Title: Let Me Take Care of You
Word Count: ~1200
Summary: The boys get a little banged up on a typical salt-and-burn and take care of each other.
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.
Dean brushes the cemetery dirt from his knees as he stands from the graveside, digging a filthy hand into his jeans pocket for the book of matches as Sam douses the open coffin with gasoline and salt. Just another day at the office for the Winchesters, he thinks – except his job can be a bit more dangerous and a hell of a lot less mundane and monotonous than pushing papers and doing grunt work in a stuffy office in a tiny cubicle. He strikes a match, lets the rest of the book catch fire, and tosses it into the grave, sudden burst of heat and flame as the gasoline ignites. Sam's face is a play of orange light and black shadows through the shimmering air above the burning corpse, bleeding gash above Sam's left eye not visible in the darkness but the scratches across his cheek are.
Dean shuffles his boots in the damp earth before rounding the end of the grave between the six-foot deep hole and the granite headstone to stand by Sam's side. "How's your head?" he asks over the crackle-hiss-pop of the wooden casket as it slowly incinerates.
Sam raises a hand to his face, gentle fingers prodding at the skin around his eye before trailing over his temple and sliding through his hair to press against the back of his skull. He winces. "Sore."
Dean scrubs his palms on his jeans again, not accomplishing much because the denim and his hands are equally dirt-stained. Regardless, he reaches up and pushes Sam's hair away from his face, tucking the longer strands behind Sam's ear. His thumb brushes over the bright red scratches that, thankfully, aren't as deep as they look. At least the bleeding's finally stopped. The cut over Sam's eye is a different story, though, still sluggishly oozing. Sam ducks his head down as Dean's fingers tangle in his hair, tips lightly grazing his scalp, searching for a wound. There's a good-sized lump, but no laceration. Hands sliding down over Sam's back, stopping just above his ass, Dean leans closer, forehead grazing the rough stubble along the edge of Sam's jaw. "Hurt anywhere else?"
Sam shakes his head minutely, fingers curling in the soft cotton of Dean's overshirt. "Nah. I'm good. What about you?"
Dean's ribs are a little tender where he was shoved up against the wooden banister of the basement stairs when the poltergeist had gotten the drop on him and pushed him up and over the rail. Just bruises. "I'm fine."
"You fell from, like, six or seven feet, Dean." Sam's wide palms skim up over Dean's back along either side of his spine.
Dean flinches when Sam grazes the sensitive muscle of the shoulder he landed on. "I'm fine," he says again. It's nothing that won't heal in a few days.
Sam's lips quirk in a smile as he drops his mouth to Dean's, kisses him chastely. His hands linger at Dean's hips when he pulls away, watches the flames over Dean's shoulder as they start burning lower. He stays quiet as they stand in a loose embrace, letting the fire slowly go out.
Filling the grave back in is the easiest part the this whole job tonight, second to the salt and burn of the bones, and they make quick work of it before replacing the chunk of sod Sam had carefully dug up. Shovels, gas can, and bag of salt go back into the trunk before they climb into the Impala. Dean's breath catches as his back gives a twinge when he slides into his seat. "I'm fine, Sammy," he tells his brother before Sam can even ask, mouth hanging open around the question.
Sam's still quiet when they get back to the motel and quickly shower. Dean goes first, waits for Sam with the first aid kit, makes his little brother sit on the closed toilet lid while he carefully cleans and butterfly-bandages the gash above his eyebrow. When Dean pronounces him good to go, Sam grabs at his hips as he scoots forward on the lid. "My turn to take care of you," he says against Dean's stomach. His hands move to cup the firm globes of Dean's ass through the worn cotton of his boxer-briefs. He mouths at the line of Dean's half-hard cock then pushes Dean back as he stands. "C'mon."
The faded, floral bedspread is scratchy when settles across it on his back, Sam dropping between his spread knees, fingers catching in the waistband of his underwear and tugging them down. "Let me take care of you," Sam says again before swallowing down Dean's whole length.
Dean's completely hard in seconds, gentle suction of Sam's mouth not quite enough and, somehow, almost too much. He pulls off a little so that just the head of Dean's cock is in his mouth, tip of his tongue pressing into that bundle of nerves on the underside. "Oh, fuck, Sammy. Yeah. Yeah."
It's obvious Sam's in no real rush; he lazily licks stripe after stripe up the throbbing vein on the underside, root to head, clever tongue swirling over and into Dean's slit. His mouth moves lower, closes over one of Dean's balls, then the other. "Fuck, Dean," he groans.
Dean tears his gaze from Sam's mouth on his cock to see Sam rutting helplessly against the itchy blanket. "Sam." He winds his hand into Sam's damp hair and gives a gentle tug.
Lips swollen and red, eyes dark with lust, Sam raises his head, question obvious in the furrow of his brows.
"Come up here."
Sam complies, settles his body over Dean's, lines up their hips so that when he thrusts down, they find perfect friction. "Shit, Dean. I'm close." He slicks up the crease of Dean's thigh and groin almost instantly with precome.
"C'mon, Sammy." He skims his hands down Sam's sides, over the curve of his ass, fingers pulling his cheeks apart to let his right index finger stroke over Sam's fluttering hole. A gentle press against the wrinkled skin is enough to make Sam come, shuddering, hot and slick between their stomachs. Dean grips Sam's hips tight and thrusts up again and again as Sam pants against his neck. "Fuck, Sam." He bites at his lip as his balls draw up and he adds to the mess between their bodies. "Goddamn, Sammy."
"Mm." Sam rolls off of Dean's chest but stays close. He blindly reaches for Dean's abandoned underwear and uses them to wipe the come from their bellies and thighs before it can dry. "How's the shoulder?" he asks, laying a hand over the reddening mark from the banister on Dean's ribs.
"Better," Dean sighs, pulling Sam back against him until he's resting his weight against Dean's side.
"Good," Sam yawns then presses a noisy kiss against Dean's throat. "Now, go to sleep. I got plans for you in the morning. Need you rested."
With a gentle hand, Dean turns Sam's face up so he can kiss him hard, teeth and tongue. "Promises, promises."