Title: Nothing a Hot Bath Can't Cure
Author: liath
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: incest
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 1x12, Faith
Note: Porn with a little plot. Smidgen of angst due to the timeline.
Summary: In which Dean is lazy, and the boys have a close encounter with a bathtub. And towels.


"We're goin'." Sam half smiles, hair dusting over his eyes. He doesn't allow for the possibility that this might not work, doesn't even consider it. And he doesn't dare mention it's a faith healer, doesn't dare, because he knows Dean will run the other way, right toward death if he could, just to avoid that shit.

All Sam can see is Dean, wash-worn hospital gown tangled around his legs, thin, starched bedsheets creased and hanging half off the bed. Wires and bed rail and bad television and Sam knows, knows this will work. This will work, and he's got to cut that stupid bracelet off Dean's wrist.

Dean sighs and scrubs a hand over his mouth, eyes wide as he shakes his head. He pushes himself out of the chair and stumbles, unsteady, hand lashing out to find the wall. Sam reaches for him, but Dean just swats him away.

"I'm not dead yet," Dean grumbles, still with that laughing-in-the-face-of-death look that Sam can see right through. The slightest edge of annoyance shines through the sunken, dark circles of Dean's eyes. "I need a freakin' shower," he adds, pinching the bridge of his nose, still swaying on his feet.

"Dean." Sam arches one eyebrow, holds his hands out, palms up, and cocks his head with a sharp look. He doesn't think he should have to point out the ill-conceived and laughably ironic logic behind Dean cracking his skull open before Sam can save him from something else. Dean looks over his shoulder and grunts, and Sam drops his hands to the bed.

"Yeah, I get it." Dean rolls his eyes. "Bath." He shuffles, arms over his chest, into the bathroom, pushing the door closed until just a sliver of light cuts across the pea green carpet. If the white-painted woodwork wasn't smudged in a thin film of old dirt, the passage of a million hands, the remnants of a million months of dust, this place would be gaudy. Instead it's just like everywhere else they stay. Sam lies back on the bed, folds his arms back under his head and lets his legs hang off the side. A muffled voice comes from the bathroom.

"What?" Sam turns his head to look at the door.

"I said, 'You've got to be kidding me.'"

Sam pushes himself up on his elbows and waits.

"A claw-footed bathtub?" Dean's head pokes out the door, and the sickly bathroom light shows off just how pale his brother is, hunched and leaning against the door frame. Sam's gut clenches.

"Yeah," Sam says slowly, feet tapping against the floor. "A little garish, isn't it?"

"Psshh." Dean snorts and disappears again, leaving the door ajar. The taps squeak in protest before water comes crashing out. Sam watches Dean unzip his hoodie, movements agonizingly slow, and hears him curse. He shoves off the bed and approaches the door, nudges it open with a foot and leans his shoulder against the frame.

"Quit gawking, freak." Dean glares half-heartedly at him while he tries to toe off his boots. He ends up falling onto the toilet. "Fuck."

Sam shakes his head. "Let me help," he says quietly, reaching for Dean's sweatshirt. He peels it off Dean's shoulders under a baleful gaze, pulls it off his arms and tosses it onto the tile. Dean tries to tug off his t-shirt, but he only ends up throwing his arms in the air weakly and looks murder at the floor. Sam smiles, grabs the hem and pulls it up and over Dean's head, letting it fall into a pile with the sweatshirt. He kneels, works the laces of Dean's boots loose and tugs them off, dumps them outside the door and throws Dean's socks out after them. Sam's knuckles brush against Dean's stomach when he reaches for the button of his jeans. His brother's skin is pallid but warm, a dusting of hair peeking out just above the fabric. Dean stills Sam's hands, pushes him away and slowly, carefully, stands.

"Yeah, okay, I got this one," he mumbles. "Give a guy some privacy, hunh?" Dean grins, faint but real, and though it doesn't much ease Sam's worry, he nods and stands. "We got any beer?" Dean asks, taking a deep breath.


"Get me one?" Dean reaches for the tap as the water approaches the brim.

"Yeah, sure thing." The faucet squeaks again, water flow ceasing, and Sam pulls open the mini-fridge. When he gets back, Dean is sinking slowly into the tub, sliding all the way under before sitting up, wiping the water from his eyes. Sam hands him the beer and pulls out his knife as he kneels.

"Here," he says, fingers wrapping around Dean's wrist. He slides the blade between skin and plastic, slicing carefully through the medical bracelet. Dean makes a small noise as the cool edge of the knife slides over his skin; his head falls back, landing with a thud against the back of the bathtub.

Sam smirks, folds the knife closed as Dean looks at him without really opening his eyes. As he slips the knife back into his pocket, fingers grab the front of his shirt roughly, jerking him forward until his stomach slams into the tub. Water splashes over the side, soaking the front of Sam's jeans down to the knees, but Dean keeps going, fists his other hand in Sam's hair and pulls him closer. Sam barely has time to brace himself before Dean's tongue runs over his lips, warm and insistent, and he can't do anything but open, let Dean in.

Wet hands clasp his face, Dean's fingers pressing behind his jaw, thumbs grazing over his cheekbones. Sam holds himself up, hands on the rim of the tub, his sleeves slowly soaking as the water rolls in waves up to the edge. Dean pulls him closer, licks, tongue swiping deep into Sam's mouth, and Sam tastes salt, sweat, bathwater tinged with too much iron. His legs would buckle if he wasn't already on his knees.

"Mmmph." Dean lets go, slumps back again, breathing hard.

"Eloquent as always," Sam says, blinking and tossing Dean a crooked smile. He spots the beer bottle floating down near Dean's feet. "You dropped your beer," he says, grabbing it and holding it out for Dean. Somehow Dean's eyes go even darker, making his skin seem paper white, translucent.

"Fuck the beer." Sam can't even react before Dean's hands are on his shirt again, the beer bottle falling with a crack onto the floor. His grip is rougher this time, sharp, tugging, throwing Sam off balance. His hips hit the rim of the bathtub, one hand catching the opposite side so he doesn't fall in. His shirt rides up, the front hanging down into the water.


"Shut up." There's a look of intense concentration on Dean's face, and Sam is pulled in, chest hitting the water first, legs sliding in after and sending the water crashing out onto the old tile floor. His shins slam against the porcelain, cracking painfully, but the knowledge that he's going to have two matching welts tomorrow takes a backseat to the fact that his face is half underwater, shoved into Dean's shoulder. He sputters, jerks his head up and tries to shake the hair out of his eyes.

"Dean!" he shouts again.

"I said--" Dean huffs, strains again and turns Sam, pulls him up so Sam's on his side against him. Sam's shoulder gets jammed between Dean's and the tub, his arm trapped under him. "--shut. Up."

Sam's legs are set awkwardly, twisted and half hanging out of the tub, plastered with wet jeans and soaked boots weighing them down. But he can't protest again, because Dean's trapped his mouth, is kissing him like there's no tomorrow, and Sam suddenly wonders if Dean believes that maybe that's true. Dean almost yelps when Sam shifts, but he doesn't pull back, just grabs onto Sam tighter. Sam slides down into the water, hips slanted, body wedged firmly beside Dean. His free arm flails, sending water flying against the walls.

"Jesus, Dean! You son of a..." He's halfway between the worst feeling in the world--water-logged jeans clinging rough to his skin, layers of shirts constricting around his chest--and the smell and taste of Dean. God, fuck the clothes, Dean's biting down on his bottom lip and Sam can only go limp, sinking until his chin hits the water. His arm falls back into the tub, hand brushing over Dean's cock, and Dean arches, groans and grabs Sam's hand, twines their fingers.

"Sammy." Dean's voice is throaty, spent with exhaustion, and it goes straight to Sam's stomach, almost makes him forget he's neck deep and fully-clothed underwater.

His sweatshirt pulls tight around his neck, soaked hood heavy, and he has to pull back to breathe. Sam hooks his elbow over the edge of the bathtub and lifts himself farther out of the water. Dean watches him, eyes lit, wide and dark, and his hands find the bottom of Sam's shirt, slide it up over his chest. It catches under Sam's armpits and Dean almost growls.

"Help a guy out, Sam," he says, tongue running over his lips, hands hot on Sam's chest, his sides, his stomach. Sam grunts and forces the layers of shirts over his head all at once. He's sure they're ruined with how hard he has to pull, wet fabric stretched beyond repair. If Dean didn't have that look in his eyes, he might actually be able to care. The clothing lands on the floor with a splat.

"Pants." Dean yanks the button of Sam's jeans open, tugs the zipper until it sticks. Sam twists, slams his knee into the tub, and bites the inside of his cheek.

"Jesus, just--" Sam tries to concentrate on kicking off his shoes, squirming out of the tight, soaked jeans. He doesn't know how he does it, not with Dean raking his teeth over his neck, biting into the flesh between his neck and shoulder. His boots fall into half an inch of water on the floor, socks following, and eventually his jeans pile on top of them. Sam groans as he turns back to Dean, his cock pressing against his brother's thigh. His hips jerk despite the angle of his legs, and his teeth clamp down on his lip.

"Fuck, Sam, so--" Dean winds his fingers in Sam's wet curls, pulls him close again and crushes their mouths together. His other hand trails over Sam's jaw, down his neck and over his collarbone to the point of his shoulder. He scrapes his nails down Sam's chest, and Sam lets out a sharp breath, pushing into the touch. Dean palms his stomach through the water, runs a thumb over his belly button, and Sam's back arches. He cracks his head against the porcelain.

"Ow." The word is lost in Dean's mouth, and Sam twists again, throws a leg over Dean, bent at the knee. But he still can't fit, not like this, and-- "Dean," he says through a wince, "this isn't--"

Dean pulls back, looking wounded, and Sam's eyebrows knit over a huff.

"Fuck," he grinds out, catches the edge of the tub and pulls himself up, straddles Dean and ignores the way the too-narrow tub bites into his knees, his ankles. He grabs Dean's face, leans down over Dean's gasp and kisses him again, fingers scraping short, wet hair, thumbs brushing over his brother's temples.

Dean's fingers curl over Sam's hips, try to pull him closer, but his grip is so weak it makes Sam shudder. Sam shifts, pushes forward and Dean's teeth find his lip again. Sam groans into the kiss as their dicks brush together. Fingers tighten over Sam's skin, frantic, but his goddamn leg is going numb and he has to pull back. The look in Dean's eyes is pure fucking need, and Sam hesitates.

"Dean, I don't think I can do this--"

"Please, Sam, I need--"

"No, you asshat, this isn't the best place to-- Have you noticed that neither of us fit in here alone?"

"Well, figure it out, Matlock, I can't move." Dean's got this cocky grin on his face, one eyebrow arched, and Sam growls. It's only a second before Sam leans down again, trails his hands over Dean's shoulders, into the water and down his sides. He wraps long fingers around Dean's cock, pulls slow and twists his hand, which never fails to--

The sound Dean makes goes straight to Sam's dick, and he moves his hand, grasps them both with long fingers, and fists, grinding against his brother. Dean grunts and hits him on the arm, grabs him and pushes back just a little.

"Screw the foreplay, just fuck me already, Sam," he says, pupils blown out and voice whisky-rough.

Sam swallows hard, eyes darting back and forth before he pushes himself up, half crawls over the side of the tub and tries to ignore the goddamn noise Dean makes. His leg's asleep, and he nails his hip on the rim of the bathtub before managing to set his feet down in the flood of cold water on the floor.

"Holy--" He doesn't want to know what kind of face he's making, but Dean's laughing hoarsely. "This was so not my idea," Sam mumbles.

"Yeah? Well you don't really seem to have a problem with it, so--"

"Shut up."


Sam doesn't even look over his shoulder, just skates out into the main room. The place is a mess of papers, books - on the bed, the table, the chest, over the television. He can't even see his laptop, much less his duffel bag, and he's about to punch the fucking wall when he almost trips over it.

"Sam." Dean sounds like he's forcing out his name through clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry, but who's the bitch?" Sam throws the bottle of lube at Dean, laughs when Dean can't even get a hand up to catch it and it hits him in the chest, falling into the water.

"Just get the fuck over here."

Sam steps back in, water still hot, slides his leg between Dean's and shoves his brother's knees apart. He kneels between Dean's legs, or tries--Dean's fucking heavy and there's no room to maneuver and--

"Will you fucking move?" Sam says. "This isn't exactly easy, you know. Ow!" He can feel the bruises already covering his legs and thinks he'll have another dozen by the time they're done.

Dean braces his arms on the rim of the tub, taking enough weight off that Sam can grab his knees and pull his legs up, settle them around his waist and push Dean back, hard.

"Ow, watch it!" Dean's head hits the wall behind him, and Sam shoots him a dirty look.

"Dude, no right to complain." Sam nestles in, presses his cock rough against that space between Dean's balls and his thigh. Dean reaches up, grabs the back of Sam's head with fingers tight in his hair, pulls him forward and kisses him, breath coming ragged, chest heaving. Sam places a palm there, feeling Dean's heartbeat. He suddenly feels like he's been punched in the gut. This was not a last kiss, goddamnit.

"Shit, are you... are you sure this is all right?" Sam ventures.

"I'm fine, Sam. Better than. Just... I am." Water's beading on Dean's lips, parted and slicked over with his tongue, and Sam nods, leans in again and reclaims Dean's mouth. He almost wants to be gentle, but he can hear Dean's insult at that in the way his brother kisses him, rough and frantic, teeth bumping and raking over lips, hard enough to bruise.

The bottle of lube is floating at Sam's back, and he reaches for it, pops the lid off and coats his fingers with enough that the water won't strip it away. He shifts his hips, puts his other hand at the small of Dean's back and lifts, grunts, moves Dean just enough that he can dip his fingers into the water, circle Dean's hole, pressing against it and sliding just his fingertips inside. Dean's head hits the wall.

"What did I say about the foreplay?"

Sam snorts, slides two fingers in, knuckle-deep. His brother's jaw is slack, mouth wide as he twists, crooks his fingers just a little, brushing Dean's prostate, and--how the hell did Dean become even more of a dead weight than he already was?

The porcelain is biting into his legs again, but the pain is dull and distant and vanishes under the groan that pushes past Dean's lips. Sam bends over, shoulders hunched so he can kiss Dean's chest, run his tongue over the water that's sliding over his skin. He pauses over the small depression between the bottom of Dean's ribs, one of his favorite places, nips and sucks and tastes salt and water and antiseptic and Dean and doesn't stop until there's a lopsided circle of purpling flesh.

"Jesus, Sammy." Dean's voice already sounds spent, fucked out, and it makes Sam so hard he shakes.

Sam pulls out his fingers, licks his lips at the look on Dean's face when a thought occurs to him.

"You know--" Dean pops one eye open to stare at him. "I'm the one who's going to have to clean this mess up."


Sam grins wickedly, sacrifices a few seconds just to watch Dean's face, then slicks his cock, grabs Dean's hips and pushes the head of his dick into his brother's ass. Dean's knuckles go white. He moves, shifts, finds a better angle and pushes in, one motion, all the way like he knows Dean likes, pulls Dean down on him hard. Dean bangs his head into the wall again.

"Fuck, Dean." Sam's words are all breath, his fingers digging into his brother's pale skin as he starts to move, toes curled against the bottom of the tub, trying not to slide. Dean's muscles are hard under his hands, tension raising each one through the skin, leaving a thousand dips and arches for Sam's fingers to run over.

One hand wraps around Dean's dick, strokes with the same rhythmic movements as the thrust of his hips. Water splashes noisily, sliding up over the walls of the tub and feeding the flood on the floor. Sam twists his wrist and Dean arches. He rubs his thumb over the head of Dean's cock, just over the slit, runs it under the edge of the head and Dean can't even hold onto the tub anymore.

Sam thrusts harder, pulling out almost all the way before driving back into Dean. The water makes it feel even dirtier than it is, somehow, setting his skin on fire with every touch. Dean's so tight, so hot around him he has to slow down to keep from losing it right now, and it draws a pathetic whimper from Dean.


"Shut. Up." Sam's chin falls to his chest, teeth digging into his tongue, and he grabs Dean's thighs, fingers digging deep enough to leave marks. He drives into Dean, hard, faster, and the sounds coming his brother have lost any and all coherence.

His feet slip on the porcelain, and he can't tell if the curse that echoes comes from him or Dean. But then his brother is biting out his name, and Sam's hips jerk sharp as he comes, spilling into Dean, dick pulsing. His movements become uncoordinated, sloppy, but Dean only needs a few more strokes before he's finished, spraying come into the water and onto his stomach, head thrown back.

Sam's hair is in his eyes, bangs still wet, clinging to his skin and obstructing his vision. But he can see Dean's flushed skin, see the lazy, lopsided smile Dean's got plastered on his face, and he half laughs.

"Dude, get off me. I can't feel my legs." It's halfhearted at best as Sam pulls out. He knows Dean can move even less than he can. Unless it's to punch Sam in the shoulder. "Ow, the hell?"

"Why'd you want to do this in the tub, you freak?" Dean's rubbing the back of his head.

Sam gapes, shoves Dean's legs back. "It wasn't--you--you're the one who wanted--"

"You're trying to kill me. I'm dying here, and you're busy giving me a concussion."

Sam's face darkens, and he sets his jaw. "Not funny, Dean." And if it were any other time, he'd punch the half-lidded, sick grin off Dean's face.

"Aww, c'mon, Sammy. Sure it is. You're gonna save me." Sam's expression softens at the faith Dean admits. "Not that I understand why, since you've been trying to kill me since I got here. But you are."

Sam's shoulders slump, relaxed, one corner of his mouth pulling back as he shakes his head. That his brother believed him was more than enough for now. He grins.


"Hey!" Dean tries to look indignant, but fails miserably.

Sam pushes himself up, making sure to send a wave of water into Dean's face as he stumbles out of the tub. He almost falls to the floor, and thinks it's only the thought of how landing in an inch of cold water will feel that keeps his knees from buckling. The bottle of lube smacks him in the ass, and he grabs a towel before darting out into the room.

"Fucking carpet's soaked." Sam watches the water ooze and disappear as he lifts and plants his feet. He really doesn't want to know what's in that carpet.

"Yeah. That is one hell of a mess you made, dude." The look Sam shoots Dean should cause him to burst into flames, but Dean just smiles. "Help me out."

Sam rolls his eyes, sloshes back into the bathroom and grabs the second, ratty towel. He takes Dean's outstretched hand, pulls and steadies his brother until he steps out of the tub.

"Don't. Say it."

Dean gives Sam his best look of pure innocence, and it's disturbing how good he is at that, but Sam just glares and wraps the towel around Dean's waist, knotting it tightly.

"Ow!" Dean smacks his hands away. "What do I need this for?"

"Because you got your clothes soaked, and I don't feel like looking for your bag." Sam goes out to the bed, clears a small area to sit and pulls the phone over.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who you callin'?" Dean grabs the phone from him, and Sam huffs again, throwing his arms out.

"The front desk. You know, for more towels? I'm not going to leave this for them to clean--"

Dean shoves him down on the bed, pulls at the rolled edge of Sam's towel and peels back the sides to expose him. Sam swallows, looks up at Dean from the pile of papers his back is soaking through.

"Who said we're finished?" Dean asks, straddling him. And when Dean shoves half the papers and books off the bed, Sam thinks it's a good thing he's already found a way to save him, or he just might kill Dean himself.