Title: Touch
By: ruefulgirl
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2900
Warnings: Here be porn
Summary: Sam needs some touch. From Dean.
Notes: This is a follow up to Personification, but you don't need to read that to enjoy this one. I wrote 80% of this at jury duty. If all my fellow responsible citizens really knew what I was writing I'm sure they'd be scandalized. Tee hee!! Thanks as always to dysonrules for betaing and encouraging and being my bud.


"It's been six weeks," Sam says.

He's folding the laundry they'd just washed on the hotel bed.  His head is bent and his jaw is set in that stubborn way that only Sam has.

Dean's sitting in one of the crappy fake leather chairs busily scratching a mosquito bite just under the top lacing of his boot (damn thing is driving him crazy).  Distracted, and short-tempered from the long, hot drive to southern Missouri, he says, "And you are talking about what exactly?"

Sam swallows.  He looks at Dean with something grave and significant in his expression. "The last time you touched me was six weeks ago."  His voice is quiet.

Dean freezes.  His heart starts thumping louder, as though it's smashing his chest into pulp with each pounding motion. 

Six weeks ago to the day they'd driven down the I-8 and straight out of New Mexico.  Away from the succubus-in-training that had imprisoned them and forced them to have sex with each other, as ludicrous as that sounded in hindsight.  Still, that's what happened.  The sting of the memories—the torture—has lessened.  But that doesn't mean nothing's changed.  Sometimes, Dean can't think of anything that hasn't changed since that hellish experience.

Because some things about it weren't all that hellish.

And that, ladies and gents, is precisely where the problem lies.

Now, it's Dean's turn to swallow.  He's debating the merits of pretending like he doesn't know what Sam is talking about, but Sam isn't stupid, and that shit isn't going to fly with him.  Damn it.

For a long time, Dean just sits there breathing.  He's thinking about the feel of Sam's skin under his fingertips, smooth and lean and beautiful.  He's thinking about Sam's breath against his neck.  Sam's hair tickling his chest.  Sam's long hard form shuddering with arousal.  His moans of pleasure, and the taste of him on Dean's tongue ...

Dean clears his throat.  "I thought you said we didn't have to ... well, you know ..."

Sam's face radiates equal parts hurt and venom.  "Fuck," he says.  "You think I'm talking about you and I fucking.  Is that it?"

So, there it is, out in the open.  The elephant in the room.  Sammy never could ignore it as well as Dean.  Dean flinches, as much from the bluntly spoken word as from the anger in his brother's voice.

Still, he stands up; if Sammy wants a fight, Dean sure as hell won't disappoint him.  "Yeah, I do."

Sam's pairing a couple of tube socks.  He tosses the ball on the bed.  "No, you moron, that's not what I'm talking about."

Dean bites back some thoughtless reactionary remark.  It takes an instant for Sam's words to penetrate, and then he thinks:  Huh?  Apparently, his confusion shows on his face.

"You honestly don't know?"  Sam asks incredulously.

"Yes," he says.  Then halts.  "I mean, no.  Whatever.  Honestly, Sam, I don't know what you're talking about."

Sam starts breathing in that heaving, agitated way that always preceded a shouting match with Dad.  He's pacing back and forth, clenching and unclenching his fists and opening his mouth as if to say something, then snapping it shut again. 

"Dude," Dean says.  "What the hell?"

"You've been avoiding me like the plague ever since New Mexico!"  Sam cries.  "Did you really think I wouldn't notice?"

"How can I avoid you?  We've been together 24/7 – same as always!"

"You really think that?"

"Hell, yes, I think that.  Mainly because it's true."

Sam's mouth twists.  "Yeah?  Well, screw you.  I'm leaving."

Which is usually Dean's schtick.  He's a little shocked by the whole thing.

"Where are you going?"

"Why do you care?"  Sam snatches the Impala's keys from the dresser and pockets his wallet.

"Sam, so help me God ..." Dean warns.

"I'm going to get a drink!  And I'll come back when I feel like it."  He stomps out the door, giving it a tremendous slam on his way out.


Sam comes back two hours later, smelling of hard liquor.  He's not walking unsteadily, though, so he can't be too wasted.  Dean's happy about that, and happy that his brother's back, with Dean's frickin' car that he didn't bother to ask whether he could borrow. 

Dean's been pacing the room, trying to decide whether to hike around the one stoplight burg to seek out his pissy brother, but now that Sam's back he just leans against the wall, hands jammed in his pocket, waiting for the kid to explain himself.

"Hey," Sam says.  He sits on the edge of his bed, legs spread and elbows balanced on his knees.  "Guess I was a prick earlier."

"Tell me something I don't know."

Sam just sits there quietly for a moment, looking at his hands, and Dean realizes that – hell – the kid is going to tell him something he doesn't know.  Well, he asked for it. 

Sam makes a little noise in his throat, swipes one thumb across his lower lip in a gesture that communicates his discomfort, and murmurs, "It's just that I ... I don't know, man.  I miss you."  He glances up at Dean, who's still totally and completely clueless.  Sam's lips twist in a brief, rueful grin, and he says softly, "Yeah, I know you don't get that.  I know you've been here, but you haven't been here here."

He gets up and jams his hands in his pockets, mirroring Dean's posture.  "You used to just kinda be next to me all the time.  You didn't care if you bumped my shoulder when you handed me something, or when we both tried to go through the door at the same time.  You'd smack me upside the head, or squeeze my arm or nudge me with your elbow, and ... fuck – I didn't even realize that I wanted that from you until you stopped doing it altogether ... "

The tips of Sam's ears are red and Dean knows this is hard for him to say, so Dean clamps off the instinctive reactionary smart ass remark he's dying to blurt out.

Sam goes on.  "I just ... miss being close to you.  That's all.  It's not about fucking.  It's really not."

It makes sense, now that Dean thinks about it.  Sammy had always been a tactile kid, sliding up to lean against Dean's shoulder as they watched TV, laying his head in Dean's lap when he was tired or sick, wrapping his arms around his brother's waist when Dean came home from playing with other kids (during the infrequent times they lived in places where they actually had neighbors), or after a long day at school.  As Sam passed puberty those displays of affection disappeared, taken over by a moody awkwardness that made Dean reach out to ruffle his hair, or squeeze his shoulder, or punch his arm lightly just to assure him.  At first, Dean found himself missing that affectionate kid, and took the opportunity to sling an arm around his neck, or Indian rub his stomach, or squeeze the hard muscles at the juncture of his neck and shoulders frequently.  He didn't think much about it, he just continued doing it automatically after that.

And, yeah, Sam is right.  He's stopped doing that after the succubus, and now it's Dean's turn to get agitated.  He runs both hands through his hair and sighs, trying to put his thoughts into words.  But they're just so jumbled, and Sam won't stop looking at him expectantly.

"I can't do this, Sam," Dean says. 

A look of pain and disappointment crosses Sam's face and he swallows convulsively, then chokes out, "You're that disgusted by me?"

"What?" Dean kind of squawks.  "No, of course not!  What gives you that idea?"

Now Sam's looking kind off pissed off again.  "Hello?  Have you been listening to me at all?  You're treating me like a leper, dude.  Like you have to be all careful around me.  Why would you do that if you don't find me disgusting?"

"Sam, you dickweed," Dean says, exasperated and even more uncomfortable than when Sam was spilling his guts.  "Just leave it alone, okay?  I'll try not to be so ... jumpy – all right?  That make you happy?"

Sam's advancing on him, obviously not interested in leaving it alone.  Of course not.  Not Sam.  That would be too easy, wouldn't it?  Sam just isn't going to be satisfied until he makes Dean spill his guts, too.  Fuck that.

"No, it doesn't make me happy, Dean.  If you're not disgusted by me I want to know what the hell the problem is."

"It's not a problem, asswipe.  At least not for me," Dean says pointedly.

"Dean, tell me."

"Shit," Dean says, and he knows Sam smells defeat, so what the fuck?  He might as well give him what he wants.  "I like girls, Sam.  That's the problem, okay?  I like girls.  A lot.  I mean, they're soft and small and curvy and they smell good.  I like the noises they make, and the way they feel ... God, do I ever like the way they feel."

Sam's looking very confused now.  He throws his hands up in the air.  "Here's some news for you, champ.  I happen to like girls, too.  In fact, I happen to like them so much I was gonna marry one of them, remember?  The fact that we both like girls doesn't have anything to do with what I'm talking about!"

Sam's practically shouting in his face now, so Dean leans in and gives it back to him in spades. 

"It sure as hell does!  Since we – you know – did it, more than once, I can't just touch you like nothing happened.  If I touch you I want to – oh, fuck – then I want to touch you.  Get it?"

Sam looks stunned for a minute.  "You saying that you've been staying away from me to keep from jumping my bones?"

Dean doesn't say anything, but wonders if he looks as embarrassed and miserable as he feels.  He shrugs. 

Sam looks at him with something like gentle exasperation.  "It doesn't have to be one way or the other, Dean.  Don't you know that?"

Dean shakes his head.  "What can I say, Sammy?  I'm not built the way you are.  I'm an all or nothing kinda guy."

Sam seems to finally get it.  "So the fact that we both like girls means you can't touch me anymore.  Even innocently."

"Basically," Dean says.  Then, hoping to lighten the mood, he deadpans, "Unless both of us are really horny or something.  I mean, it has been six weeks since either of us have had any action ..."

He sits on his bed and starts unlacing his boots.  His back's been aching and his eyes are burning from fatigue, but he couldn't relax while Sam was running around having a hissy fit.  Now that he's back, though ... "Come on, dude.  It's late and it's been a long ass day.  Let's just hit the sack, okay?"

He sighs and pulls off his socks and notices that Sam's still standing in the same place.  He has this strange expression on his face.

"So, uh ..." Sam ventures.  "You feeling kinda horny now?"

Every muscle in Dean's body tenses up and all the blood rushes straight to his dick.  He looks at Sam, who's staring down at his scuffed up tennis shoes like they're the most fascinating things he's ever seen.

Sam continues, "Cause I ... well, I could go for that every now and again myself ..."

Dean's heart starts up that rapid galloping again, and his breath is hitching – not that he could talk anyhow when this sudden surge of pure, unadulterated lust is tearing away ever measure of restraint he's managed to build up over the years.

Sam risks a look at him then, and when their eyes meet, that's it – that's all she wrote – and Dean's on his feet and lunging at his brother, pushing Sam against the wall and grinding his body up against him.  Sam jerks in surprise, hands curling around Dean's hips reflexively.  An instant later those hands are clutching at Dean's back in sudden passion.

Dean feels the whole long length of his brother's body against his.  Then they're kissing and Sam's lips are soft and greedy all at once.  He nuzzles at Sam's neck, smelling his aftershave and feeling his warmth and – God, this is so weird, getting it on with a hard, sweaty, boney guy – his kid brother at that.  But it's not like they haven't done this before, consensual or not (and that one time it was so consensual), and those boundaries don't seem to matter anymore.  Besides, his dick's telling him it's been weeks and weeks and it's not like either of them can go back to the way it was before New Mexico.  So what the hell?  They might as well take what comfort they can now.

And that thought?  It makes Dean downright desperate, like he's been starving for physical contact, and now he's diving headlong toward the all-you-can-eat Sam buffet.  His hands are everywhere on Sam's lean form, and he's rolling his hips against Sam's to achieve some friction for his achingly hard cock, feeling like he'll up and die if he doesn't get his rocks off.  Right then.  Sam gives as good as he gets, moaning and grabbing at Dean and palming Dean's cock through the worn denim of his jeans. 

Suddenly it's just not enough.  He's got to feel Sam's skin, got to feel his brother's hand around his cock.  Right fucking now.  He fumbles at the button on Sam's fly, murmuring all the while, "Sammy ... want you ... want to feel you ... want you so bad." 

His breath is heaving and his abs are tight – tight and hard like his burning, needy cock.  The metallic sound of a zipper – his zipper – joins the grunts and gasps and then Sam's hand is pulling down Dean's boxers and Dean's doing the same to his brother. 

When Sam's hand envelops his cock he almost comes from the sheer physical shock of it.  He slides both hands down Sam's hips—smooth, hot—then bends his elbow so that he can fit his fist around his brother's hard, weeping cock.  They start jacking each other off with firm strokes, in tandem.

Dean's sweaty and groaning and he wants this blinding pleasure to go on forever, but it's just too much – too much because God in heaven Sam knows just what gets him off, just how much pressure to apply and just how to twist his wrist so that Dean's –


Yeah.  Fuck, yeah ....

Sam follows a moment later, hot and spurting and sticky.

They lean against each other, breathing hard, and Sam snakes a leaden arm around Dean's back, smoothing the fabric of the damp t-shirt he never got around to removing.  Dean turns his head and kisses Sam's neck right at his throbbing pulse.  They stay like that for a long moment and it should be really weird now that the heat of passion is gone.  But it's not.  It feels good.  And that's okay with him.


The next morning Dean's up early.  He has the Impala all packed except for Sam's duffel when he visits the gas station next door for coffee and donuts.  Sam's sitting up in bed, blinking as he tries to wake up, when Dean gets back.  Dean shoves a donut in Sam's face and says, "Breakfast in bed, sweetheart?"

Sam grimaces, but takes the donut anyhow.  They sit in companionable silence for a few moments, eating and sipping hot coffee.  They've got a haunting in a 200 year-old mansion, and Dean's anxious to get on the road to kick some ghostly ass.

Ten minutes later, Sam's awake, dressed, and shaved.  Dean's drumming out his favorite Ozzy piece on the steering wheel as Sam climbs in the Impala.  Sam's got this look on his face, this determined, disturbed look like he's just dying to say something.  Finally, Dean urges, "What?"

"About last night ..."

"Hold on there, tiger," Dean interrupts.  "I don't want to talk about it.  It's not like we're boyfriends now."  He slides a sidewise glance at Sam.  "Right?"

Sam actually smiles, showing dimples and all.  He's looking a lot more relaxed than he has in weeks now, and that makes something warm well up in Dean's chest.  Something unexpected. 

"I know, Dean," Sam says.  "We went over that yesterday.  I don't want a boyfriend.  I want a brother."

Dean doesn't even think about it.  He reaches out and ruffles Sam's hair. 

"Good, cause you're stuck with one."

They share a smile across the front seat of the Impala.  Dean starts the engine, feeling good.  Feeling happy and satisfied, cause the next time he and Sam are on an isolated job for weeks and weeks or the chicks don't appreciate the wonder that is him ... well, then one or the other of them can help a brother out.  

And that was just all right by him.