It was a rare luxury for Sam to be able to collapse, to let his long body drape over Dean's without fear of hurting him. He gathered Dean up in his arms and pressed his face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his sweat and skin and musk. Dean's legs slid slowly away from his hips and Sam shifted, but not much, not ready to pull out. This physical connection was so new, he wasn't ready for it to end.
"Dean, Jesus," he whispered, kissing Dean's sweaty neck. He felt Dean's hands move in exhausted, nonsense patterns on his back and shoulders, and he smiled into Dean's skin. Words ballooned up in him, words he wasn't quite ready to say, wasn't sure Dean was quite ready to hear. But he tried to say them in the way he tilted Dean's face to his and gave him a long, languid kiss.
Dean curled a lock of Sam's hair behind his ear, floating in the jizzfog. He ran a finger down Sam's jaw to his chin, drinking him in, and gave a little embarrassed laugh. "Sorry I...I never get tired of looking at you.
Sam felt himself redden, but held back from his first impulse of ducking his head away. If Dean wanted to look, he could look. They'd kept themselves from this for so long, but now they could do whatever they wanted. Instead, he rolled off of Dean, groaning when he finally slipped wetly out of his body, and moved them until they were on their sides, face-to-face, with Dean's head pillowed on his arm.
He'd never get tired of looking at Dean, either. He stared at Dean's face, his dark-lashed green eyes, the dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks, his full lips. Took in the strong curve of his shoulder, the sweep of his collarbone. The marks on his neck he must have made unawares. "You're not so bad yourself," he said, smiling, deep dimples creasing his cheeks.
Dean smiled, looking around the room. Nodded toward a pile of clean shirts. "I'm gonna have to build another bookshelf."
He twisted a piece of Sam's hair around his finger, let it fall back. "I always wanted to do that, be someplace that felt lived in. This place is great, but it's like walking through a dead museum, the guns and the radios and the alphabetized file with our names on it so that in a hundred years some poor schmuck can read about the all the things we've done, all the people we helped. It's a great life. I've seen so many things, sometimes I lie awake and try totting it all up..."
He kept his eyes in the corner. "...but if I didn't have you I don't know what I'd have," said Dean, "Not much. Probably not enough to put on a bookshelf."
Sam didn't know what to say, so he ran his hand down Dean's side instead, ending in a caress and squeeze of Dean's thick, calloused fingers. The thought of Dean adding to this museum that was now their home made Sam warm inside; Dean in a sweaty t-shirt, capable hands creating. Something to build on, something to make this place theirs.
He gave Dean another long look, drinking him in. Dean's thigh was hot between his, his whole body was too hot, sweaty and sticky but Sam couldn't pull away. He wanted to luxuriate in Dean's closeness, in this new intimacy.
"It wouldn't hurt to get a bigger bed, either," Sam said with a little smile, running his hand down Dean's back.
"Gonna have to with your legs taking up most of my side, I swear you were weaned on steroids and chicken milk." said Dean, imagining Sam's laundry, Sam's everything mixed up with his. He slapped his ass playfully. "Go pick a book. I'll make a space right here," he said, scooting Guns and Ammo off the table and then bringing his green eyes back around, "And then you'll have something to read tonight."
Sam grinned. Sleeping with Dean tonight. It's not as if they'd never shared a bed before, but never like this. He'd be able to wrap himself around Dean, to breathe in his hair and touch his skin, and all the things he'd ever longed to do when they lay beside each other, elbows or knees bumping in the night.
"Okay," he said, and he leaned in to kiss Dean. Then kissed him again. And damn, was it going to be hard to get out of bed. Dean's mouth was warm and welcoming, and smiling against him. Sam slipped his hand down Dean's spine and rubbed the curve of his ass, feeling the cool circle of the ring on his finger against Dean's hot skin, and Jesus, he felt like a teenager, all soppy and starry-eyed and already getting horny again.
He sucked in a deep breath, and then, "Okay," he said again, untangling their legs and pulling back to climb out of bed.
Dean watched him go, pulling up the blanket and measuring the walls with his eyes. He could knock out one and hang shelves off the supporting beams, maybe take out the ceiling and re-plaster it to follow the stairs on the floor directly above him. Who knew how much room was up there...
By the time Sam returned, Dean was fast asleep, a Sam-sized space beside him on the bed.
Sam left Kafka, with all its dirty parts underlined, on the bedside table and crawled in beside Dean. Threw an arm over him and tucked his knees up behind Dean's legs. Dean might bitch in the morning about being the little spoon, but Sam, already falling asleep, was too comfortable and too exhausted and give a damn.
With the oddly comforting sound of David Bowie blasting from the kitchen and Dean singing along loudly while he made lunch, Sam typed away on his laptop. It had been a beast of a case and it would take weeks at least to properly square away. Best to get the notes down while it was still fresh.
Transcribing a page out of Dean's journal, he glanced up when he heard a clang from the kitchen and the sound of Dean cursing. On the way back down, he noticed a few torn-out pages from Dean's journal peeking out from under a file folder. He slid them out.
The top page was a sketch of one of the fish-men, rendered in Dean's clean, detailed hand. He placed it in the scanner and flipped through the rest of the sketches. One of the small-headed monsters. The large pink beast Dean had destroyed with the rocket launcher. The church. The priestess in her loincloth with the sea opening up for her.
The very last one made Sam's hands slow.
It was Sam. Sam sleeping, his head on one of Dean's pillows, hair fanned out in tangles around him, face relaxed and peaceful. The lines were gentle and light and clean, and Sam delicately traced his finger over what Dean had written at the bottom, not wanting to smear the lead.
I never was good with words, it read.
Sam grinned and looked toward the kitchen, where Dean had resumed his off-key singing to Bowie, and he climbed out of his chair.
The filing could wait.