It didn't seem to matter how many showers Dean Winchester took.
From West Virginia, to Detroit, back out to Bumfuck, Colorado, Dean was finding glitter everywhere. In his boots, in his pockets… it fell out of his fake ID while he was trying to be a convincing federal agent. It shook out of his short hair after two washings and some near-abusive scrubbing of his scalp. It was somehow in shoes that he hadn't even been wearing the night of the clown thing. He was finding it in his duffel, a duffel that had been in the trunk, undisturbed, for a week prior to Sam's glitter-bombing. When he opened his pocket knife, glitter fell out of the crevices.
Each and every time, he glared at Sam. Dean suspected that Sam hadn't burned that jacket the way he'd suggested. Or that Sam hadn't combed it all out of his ever-expanding energy field of hair and now it was getting into every damn thing.
The morning Dean found it in his pants, in his ear and in his hash browns, respectively, was the final straw. He came home from a Walgreens with a hard sponge, a fine-toothed comb sold for lice and some kind of salt scrub that warned the buyer to not use it every day.
Turns out salt really can fucking fix everything, Dean thought smugly as he ordered Sam into the shower. Dean forcefully stripped Sam out of his pants, shirt and boxers, carrying them outside like hazardous materials. Shielded by the side of the AMC Pacer they were stuck with this week, he dumped lighter fluid on the pile and triumphantly set them ablaze. He hated that goddamn orange and black shirt anyway, it was high time it was roasted.
Dean pinned Sam against the wall in the scalding hot shower and scrubbed him like he hadn't been since the time of Mr. Bubble and rubber ducks, when he'd sullenly thrown himself into a puddle to delay a trip to... well, Plucky's, now that Dean thought about it. Sam wrapped his hands around the spout on the shower head with an expression dangerously close to smug, sportingly waiting. Dean took a handful of the rough salt and oil mixture, smeared it between two hands and massaged it into Sam's expanse of dark skin with palms that were callused enough to have done the exfoliating job on their own.
Sam got a handful of the salt mixture itself and rubbed it playfully on Dean's back, against the swell of his ass when he turned around to grab the sponge.
"Is that how you wanna play this?" Dean asked, grim expression playing at unamused. But Sam knew better.
Somewhere around the time when Dean started harshly driving the comb against Sam's scalp, to Sam's noticeable lack of displeasure, neither cleanliness nor godliness seemed to be anywhere on the agenda.
The oil had separated from the salt in the jar. Dean let some of it pool out onto his hand and rubbed it down Sam's belly, into the soft hair along his navel. He ran water over his hand to rinse off the salt, leaving only the oil, and slicked it up Sam's cock. He circled the flat of his palm against the underside of Sam's balls, anchoring Sam to the wall of the too-small shower, while he bit kisses from Sam's collar up to his adam's apple. Forcing Sam to bend at the knees just a little to suck bruises into his neck and take his earlobe into his teeth, he didn't stop until Sam made the ragged, desperate sounds that Dean wanted to hear. Dean stroked him just fast enough to keep him on edge, but not fast enough to give him any relief.
Long after the hot water ran out, they moved to the other side of the shower, torn between wrestling each other to get out first and frantic desperation for it not to be over. The soaping up seemed to be a major complication. Just when they thought they were done, moving the stupid sponge in circles against Sam's skin would get Dean revving again. The risk that Sam was going to slip in the oily, soapy salt mess and kill them both was starting to become clear. Dean opened the door and carefully wrangled both of them out.
They were still such an oiled-up mess that there was nothing to do but let it absorb into their skin. Sam started to towel off, and Dean snatched the towel away, fingers digging into Sam's hips while he pushed them both toward a motel bed that looked like it'd seen possibly more action than Dean. Dean's paler, freckly skin had taken more of a beating than Sam's from the salt. The skin under his collarbone and along his ribs was red and irritated.
Sam's eyes kept tracking to it while Dean knelt over him, bracing Sam hard between his thighs, until he raised his lips and tongue to the skin as if to soothe it. Dean's skin tasted like smoke and salt, and made Sam want a shot of tequila from the sketchiest bar they could find. He slid up from Dean's chest back up to his mouth. Dean's skin had cooled from the shower, but his mouth was warm and claimed Sam's lips completely, not being careful, not being worried. After days of being asked if he was okay, Sam wrapped his fingers around Dean's neck and surrendered himself to it.
Dean watched Sam's mouth work, cock growing impatiently stiff against Sam's greased-up belly. He sat back on his haunches, squeezing lube into one hand, forcing Sam's legs apart. He slipped in one finger and then two, massaging Sam from the inside with two fingertips, hard, until Sam made the sounds again. Dean liked to watch Sam unspool as much as he liked to fuck him. Sam turned into an arousing mess of open-mouth, a halo of tousled hair, scrunched-up eyes, clenching jaw, straining neck cords and - Dean liked to tease - stiff, swollen nipples.
By the time Dean finally pushed his cock inside, Sam was begging and rasping his name over and over.
Dean drove the headboard of the bed into the wall with such force, wringing such an excited reaction out of Sam, that the unfortunate occupants next door banged on the wall in protest. He didn't give a shit. It'd been too long since they last utterly destroyed a room, since they rendered the sheets useless for anyone else, since Sam had been clenched so hot and tight around him.
When Dean no longer had the energy to support himself, he leaned forward into the underside of Sam's leg as he held it aloft, trying to catch his breath to even summon the energy to unbend and lay down. Sam rolled so that his back was to Dean, assuming the little spoon to Dean's lifelong big spoon, size be damned. Sam pushed his ass into Dean's hipbones, like a ship docking for the night, feeling like he was going to get a decent night's sleep for the first time in forever.
Dean kissed him on the back of the neck until he couldn't move anymore. He figured, if nothing else, the glitter had at least been shaken off of them both by the force of Dean's thrusting. Except for the parts that Dean had taken pains to dirty up again, Sam was as soft and clean as a scarred-up hunter was ever going to get.
When Dean buried his face in Sam's hair and fell into a deep sleep, Sam pried himself away for a moment and carefully got out of bed.
Dean snapped awake, arms closing around the empty space in front of him, looking at Sam accusingly. "What?"
"Dude, I'm just going to the bathroom."
Satisfied with this response, Dean mumbled angrily for him to get back in bed, and buried his face into the pillow where Sam's head had been, as if the spot would need to be saved.
Sam unzipped his duffel bag as quietly as possible, thinking of all the clowns he'd had to put up with for so many years, of all of Dean's funny little clown jokes about Ronald McDonald, and the horrible time Dean had put clown make-up on Sam while he slept.
Trying hard not to laugh loud enough to wake him, Sam palmed the small jar of craft glitter and chose his targets carefully: Dean's favorite gun, his boots and the bag full of his clean clothes.
Since Dean was mostly dead to the world anyway, Sam flicked some into his hair. He looked at the small amount left in the jar and put the rest along the line of Dean's body, which was (as usual) taking up over two-thirds of the bed.
The fact that the leftover oil from the salt scrub helped to glue it to his skin was just a bonus.