Sam put his hand on Dean's, preventing him from tugging open the top button of his jeans. "Dean. You know I'd die for you. But if you keep this up, you're actually gonna kill me."

Dean snaked his hand around Sam's waist. "You sore, baby?"

"Did you just-seriously, did you just call me baby?"

"I did. Because you love it. And you know it." Dean guided Sam's head onto his chest, brushing his mouth against his forehead.

Sam said nothing.

"So I take your silence as an admission that I'm right, and you love it when I call you baby."

Sam pursed his lips. "Tell another soul and you're cut off."

"That's my baby. Threatening to withhold sexual favors 'cause you're mad." Dean smirked. Sam smacked him on the chest. Dean grabbed his hand and lacing his fingers through Sam's, kissed the back of his hand and pressed it tight to his chest.

"Seriously, though, you hurting, Sammy?"

Sam exhaled. "Yeah. My ass is on fire, and my dick feels like I've been jacking off with sandpaper. And it hurts to chew."

"That's why the soup for dinner?"

Sam nodded. "Jaw muscles are sore."

Dean stroked Sam's hair. "Sorry, baby. You're just molten hot."

Sam grinned up at Dean. "Yeah?"

Dean tipped Sam's face up with one finger and kissed him, the barest brush of his lips. "And I... it's like, something could come around the corner and take you away from me, Sammy. Every day we end up somewhere safe, alone... it could be the last time."

Sam was silent for a moment. He knew his brother was right. Then he stirred, running his hand under Dean's shirt, letting his fingertips drift over his skin in that half-tickle Dean loved so much.

Dean placed his hand on Sam's. "Hey. It's ok. I've been working you too hard." He moved in closer to Sam. "Let's watch a movie and cuddle and shit like that."

Sam tried to protest, but Dean would have none of it. He got up and rooted around in Sam's duffel until he found his favorite lounging clothes, the baggy blue sweatpants worn soft and supple from age, and his grey beater. "Get comfortable. Pick out something to watch." He tossed the clothes to Sam. "I'm gonna get some ice."

Dean filled the ice bucket and got cokes, candy and microwave popcorn from the vending machine.

The grin on Sam's face when he saw the Rainbow Sour Straps and other items, popping his dimples and lighting up the corners of his eyes, was worth Dean giving up sex for a whole week. And he might have to, he decided, after he changed into his flannel pants and Montrose t-shirt and Sam curled up against him with the bag of popcorn, feeding him kernels by hand, giggling like a ten-year-old when Mike Tyson sang along to Phil Collins, snuggling against his chest and chewing on sour straps.

Dean leaned down and kissed the top of Sam's head.

"What's that for?"

"It's just... Sam, if it was just this, I'd still be the luckiest son-of-a-bitch on the planet. It'd be enough."

Sam Winchester might have cried at that moment, and kissed Dean with lips dusted with sweet-and-sour candy crystals and cheeks streaked with tears, but that's the kind of thing he'd rather the world not know for sure. And if Dean joined in the expression of emotion, kissing the sugar off Sam's lips with infinite tenderness, his chest hitching with a sob or two, well, that's between him and his soul-mate.