Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Have you lost weight, Sammy?” Dean says as they're getting ready, and Sam looks at him sharply, brow furrowed, muscle ticking at his jaw. “Not in a bad way,” Dean hurries, self-correcting. "But, uh. You’re looking kinda. You know.” He gestures with his hand, up and down the long tall length of his brother.

“Scrawny,” Sam says. “Bony. Skinny.”

“Hell,” Dean says, “no.” He rubs a hand over his chin. “More like. Uh.” He thinks again of Sam’s narrow hips in those black trousers, waist accentuated by that neatly tucked-in shirt. “I wanna say… svelte.”

“Svelte,” says Sam. The side of his mouth slides up into a smile.

Aw, shit. “I don’t fucking know,” Dean says. “You look good, man. I dunno. Maybe it’s just, maybe black suits you. I dunno.” He’s ended up flustered, at a disadvantage. “… which isn’t, uh, a surprise. Fucking emo kid.”

The dimple deepens in Sam’s cheek, flickers.

Dean’s flailing a little now.

“Fricking… Vince Vincente loving…”

“Vince Vincente isn’t emo, Dean,” says Sam.

“Oh, I’m sorry ,” says Dean, rallying. “I must’ve got confused by the, the eyeliner and all the leather and shit.”

Sam raises his eyebrows but the rest of his face relaxes into a grin.

“The spiked leather codpieces?” he says. He articulates every syllable, lips moving carefully around the words, and yeah, well, that’s kinda what Dean was getting at; that is to say, what kind of douchebag would wear a fucking codpiece in this day and age, it isn’t the fucking… well, some fucking long ago century, and wow, Sam’s cheekbones might be sharply defined but his lips are very soft and pink.

Also Sam’s mouth is definitely closer than it was a few moments ago, all of Sam’s closer in fact, he’s doing that looming thing which Dean doesn’t like because it makes him feel smaller but actually, well sometimes he’s not sure that that squirmy feeling in his stomach doesn’t really mean that he likes it, a bit.

“Do you think I like to wear that stuff?” says Sam’s mouth, maybe a couple inches in front of Dean’s nose. Dean feels like he’s going cross-eyed watching it, wet soft movement of Sam’s tongue behind his teeth.

“No,” he says, kind of strangled. “I don’t… no, Sammy… I mean, you’re not…”

“Well, okay then,” says Sam, his tone suddenly light and ordinary, devoid again of that velvety purr that Dean can still feel humming through him. “Guess we don’t have a problem.” He steps back and away from Dean and goes back to packing his duffel, like the whole thing never happened, like Dean’s not standing in the middle of the room confused and shaken and oh, so hard.

“Huh,” says Dean. Sam flashes him a grin, picks up his bag, walks over to the motel door. “You ready?” he says. His gaze flicks down to Dean’s crotch. “Need a little alone time before we go?”

“What the fuck, Sam!” Dean says. “No!” and hobbles stiffly after his brother.

~~~

It’s a few months before they dig out the priest get-ups again. Sam finds them a case in Boston, some kind of haunting, attached to the relocation of a bunch of graves. It seems like a family got split up in the move, their bodies disturbed and now the father is causing havoc, luring other little kids away from their parents and into danger. It’s not clear that he’s trying to kill them, exactly, but one toddler almost drowned and Sam and Dean don’t want to chance something worse.

“It’s pretty obvious,” Sam says, “that we’re looking for a man originally buried with his three-year-old son;” so off they go to the church in question, wading through the mud of the excavations (half of the land’s being sold for development, the ramshackle spread of the rest of the graves compressed down into orderly rows) on their way inside.

Dean’s not exactly sure why they gotta be priests for this gig. Seems like ‘family historian’ would be just as good an excuse; Sam in his tweed jacket, Dean in his cardigan maybe. (He likes the tweed jacket - and the cardigan, though he’ll never tell Sam.) Still, Sam insists on priests, and Dean watches his brother’s lanky, black-clad legs stride down the aisle ahead of him and decides not to make a fuss. If he’s honest, he’s also not completely convinced about the need to bother with the books at all; most of the graves are open, so why not come back at night and just salt and burn them all? Easy come, easy go. But Sam was insistent on inspecting the burial registers, and so here they are in their uncomfortable collars, slapping on the sincere faces and making nice with the warden.

Luckily the guy seems pleasant enough; vague and bespectacled, soft-handed, grey-haired. He sets them up with the big ledgers at two tables in the sacristy, offers them coffee and then disappears, off to polish the candlesticks or set out the hymnals or whatever else it might be.

Sam slides Dean a book. It’s heavy, bound in chapped dark leather. “You start there,” he says. “1750. I’ll go from 1850 and work back.” Dean rolls his eyes and tugs the book towards him, drops it open with a puff of dust. He runs his finger down the columns, squinting at the scratchy handwriting, looking for the right pair of names. The work is dull; but the ledgers’ illegibility demands his full concentration, and Dean soon finds himself sufficiently absorbed.

He’s at the end of the first volume when he looks up to find Sam shifting twitchy in his seat.

“Y’alright?” he says.

“Yeah,” says Sam. “Yeah. just, these benches. You know.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, “I guess,” and looks back down at his book, but there’s a scratchy feeling at the back of his mind. There was something off in Sam’s voice. Something… dragging. Slow. He looks back up again and Sam’s still gazing over, his eyes hooded and his expression unreadable and intense. “What’s up with you, man?” Dean says.

Sam blinks, shakes his head like he’s shaking something out of it, and settles his hands flat on the table in front of him. “Just stiff, I guess. Getting old.” The bench scrapes backwards, screeching over the floor, and Sam unfolds himself upright, leans forward, sighs. “You got anything?” he says. He walks around behind Dean.

“Not really,” Dean says, but Sam doesn’t seem bothered, nudges up against Dean’s back and leans into him, reaching over his shoulder for the next big volume.

Something hard and pointed juts into Dean’s spine. Without really thinking, he shifts against it, wriggling his shoulders. Sam’s breathing hitches, just the tiniest bit, and a shiver of tension runs right down his body where it’s close against Dean’s. Dean moves again, feels again Sam’s tightly controlled response. The thing is pointed but it’s, it’s not just one point; there are several blunt spikes of pressure and oh lord, oh fuck , realisation trickles out from the point of contact warm across Dean’s body. His dick seems to get the message before it filters through to his brain, blood throbbing hot in his groin already as he begins to process the picture of what’s happening under Sam’s clothes.

He turns his head to look up at his brother. Sam’s expression is carefully neutral, his hair hanging choppy around his face.

“... Sammy?” says Dean, more uneven than he’d intended.

Sam holds his straight face for another second before his lips tighten and his dimples emerge. He’s still looking at the book he’s dragged over towards them. But his hips flex forward, rolling slightly, and Dean feels the prickle of the points over his back.

Dean closes his ledger.

“Is there actually,” he says.

“Oh, yeah,” says Sam. He picks up the book he’s looking at, steps back, and looks down at Dean, his eyes green over pink-flushed cheeks, a toothy smile that’s half-delighted, half-hungry. He walks back around the table to sit down. “I wouldn’t lie to you about a case, idiot.”

Dean closes his eyes, opens them and looks again at his brother. Sam’s radiating quiet amusement, his eyes dancing, an anticipatory tension in his shoulders.

“Right,” says Dean. He flips the book open again and scrubs a hand up the back of his neck, ruffling his own hair, trying to regain his composure. There’s an image floating just behind his eyes, just ( there ) out of focus and he’s trying to stop himself looking at it because that’d really be the end of this hunt for the day. Sam’s long legs. Sam’s long legs in those pants, and. Christ.

He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes closed and pressed against the heels of his hands. Underneath, Sam’s foot brushes against his kneecap.

Dean opens an eye, suspicious. He’s half expecting to see that Sam’s swapped his dog collar for… well, for a dog collar, a leather one. Studded. Jesus, he didn’t really need to be thinking of that.

“Come on,” says Sam. He has, in fact, retained his priestly collar. His priestly look of pious concern, on the other hand, seems to have evaporated. “The longer we’re here, paging through lists of dead guys, the sweatier I’m getting.”

“Oh, dude,” says Dean. “Not sexy.”

Sam raises his eyebrows.

It’s not sexy. It’s not . It’s just that Sam’s comment makes Dean think, vividly, about the, the fleshy reality of Sam’s junk, smooshed up inside that leather, kind of… bulging, fuck, and the hair of his brother’s thighs, and he doesn’t have a thing for Sam’s sweat, okay, because that would be gross, he’s not that fucking gone. It’s just, uh. The thought of the leather. It’s probably like a Pavlovian thing.

“Dean,” says Sam, and tap-taps his pencil on the page in front of him.

“Fuck you,” Dean says, and then slaps a hand over his mouth, too late.

“Church, Dean!” says Sam, somewhere between joking and genuinely shocked.

Dean’s been blessed with a reasonably expressive face but even his features might struggle to communicate the extent of his outrage at his little brother’s  hypocrisy, sitting there tsh-tshing at Dean’s language when he’s wearing underwear that Dean’s pretty sure is an affront to God. When he’s looking at Dean with an open mouth that just begs for something in it, anything, Dean’s fingers, Dean’s tongue, oh Christ.

“You... !” he says, lamely, and Sam has the grace to look at least a little shamefaced. But he doesn’t relent, taps his pencil on the page again and resettles ostentatiously to his work.

Okay. Okay. Dean squints, focusing his blurry vision on the ledger in front of him. Ephraim Cunningham. Sarah Cunningham. Hannah Rowntree. George Cock. George Cock? Sam’s gorgeous cock. George Cook.

Sam, on the other side of the table, rolls his shoulders. The bench creaks and there’s a soft shuffle as his feet move on the flagstone floor.

Dean’s thoughts, barely contained, break rein immediately. He wonders about the studs, the spikes, whatever, wonders if they’re digging into Sam’s leg where it meets his groin. Is that why Sam’s moving? It would be almost pretty, little blue bruises all in a line over the tenderest part of Sam’s thigh. Dean imagines dancing his fingertips across them. He swallows. Jesus. He just wants to see.

He sneaks another glance across the table. Sam’s sitting all studious and butter-wouldn’t-melt, but his colour is heightened in the particular way that it gets when Sammy’s real turned on. Dean’s seen that colour before, seen it often; when they’re in a bar and Dean’s been whispering in Sam’s ear all night about the things he’s gonna do to him once they get back to the room; when they’re in a library exchanging filthy messages from opposite desks. When they’re in a diner and Dean’s got his foot up under the table, hard against Sam’s dick; and the waitress is standing taking their order and Sam’s trying to keep his cool.

That gives him an idea. He could, like, right now, he could just slip under the table and have his face in Sam’s crotch before Sam even knew it was happening. Sam couldn’t do anything, probably wouldn’t even notice until it was too late and then, well, Dean backs himself to have Sam happy enough fast enough that he wouldn’t want Dean to stop. He casts a quick glance over his shoulder, back toward the body of the church. What’s the likelihood of Hans Moleman coming back in the next fifteen minutes? Even drunk on Sam’s fucking crazy kinky gamesmanship, Dean’s professional enough to admit that it probably wouldn’t do their cover too big of a favour if the warden walked in to find him down on his knees for this.

“Don’t even think about it,” says Sam. He’s shaking his head, hair dancing golden in the light through the angled windows.

Dean thinks about protesting but, well, Sam has him pegged. “Dude was very short sighted,” he says, eventually. “Did you see those glasses?”

“No,” Sam says. “Just… no.”

“Come on, man,” says Dean; and, thick-voiced sexy, “I can make it real good for you, Sam.”

“Shut up,” says Sam; but something about the proposition has had an effect, because Dean keeps glancing up for a sweet short sight of his flush-faced brother, and maybe three times out of four he ends up catching Sam’s eye. So, he’s not the only one distracted. Which is… well, on one important level it’s gratifying, but also it’s not making this research any more efficient. Fucking Sam. This is exactly why they should have instituted that rule about no sex at work. (And OK, Dean’s not sure that that rule wasn’t Sam’s suggestion. But doesn’t that make it worse that Sam’s the one doing this right now? It does. It definitely does.)

At last, after way too many minutes of searching, Dean flips a page in his third big ledger and there it is. “Oh, thank Christ,” he says, and Sam turns a bright hopeful gaze his way. “Here you go, Sammy. James Fuller and there’s the son, another James. Three years old. Buried on the same day. Has to be them, right?” He pushes the book over the table, and Sam bends over it, looks at the faded writing.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll buy it.” He runs a finger along the page. “Plot… 15D, so that’s the back of the churchyard;” and he scribbles a couple lines in his notebook and closes the ledger at last.

The warden comes bustling over when he sees them emerge through the doorway, hurrying up the side of the church from a long enough distance that Dean’s pretty sure he could’ve got away with that blowjob. Probably. It’d definitely have been worth a try.

“Find what you needed, gentlemen?” says the warden, and Sam does that thing with his eyebrows that he thinks looks holy and nods very stately and says “yes, thanks.”

“Fascinating stuff,” says Dean, and Sam’s eyes flash a warning. Dean grins, and turns to the warden. “We’ll get out of your hair,” he says; then he freaks Sam out by grazing his fingers over Sam’s ass as they step forward to leave. Sam skips forward, out of Dean’s reach, and Dean can’t help laughing, the sound echoing around the church.

“What?” he says, when Sam glares back at him. “Can’t a father have some good clean fun?”

As they get outside Dean casts a hurried glance around the graveyard; there are two guys in safety vests and helmets digging way over in the opposite corner, but that’s it. He turns sideways, shoulder-checks Sam in the chest and pushes him back against the outside of the porch, out of view. Sam gives a surprised little huff of breath but doesn’t fight the movement, just makes his body soft and crashes back into the brick and opens up his mouth real sweet when Dean leans up to kiss him.

For a glorious moment Dean gets his tongue in Sam’s mouth, hot wet muscle sliding together and he’s sliding with it, falling into a dark delicious void where it’s just him and Sam in the world and nothing, nobody else. Then there’s a wolf-whistle, some kid skating past on the footpath at the back of the church. “Dude! That’s sick!” he yells. Dean isn’t sure if it’s approval or condemnation.

Either way, the interjection has Sam pulling away, hurrying to straighten his jacket and collar. “Jeez, Dean!” he says. Sam’s lips are red-pink and messy with kissing and they’re all Dean can see right now. He moves back in, open-mouthed, but Sam stops him with a hand settled firm on his chest. “Not here. Come on, man. Let’s get back to the hotel.”

Dean straight-up whines, can’t help it, but he follows obedient and hasty as Sam hurries out the churchyard and along the sidewalk. Fuck sake. Of all the days to leave the car on a public meter, right in the open instead of down some convenient secluded street. He wants Sam now, down amid the mud of the churned-up graves, up against some backalley wall, bent gasping over the hood. Even in the car itself, the pair of them folded awkward up between the seats. Sam’s knees up around his ears. Yeah. Yeah, Dean’s up for that (up for it literally, aching desperate).

At the car, Sam jigs impatient by the door, waiting as Dean fumbles with the key. Dean isn’t, it seems, the only one whose patience is evaporating; but he’s still surprised when he slides in behind the wheel and Sam leans across the seat to kiss him again, a brief harsh kiss where their teeth clash together and Sam’s fingers grip just this side of too tight into Dean’s thigh.

“Sorry for messing with you,” Sam says, with an unfamiliar glimmer of uncertainty.

Dean blinks at him. “Dude, ” he says with feeling, which means ‘are you fucking crazy’ and ‘you should be sorry’ and ‘I love this shit’. Sam beams at that and settles back into the seat; spreads his legs so that his knee sits just on the edge of Dean’s peripheral vision, distracting him every time he reaches forward to shift through the gears.

Fifteen minutes, the drive takes, which is sixteen minutes too long; but finally, finally they’re in the motel room and the door is closed behind them. Dean steps in close to Sam, hooks a finger up under the white strip of his collar and tugs, just hard enough that Sam gets the message and tips forward to kiss him. This is different, better than outside the church or in the car - here in the privacy of their room, Sam isn’t holding back, biting hungry into Dean’s mouth, his big hands cupping Dean’s jaw in a way that feels safe, enclosing, and also makes Dean’s stomach flutter at the reminder of Sam’s strength and size.

“Mmmnnnmm,” says Dean, happy, and his hands are on Sam’s back, his waist, grasping at the stiff cotton fabric of Sam’s shirt. Then Sam’s hips sway forward and his ridiculous spiked whatever-it-is pushes into Dean’s crotch. Even through his present delighted haze the contact, hard metal against his own vulnerable flesh, is enough to make Dean shiver. He draws back, gasping.

“Okay,” he says, “okay,” and he pushes at Sam’s shoulders, pushes him until the backs of Sam’s knees crash into the end of the bed and he half-sits, half-falls onto it. Sam’s breathing heavy, sprawling on his elbows as he grabs for his buttons, but Dean says, “no, let me.” He nudges his fingertip under Sam’s collar again, flicks the white band out of it and onto the floor and reaches with improbably steady fingers to undo Sam’s shirt. The buttons slide open, slip slip slip. Dean tugs the shirt off Sam’s shoulders and grabs the waist of Sam’s white undershirt and pulls that up over his head, revealing by turn Sam’s flat stomach and broad chest and two dark shocks of underarm hair. Sam emerges from the neck of the shirt blinking, tousled, but he doesn’t make a move. He just sits there, solid expectant muscle, letting Dean take the lead.

Dean bends, kneels to pull off Sam’s smart black shoes, get rid of his dress socks too so Sam’s bare feet are exposed. He runs his thumb over Sam’s toes but he’s not, like, Sam’s feet are nice but they’re hardly Dean’s focus right now.

“Okay,” Dean says throaty, and shuffles forward on his knees between Sam’s open thighs; bends forward to uncouple the fastener at Sam’s fly, tug down on the zip. As Dean frees his brother, Sam breathes out, shaky, not quite a moan. He’s hard already, of course, his cock straining in the confines of his ridiculous leather thong. Dean takes a moment to appreciate the view. Fuck. It’s just… it’s everything that he’s been picturing, the flashy brash show of the underwear against the dull sensible fabric of Sam’s pants. It should be funny, will be funny later when Dean gets to rib Sam about where he bought this thing (Sam in some anonymous changing room, nearly nude, posing in the mirror and trying to look at himself through Dean’s eyes… yeah, okay, maybe it’s not just funny); but right now and whatever Dean says after, it’s jarringly, unexpectedly hot. The contrast between the priest outfit strewn all over the floor and the unapologetic eroticism of the leather and spikes throws Dean back to the days when they first started hooking up, a dizzying few weeks when he realised fast and furious that Sammy’s straight-laced exterior was fronting a fricking wolf. A kinky wolf, somebody who bit Dean not in sexy nips but with a bruising determined strength; who’d run his tongue along the flat of Dean’s knife, dark-eyed and unblinking; who’d bare his long neck and beg Dean to choke him, only two weeks in. Yeah. Already conveniently down on his knees, Dean finds himself sending up a quick prayer of thankfulness for a fucked-up, fuck-happy brother. For the fact that Sam chose him.

Then Dean does what he’s been wanting to do since Sam pressed those spikes against his spine two hours ago, leans forward and buries his face in the crease of his brother’s groin. He breathes in, leather and sweat and a tinny metallic tang; licks the pointed end of his tongue up the outside edge of the codpiece, just brushing Sam’s skin. He leans into it, presses his face against Sam’s crotch so that the spikes dig into his cheek. Above him, Sam’s gasping, breathless “oh Jesus” because, yeah, of course, the pressure goes both ways; and Dean pushes in closer, rolls his neck and every muscle in Sam’s body goes taut.

“ Fuck, Dean,” Sam says, strangled, from somewhere up above him, “I nearly, fucking, just give me a second, man, okay?”

Dean relents and lets up on the pressure, moves away. There aren’t any bruises on Sam’s thigh, not yet, but there are a couple red marks where the spikes have compressed the flesh; and Dean does touch them, as he’d imagined doing earlier; but with his lips rather than his fingers, kisses butterfly kisses across Sam’s skin. Then he draws back properly, pulls himself up on the end of the bed with a hand either side of his brother. Sam’s sprawled backward, lying with his legs hanging half-off the mattress, naked except for the porno fantasy currently playing out at his groin. Dean climbs up over him, settles with his knees outside of Sam’s hips and leans forward on his hands to lower his forehead to Sam’s.

“Fuck, man, you look good,” he says, hot against Sam’s face; and Sam pushes upward, kisses him breathless, drags his teeth down over Dean’s lower lip. “Stay there,” says Dean, and he starts to work Sam over; drops a kiss at the side of Sam’s mouth and the tender spot under his ear, before he moves lower, nibbles his way down Sam’s throat, grazes sharp over Sam’s collarbone and then bites down hard on Sam’s pec. He worries at it a little and kisses the red mark after, runs his tongue over Sam’s nipple and drags across the other with his thumb. Sam’s breathing heavy, a thin sheen of sweat shining over his muscles, droplets caught in the hair on his chest. “Stay where you are, okay?” says Dean, “stay still,” and Sam reaches for the blankets, curls his hands into fists around them so the tendons stand out on his arms.

Dean carries on moving down Sam’s body, licks flat across the ridges of Sam’s abs, over the dark line of hair below his navel. Sam’s stomach is held in tension, quivering almost, and Dean nuzzles into it before he drops back lower and bites a couple scraping bruises into Sam’s thighs. As he sets his teeth into the flesh there Sam breaks his muted silence, cries out a ragged wordless sound that clenches tight at Dean’s balls.

“Please,” says Sam, and his hands are still clutched tight in the bed sheets, so obedient and Dean loves him for that so he gives just one more nip, thumbs over the imprint of his teeth and then shuffles back off the bed and reaches upward to yank Sam’s underwear down at the waist. The thong, codpiece, whatever, is tight, and Sam has to wriggle his hips to get free; it comes off stiff and sticky and Dean takes a guilty moment to drop his nose against it, inhaling the sweaty animal scent before he slides it down Sam’s legs and lets it drop around his ankles to the floor. Then he sets his hands on Sam’s open thighs.

Freed, Sam’s dick bobs familiar and substantial before him, blood-hard and slippery-slick with sweat and precome. Dean licks his lips and sinks onto it, swallowing down in a single movement as much length as he can take. Sam’s response is almost a sob, high-pitched and wild and surprised. His hips jerk involuntary but Dean’s hands hold firm, holding Sam steady, holding him down.

Dean loves this, is good at this, loves to do it for Sammy, and he relaxes his jaw and moves almost from his shoulders, his whole head rising and falling up and down Sam’s cock. Sam’s cursing now, a soft string of blissed-out expletives, speeding and slowing as Dean slurps and suckles and sucks. It’s good, feels good; and though Dean’s pretty sure that Sam would be happy to return the favour after, he’s had enough of waiting. Keeping one hand on Sam’s leg, precautionary, Dean jams the other into his pants. He feels the pop of the fly-button breaking; gets a messy kind of grip on his dick and starts to jerk himself as he sucks Sam off. Right now, he can think of nothing he wants more than to come with his mouth on his brother; with Sam’s hand patting clumsy at his hair, Sam’s thighs around his ears, Sam’s scent heavy in his nose and throat.

After the long slow build up of the afternoon, his own hand on his cock is such relief that he could almost cry, the very first touch of his palm sending shivers up through his stomach, down through his thighs. A few hard drags, Sam still velvet-hard in his mouth, and Dean’s muscles start to stutter and he comes, cough-choking on Sam’s dick, hurting for breath but not ready to pull away.

The warm weight of his brother shifts across Dean’s tongue as Sam drags himself up onto an elbow, twisting sideways, looks down at him and says “fuck, Dean, did you just, are you coming? Oh God.”

Dean’s still in the throes, stomach dropping shimmery radiant, but he nods up at his brother through watering eyes. Sam crunches up further, abs tight tight tight in Dean’s line of vision. “Fuck,” he says, “fuck, Jesus, Dean, that’s hot,” and then his cock jerks and he’s coming too, sudden salty harshness at the back of Dean’s throat. Really breathless now, gasping, Dean pulls off, vision grey and nerves thrumming so hard that he notices only peripherally the hot sticky spatter of Sam’s come on his face.

As he regains his breath and feels his heart slowing to a normal pace, Dean looks up to see Sam propped on his elbows, gazing down at him, his hair wild and his face rosy and damp. “Christ a-fucking-live,” says Sam. “Do you know what you look like?”

Dean’s been so hung up all afternoon on what Sam looks like, on the display that his peacocking little brother put on, that the thought of his own appearance could hardly be further from his mind. So he stares at Sam for a moment or two, confused, before Sam shuffles upright, shuffles forward; puts his hands on Dean’s shoulders and twists and tugs until Dean’s up on the bed beside him.

There’s a mirror, full length, on the motel wall, and sitting where Sam has put him leaves Dean looking right into it. He sees himself, still wearing - oh man, still wearing the whole fucking priest costume, down to the collar. It covers him all over, sober black, everything but the white flash of flesh at his thighs. His hair is tousled, spiked up fluffy from Sam’s fingers, and his eyes are wide-blown, the pupils huge. There’s a thick messy stripe of Sam’s jizz across his cheekbone, more on his chin; and between them, Dean’s mouth, bright pink and swollen, bruised with the traces of its journey over Sam’s skin.

“Huh,” he says, stunned.

“Yeah,” says Sam, real deep and low in his throat. He’s behind Dean, sitting on the bed, his naked body bracketing Dean’s. As Dean watches, Sam wraps his leg around Dean’s torso; tugs him in tighter, clinging like a monkey to his back. He slings an arm around the front of Dean’s chest and tucks his face in close beside Dean’s neck. “Beautiful,” he says; and he leans in and sucks hard at Dean’s throat, just above the dark stiff collar. “Beautiful,” he says again, mumbly, grazing his teeth over the bruise.

Dean’s chest is tight, full of an emotion that he’s not able to put into words. Instead, he closes his eyes, concentrates on the feeling of Sam’s mouth against his skin.

“Uh-uh,” says Sam, and his fingers brush over Dean’s eyelids. When Dean opens them, Sam’s looking right at him; or looking into the mirror, where he can see Dean’s face. His expression is serious, but as Dean catches his eye Sam shrugs off whatever earnest thought he’s been having and grins, radiating a familiar smug postcoital glow.

“Fucking knew you’d go for the codpiece, man,” he says.

Dean thinks about that teasing he was gonna do, about Sam’s weird rock-god fantasy. Instead,

“What d’you think about a studded collar, Sammy?” he says, and feels a hot jump of arousal as Sam’s eyes flash wide.