. x .

They're fucking ugly to stare at, honestly.

Crusting around the edges with particles of dirt and his blood, these jagged, long marks criss-crossing the surface of Sam's palms and the coarsen arches of his lumberjack fingers. The scars to appear once the wounds closed up would be sunken — the result of punctured muscles healing below the skin layer.

It's the first night, and they feel relatively safe enough to staying the motel for another twelve hours. The bathroom sink clogs with dark soil, ringed with soapy, too-pink film.

But Sam's wounds are clean.

Though he's fairly awake and cranky and vertical, even with the nice, strong dosage of Dean's happy pills, Sam can't do jack with his hands rolled up like gorditas. Dean has to march him to the shower and order him to strip down, taking another hour away from dealing with his own throbbing bite marks. Willing to sacrifice some of his own first-aid to scrub Gordon's blood and the rest of the rancid-smelling, vampire gore out of the once downy soft strands of Sam's hair, just to get the kid looking somewhat regular again.

"Ow," Sam complains.

He frowns when Dean's drippy hand tugs his wrist out towards him, away from the hot stream of shower water.

"Don't get those bandages wet," Dean says, scolding him as if Sam has regressed into the bratty, little four-year-old he used to be. "I'm not changing them again."

Sam sighs out loud, through his nostrils, not even appeased by how gently Dean rakes away the plastered strings of his bangs from his wrinkling forehead. "How the hell am I supposed to do anything like this?" He makes his point by twisting his upraised wrists supporting the bandages.

"Don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about it?" Sam blinked, giving a humorless laugh. "Dean, I can't even wiggle my fingers."

"I said, don't worry about it," Dean's voice comes out in more of a growl as he shuts off the water. "I'm gonna take care of you."

He grabs a motel towel off the wall-rack and tosses it over Sam's head, smirking widely as his brother grumbles and allows Dean to methodically dry him off. It's true. Watching a useless Sam is damn near close to heartbreak as you can get. He always wanted to help someone, to play the role of the bleeding heart and stand on his own.

Watching his little brother struggle isn't even up for discussion.

Sam monotones his skepticism, not even bothering a twitch as Dean's towel-gripped hands pat down his sides. "So, you're going to bathe and dress me for however long it takes?"

Dean shrugs, going on his knees on Sam's right side. "Well, can't have you stinkin' up my car," he says.

"Shaving, too?"

"Yep."

"I'm not letting you back on the laptop." The sullen tone is unmistakable. Sam's eyes narrow when Dean looks up thoughtfully, and at nothing in particular — one of his faces used to dredge up an interesting memory. "Not with the last virus I had to clear out. You're freaking twisted, you know that? Your porn shouldn't be legal."

"She almost sounded possessed, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't German she was sayin', Sammy," Dean recalls, wearing a serious expression. "Have you ever seen a fucking machine on full blast? You'd think the junk we see on a daily basis is scarier than that…"

Those narrowed eyes — hazel flecked and freckled with gold dots; ones that Dean swears he's seen in his own reflection — gleam low.

"Fine." Sam says, almost in defiance, "how about rubbing one out?"

One of Dean's hands pauses on Sam's naked thigh, as it quivers under the attention.

It's familiar. They've been here before.

Skating that line — physically, verbally — between "yes, we're brothers" and "I'd do ANYTHING for you".

Dean's tongue flicks over his bottom lip. He glances down at a cracked bathroom tile. "Said I'd take care of you," he drawls.

Sam's next inhale shudders between his lips, knees locking when a dampened, thin towel grazes the tip of his cock.

"…D'ya think I was lying?"

"You're not seriously—" Sam trembles, cut off with a groan, heat rushing upwards to his face and downwards and hardening him when Dean's index finger and thumb circles the length, lightly teasing with small, measured strokes towards the cockhead. "Dean, shit," like a garbled, awed protest, and one of Sam's bandaged hands reaches automatically for Dean's shoulder, for support as Sam folds, before Dean pushes it away wordlessly. A bead of pre-come swells before Dean's thumb quickly smears it from existence.

Dean jacks him with a harder, more constant rhythm, knowing what he himself prefers after the many dates with Rosy Palmer, but the good thing about handling a body similar to yours is you know pretty much where all the sweet spots are. And Sam must be extra sensitive to them or something because he's whining out like he's in pain, rolling his head back and exposing that long, sun-golden throat. He reacts, bucking, swearing under his breath, eyes closing to the sensation of another touch on him, to Dean's touch.

And — fuck, what Dean wouldn't do to get his open mouth, tongue to press and flatten to those corded, sweat-moist muscles, to feel Sam's escaping moans against his lips.

"Come on, Sammy," he growls again, and Sam's body jolts, pushing his hips forward towards Dean. Green eyes calmly gaze up the stretch of Sam's chest heaving with pants and gasps, the anti-possession tattoo an inky black against lighter flesh. A splatter, like hot wax, come running over the crooks of Dean's slowing fingers, droplets against the sleeve of his t-shirt. "Good," a low reassurance, and Sam's darkened, endorphin-haze eyes stare down into his, "that's good, you did good."

Sam's lumberjack-huge arms cling a little to Dean's neck, as he sinks down onto the bathroom floor with his brother, burying his face into the accepting warmth of Dean's neck. "You did good, Sammy," Dean tells him, words softer than he means them to be, rubbing a lean, naked back. Wiping his messed hand onto the abandoned towel beside them.

It's not the first day either of them imagined a hand job, or the bony ridge of Sam's nose nudging when he exhaled, smiling between Dean's opening, muscular thighs, or Dean's thick fingers pulling apart his asscheeks and slip-sliding with gelled lubricant inside of Sam, knuckles brushing the pink, wet rim. Now, they just guess it's the first step in the right direction.

"Twisted," the single word mumbles into Dean's collarbone, accompanied by a cynical, laughing snort.

"That's kinda just us in a nutshell, huh…"

"Probably."

. x .


SPN is not mine. Found the prompt to finally finish this. That's what happens when you don't bookmark, kids. Any feedback is greatly appreciated, pls & thank you~

Prompt:

"Post 3x07, Sam's hands are fucked up after using the barbed wire to kill Gordon and he can't do simple things like shave, wash his hair, or even jerk off.

Dean always helps out because he hates seeing his brother struggle."