his hip hurt. He cried out again and tried to drag himself to the door. But, mercifully, it opened, and Bobby came in.
“C’mon, kiddo,” he said, scooping Dean up in his arms.
Dean held onto Bobby tightly. His body swayed, rose and fell, as Bobby walked down the hall.
Then Bobby lowered Dean into the bathtub—still in his boxers and t-shirt—and Dean’s eyes opened wide and he gasped. The tub was filled to the brim with ice water and the shock to Dean’s overheated body felt like being set on fire.
”John says this’ll help,” Uncle Bobby said, sticking a needle in Dean’s arm. It made his blood shiver. The neediness between his legs went away, but his stomach turned, and he vomited over the side of the tub.
Soon, the frigid water tamped out the fever enough that Dean didn’t feel like he’d die at any second.
Bobby sat by him, minding him without touching or saying a word.
“I want my dad,” Dean cried.
December, 2007
After Cas found Dean hanging out of his freezer, and made sure that he wasn’t about to collapse and die in his kitchen, he went right to unpacking the bags of groceries, reaching around Dean to put the popsicles he’d gotten for him by his head.
Then, after everything was put away, Cas tapped Dean on his shoulder.
“Hanging in there?” he asked.
Dean nodded, face pressed against the chilled, frosty wall.
“Here—” Cas offered Dean a bottle of water and a single pill packaged in a plastic sleeve. “They don’t sell the long-acting ones without a prescription in Missouri, so you’ll have to take one before I knot you, every time.”
Dean was just barely hanging on to his sanity and he had no idea what Cas was talking about; maybe it was the heat-brain, or it could just be because Dean was still so fucking socially stunted that he never knew what anyone except Sam was talking about half of the time. And Sam was gone.
“What’s that?” Dean asked, removing himself from the fridge to look more closely with his blurry eyes.
“Birth control.”
“Oh.” Dean handed the pill back to Cas. “I don’t need to take that.”
“Look, Dean, I’m more than happy to help you through this—I like you—but I’m not trying to knock you up.”
“No.” Dean shook his head and laughed dryly. He traced the jagged scar on his bare stomach—soft and silvered with age. “I can’t get pregnant.”
Cas’ face pinched—Dean couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He was probably disgusted; Dean wasn’t cut and he’d been fixed. Any alpha would be turned off by that. Except for Sam.
“Did your Alpha do that to you?” Cas asked; all of the usual laid-back, groovy attitude that Dean came to know from Cas was gone—he sounded pissed.
“What? No!” Dean scoffed; he was offended. Angry . The stem of his brain caught on fire. “My Alpha wouldn't have ever done that to me. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, so keep your fucking trap shut about it. Don’t ever talk about—about my Alpha again. You hear me?”
“Yeah, sorry.” Cas’s eyes flicked between Dean’s face and his stomach. “Just, my family is sort of different, I didn’t grow up like most people. And I was like … twenty the first time I left home. So I have some … unconventional ideas, I guess. Really, I'm sorry—it’s not about you. No matter how much I see it … I'm just not used to the way things are."
Dean looked at Cas with a furrowed brow. He was so weird. And Dean was quickly losing himself so he couldn’t really parse out any of the nuance in what Cas was saying. He’d be gone— really gone— before this conversation was done.
“You should go lie down,” Cas said, nodding toward his bed.
“Uh-uh. Too hot,” Dean huffed, and returned to the freezer.
“Gimme a minute,” Cas chuckled.
He went to the radiator in the corner and shut it off, then opened the sliding door to his balcony all the way, letting the cold December air into his apartment.
“I have to cut you off from the freezer—the chicken will spoil. C’mon.”
Cas put one of Dean’s arms over his shoulders, and one of his around Dean’s waist. And the moment Dean was wrapped in the warm embrace of an alpha’s body, his heat crashed, finally breaking through what remained of the flimsy chemical dam.
With someone new for the first time, Dean felt like he did the first time with Sammy—when he was twenty-two, going on fifteen.
“How long do you want me to wait?” Cas asked, as he put Dean in his bed.
Wait for what?
“As long as we can,” Dean said, without knowing what he meant.
Cas pushed the hair, stuck with sweat, away from Dean’s forehead. It was too long; Sammy had always cut it for him—even when they were kids. Dad gave Sam the clippers and told him to take care of it. And even though Dean was grown now—he was a man that could take care of himself, and had for two years—he still got really freaked out by the barber. So he’d taken to snipping at it when it was long enough to get in his eyes. It needed another trim a month ago.
“Get some rest before it’s too bad,” Cas said. “You’ll need it.”
Dean shook his head into the pillow—it smelled like alpha, but it didn’t smell right.
Maybe he fell asleep. Or just got caught in a feverish hallucination. But soon enough, Dean woke again. He didn’t know where he was, or when.
It was always like that these days when Dean came out of a dream. For one second—one wonderful, miserable second—Sammy wasn’t dead. And then the next second would come, and Dean would remember, and he’d feel exactly the way he had when he'd watched Sam die.
But Dean was in heat now—probably the worst one of his life. His brain was a puddle of unset pudding.
And that second second didn’t come.
Dean woke up and Sammy wasn’t dead, and it stayed like that.
His blood was molten, burning inside his veins. His muscles were cramping—seizing up and forcing his body into a tight ball. Even through his open eyes, Dean couldn’t see; everything was a blurry mess of dark and light shapes. Something inside of him twisted, nearly to the point of snapping, and Dean cried out in agony.
“We can’t wait any longer, Dean,” Sam said.
It didn’t sound like Sammy, and some part of Dean knew that it wasn’t. But it didn’t make sense for it to be anyone else.
“I’m not ready,” Dean sobbed. Why was he crying? Sammy always took such good care of him. He shouldn’t be so scared. “Please wait, Sammy.”
“It’s Cas,” Sam said. “Remember?”
Dean shook his head. “No, no— I need you, Sammy —just you. Please, Sam, it has to be you.”
Sam’s breath hitched. “Okay,” he said. “I can be Sammy.”
He got into the bed beside him and wrapped Dean up in his limbs; Sam felt shorter than he was supposed to, but Dean was so happy that he was there that he didn’t even care.
“I won’t hurt you,” Sam said—he always said that. It made Dean feel so safe. “I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
“Course I trust you, Sammy,” Dean said with slurred words, rubbing the corner of his jaw against Sam’s and melding their scents together.
“I need to knot you now, or I’m afraid you’ll get really sick. Is that okay?”
Dean nodded. “You talk too much, Sam.”
Sam chuckled; he ran his hands up and down Dean’s legs and stretched him out, turning Dean on his side. Then he pulled Dean’s boxers off and rested a heavy hand on Dean’s hip .
“Dean,” Sam said.
But Dean didn’t have any words to answer.
“Hey, look at me,” Sam said, cupping his cheek and turning Dean’s face to meet his eye.
“Listen.” Sam’s voice switched to that one alphas could use, and Dean didn’t like it. But Sammy was here again and Dean didn't even care that he broke his promise—he’d never talk to Dean like that unless it was an emergency … This was just a heat. But if he was using that voice, then there had to be a good reason. Sam never broke his promises.
“I want you to tell me if anything is wrong—if it hurts, or if you just don’t like it.”
“Uh-huh.”
That was the best Dean could manage. He was getting annoyed; Sam was taking too long. He knew that Dean always got weird about his heat when it first started. Dean didn’t understand why he was wasting all of this time talking through it. If he’d just hurry up and fuck Dean like he usually did, Dean might be able to think again.
“Sammy, just—” Dean croaked. “Just do it.”
Sam’s hand traveled away from Dean’s hip, caressing the curve of his ass before slipping between his legs and putting two fingers inside of Dean’s warm, wet, aching cunt. Dean’s eyes closed and he dropped his head back on Sam's chest. Then Sam shifted behind him and lined himself up with Dean’s entrance, and at the first push, Dean’s body stiffened and protested.
This always happened during the first fuck of his heat—Dean’s body needed and wanted Sam’s, but even through the fever, his head got in the way.
At Dean’s obvious reluctance, Sam paused—he stroked Dean’s spine gently with his fingertips.
“Dean?” he asked. “Are you okay?”
Dean looked over his shoulder; his heat-blind eyes didn’t recognize the differences about Sam’s face.
“Don’t tell Dad,” Dean whispered.
If Dad caught them, he’d kill them for sure.
“Okay,” Sam said, with some hesitant confusion.
Sam pushed his hips again, sliding deeper into Dean—then he rubbed the scent spot behind his jaw against Dean’s neck.
“There we go,” Sam said as Dean relaxed around him and let him inside. “You’re alright—you’re doing so well.”
The praise made Dean shudder. “Yeah?” he breathed.
“Yeah.”
Sam mouthed the crook of Dean’s shoulder and nibbled his earlobe as he seated himself to the hilt of his erection. Then he started to roll his hips, moving in and out, and stroking Dean’s sensitive velvet walls.
“Does that feel good?” Sam asked.
All Dean could do was nod while he moaned airily. Sam kissed his temple and chuckled like he was pleased and it made Dean smile.
“Feels so good for me, too. Thank you for letting me take care of you, Dean.”
This time Sam was fucking him in a way that was sort of different than he ever had before. And it felt good, it did, but it didn’t feel like Sam. And after a minute or two or a million, Dean couldn’t ignore it anymore.
“Why are you doing it like that?” Dean whined.
Sam stilled. “Like what?”
“Faster, Sammy,” he reminded his brother.
And Sam did just what he asked, quickening the pace and shortening every stroke, staying deep. Dean closed his eyes and wrapped a hand around his own erection, touching himself in a practiced motion. The one time Dad caught him jerking off, Dean thought he’d be in so much trouble; but Dad wasn’t mad at all—he said that was what real men did, they didn’t touch themselves in that soft spot between their legs.
The stretch inside of him grew more taut as Sam’s knot started to swell. The added sensation brought Dean to the edge and over it and he spilled into his hand when Sam’s knot finally caught with a tug inside his tender channel.
A sob of relief escaped Dean.
“I missed you so much,” Dean cried. “Please don’t leave me again. I don’t wanna be alone anymore. It’s so hard, Sam.”
“Shhh,” Sam hushed him. “You’re not alone, Dean. I’m right here.”
May, 2001
It had been more than a whole day since Dean took his medicine. He was so scared. He hated when he had to get sick, more than anything. It was the most horrible sickness he’d ever heard of—sometimes Sam brought a bug home from school, and the whole house would get sore throats and stuffy noses, or turning stomachs … but nothing like this.
Dean had already stripped himself naked, trying to escape the fever, even though that wasn’t allowed—Dad said Dean was never allowed to be naked around Sam, not even for baths or in the changing room at the pool … and that was so long ago, when their bodies were different.
Sam kept trying to touch him—just a hand on his arm or his side—asking him to take a cold shower to chill the fever before he took care of Dean.
And every point of contact felt like Dean was being struck by lightning that made him lose his mind. This was what he hated so much. The longer it lasted, and the worse it got, the less of him there was. When he was with Bobby he begged and screamed and cried to go home. In the early years, Dean wanted his dad, but as he got older—as Sam got older—it was his brother he wanted when he was so sick.
Sammy was the only person that had ever been good to him, and had never lied to him either.
Uncle Bobby wasn’t so bad. He let Dean break some of Dad’s stupid rules and never made him feel like an idiot. He made sure that Dean didn’t die from his fever. But Bobby lied to Dean every time he saw him. There was no way that Bobby didn’t know what Dean was and what was happening to him. And that hurt Dean deeply to learn. As Sam said, Dean knew three people. And now he knew that only one of them had ever told him the truth … Sam.
Even when Sam couldn’t tell Dean the whole of it—because Dad was a fucking jerk—he didn’t lie. He’d say, “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you. But I will when we’re older.”
And they were older now. And Sam hadn’t held anything back.
In the few lucid moments Dean had left, he wondered how long Sam had been planning this. The first time he’d promised Dean to tell him the truth when they were older was seven years ago. Sammy was just a kid then. There was no way he’d been thinking about how to get away from Dad for so long. Dad liked Sam, he was proud of him for farting—there wasn’t any good reason for Sam to leave him.
Then that awful twisting in Dean’s gut came again, knocking the wind out of him. He clenched his legs together and cringed at the wet squish of slick between them.
It was so gross. Sammy was probably going to throw up.
Any lucidity he’d had a moment ago was gone, swept away.
“I’m sorry,” Dean mumbled.
Sam’s broad hands spread across Dean’s body—one on the flat plane of his stomach, one between his thighs.
“Don’t be sorry,” Sam said, the ghost of his breath tickling Dean’s ear.
“It’s gross.” Dean put his hand on top of Sam’s, between his legs as his finger grazed Dean’s virgin lips. “That spot is bad—I’m not supposed to touch it.”
A sound reminiscent of a growl came from Sam. “Dad told you that?”
Dean nodded.
“Dad’s a fucking idiot,” Sam said. “And you’re not touching it— I am. Dad’s not in charge of you anymore. I am.”
Sam’s fingers slid into Dean and Dean saw stars.
“It’s not gross.” The pads of Sam’s first two fingers hooked against Dean’s soft walls. “It’s exactly the way you're supposed to be. I don’t want to hear anyone say that about my Omega—not even you. You’re perfect.”
Sammy always said stuff like that to Dean: you’re so smart, you’re so funny, you’re perfect. Before now, Dean rarely believed it.
But this time, somehow, Dean knew it was true—Sam thought that Dean was perfect. He really thought that and he wasn’t just saying it.
And then Sam shifted over him and Dean felt the soft press of something wide and blunt against him.
“Wait …” he gasped.
“It’s okay. Remember those books? Remember what I taught you? This will make you feel better.”
“Yeah, but …” Dean buried his face in Sam’s chest. “But Dad will know …”
“Dad’s not here, Dean.”
“He’ll know. He always knows when I’m bad.” Dean was crying and he was so embarrassed. “He’s gonna be so mad at me. I’m not supposed to—” Dean’s breath hitched. “Don’t tell him, please, Sammy—”
“I won’t tell. I’ve never told Dad any of your secrets. And we don’t have to worry about him anymore, okay? It’s just you and me now.”
“I’m scared,” Dean admitted.
“I know.”
Then Sam kissed him, lips pressed to lips, a hand on Dean’s cheek; Dean gasped. No one had ever kissed him before. And, since he wasn’t allowed out of the yard, he didn’t think anyone ever would.
It felt nice—warm and soft and a little bit wet; he smiled, a twitch in the corner of his mouth, when Sam started to use his tongue. He tasted like toothpaste. Dean probably should’ve thought it was gross. But it wasn’t.
“I’m not gonna hurt you, Dean,” Sam said. “I’ll never hurt you. I’m gonna take care of you.”
Dean nodded and closed his eyes. “Just do it, Sam.”
Then Sam settled over Dean again and kissed his neck and marked him with his scent, rubbing the corners of their jaws together.
Once, when they still lived with Dad, around the time Sam started getting taller, voice deeper, Sam had scented him like this in the night. It had made Dean feel so much better, it was so weird—Sam just snuggled up to him like he usually did, but when he rubbed his jaw on Dean’s, Dean felt like he was wrapped in a blanket that had just come out of the dryer. But in the morning, Dad could smell Sam on him too. They both got the shit kicked out of them for it, and Dean was stuck in his room for so long—only let out for meals and to use the bathroom—that he thought he’d be stuck in there forever.
But Sammy said they didn’t have to worry about Dad anymore. It was just the two of them now and Sam was going to take care of him. So, maybe Dean could just let this feel good.
Slowly, but in one go, Sam sheathed himself inside of Dean.
Dean grabbed fistfuls of sheets and his jaw dropped slack as he released a breathy, “oh.”
“Am I hurting you?” Sam whispered, voice husky, in Dean’s ear.
Dean shook his head in a lolling movement. “S’good,” he managed to say.
Then, Sam started to move—lifting his hips and drawing out of Dean’s cunt and thrusting right back in. It didn’t feel the way Dean expected it to feel. He never touched himself there—except once, years and years ago. And Dad could smell it then too; he always knew when Dean was bad.
The sensation was completely foreign to Dean but his body, his heat, felt right. Maybe for the first time ever in his life. He'd always felt wrong. Not just when he was at Bobby’s, and had to endure this the way no omega should, but every minute of every day. Dad said Dean was a beta; he drilled it into him constantly. And Dean didn’t know that there was anything else he could be, but he knew that wasn’t what he was. It felt like being forced to live inside a suit of skin that was too small.
“Sammy …”
“Are you okay?” Sam asked, his pace stalling as he looked into Dean’s eyes. Dean couldn’t really see his face—he was still feverish enough to be almost blinded with delirium.
But he’d know Sam’s face in the pitch dark.
“More, Sammy,” Dean begged.
And Sam had been giving him every inch, but he’d been holding back—Dean didn’t know how he knew that. And he didn’t know what he was asking for when asked for more, but he needed more.
Sam huffed, like his breath was taken away. He adjusted himself, pushing up on his hands a bit. And then he fucked Dean into the mattress, hard and fast and unrelenting—Sam was so big and strong now that he was a man … an alpha. Dean's Alpha.
“Oh, fuck, Dean … You feel so good.”
That strange, nice stretch inside of Dean widened and deepened and Sam reached between them and stroked Dean’s erection in his hand. Dean’s back arched, and Sam’s weight was all that kept him on the bed.
He came and made a mess between them, and Sam’s knot tugged at him, then he stuttered, and Dean felt a pulsing sensation inside of him, where Sam was deeply seated. Sam panted, forehead pressed to Dean’s sternum, and as the seconds passed, Dean’s fever started to ebb. He could see again. And he could almost think entire thoughts.
And he was sort of embarrassed now. Sam was inside of him. And, based on everything Dean had learned in the past few days, they’d be stuck like that for fifteen or twenty minutes. And then they’d do it again, and again, until Dean’s heat was done. It was an intimidating prospect … but thrilling too.
“You alright?” Sam asked after a moment.
Dean nodded; when he blinked, tears fell from the corners of his eyes.
“Why are you crying?” Sam swiped the tears away from Dean's cheeks with the pad of his thumb.
“I’m happy,” Dean said.