Sam had been avoiding Dean for days. There wasn't a lot he could do—John might object to Dean fucking Sam against the side of the Impala or the motel door or on the floor or in the shower or any of the other places Dean had considered confronting Sam.

But when John left on a grocery run, with that hungry and yet so tired look that meant he would spend the rest of the day hunched over a bar and bring back a box of cold cereal if he remembered, Dean dragged Sam to their bed and laid him down, kissing the corner of his mouth, sucking gently on his lower lip.

He was genuinely surprised when Sam responded in kind, fingernails scraping Dean's scalp, breath suddenly light—somewhere between a gasp and an expletive. Dean shifted until he was lying between Sam's long legs, grinding slowly against his brother.

They were both hard and breathing heavy when Dean maneuvered them until they were lying on their sides, facing each other. They had discovered long ago that it was easier to simultaneously undress while on their sides. Dean got rid of Sam's shirt without any trouble, but when he reaches down to unbuckle his belt, Sam pulled away.

"Don't." The word was quiet, almost a whimper; Dean would not have heard it if Sam's mouth hadn't been quite so close.

"Did I pull your hair, Sammy?" Said hair was getting ridiculously long and they had had several mishaps already.

Sam shook his head. He was looking down, cheeks flushed, and it finally registered that Sam looked embarrassed—nervous even.

"What's wrong, Sammy?"

"Just . . . don't, not right now. Don't touch me."

"What is it, Sam? If this is, you know, if this," he placed his hand on Sam's bare chest. The words were heavy—deep down he'd always known this more than brothers thing was temporary, that Sam would probably grow out of it—but he had to say them because more than anything Sam had to know that that was all right. "If this isn't okay anymore that's . . . okay."

"What?" Sam didn't just look surprised, he looked offended. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I just thought . . . You know someday you might not want me—this—this way anymore and that's okay, you don't have to be scared to tell me that."

"No, Dean, no, how could you ever-" Sam leaned in and kissed him—at the corner of his mouth, on his left eyelid, on top of that really ticklish spot on the side of his neck. "Don't you ever think that I don't want you," he punctuated his words with hard, wet kisses against Dean's mouth, "Exactly. Like. This."

Dean groaned under the onslaught, running his hands over Sam's upper arms, the curve of his lean, muscled back. They had never said it before. Dean knew he would always feel this way about Sam, but neither of them had said it out loud. The knowledge of how completely they belonged to each other made Dean want to cry and hug and cuddle and sit out under the stars and kiss every inch of Sam's growing body. Fuck, it made him horny in the gentlest, deepest way possible.

But when he reached over again to unbuckle Sam's belt, Sam stopped him again.

"Not tonight, please. Can't we just-" Sam made a vaguely dirty gesture and then made a face as if he was disgusted with himself. "Can't we just do it like we used to tonight?"

"Sam. What the fuck is going on?" Dean pushed himself up on one elbow, glaring down at Sam.

Sam rolled his eyes, carefully avoiding Dean's gaze. "It's not a big deal. I just don't want to do it like that tonight."

"Like what, Sam? Naked? That's usually part of the two-for-one: sex with a side of nudity."

"I just can't." And Sam really did sound scared.

So Dean took a deep breath and lay back down. He cupped Sam's cheek and waited until Sam looked at him. "What's wrong, Sammy?"

"You'll laugh."

Dean shook his head solemnly. "Swear to God. If you don't want me to laugh, I won't."

"You always say that, but you always laugh."

Dean crossed himself. "Something this big? I swear, Sam, just tell me."

Sam sighed. "I have . . ."

Herpes? A girlfriend? A terminal illness? A doll fetish? A porn addiction? Dean's mind reeled but he kept his mouth shut.

Sam pushed his face against Dean's chest so the words were barely audible. "I've got a pimple on my ass."

Dean couldn't help it. He laughed.

And stopped immediately when Sam gave him the saddest, and yet meanest, bitchface he had ever seen.

"It's not fucking funny!" Sam pushed away, crawling toward the edge of the bed, but Dean caught him and wrapped him up in his arms, pressing down with all his weight until Sam stilled. Sam probably could've gotten away if he wanted, but he just lay beneath Dean, breathing heavily like he was on the verge of tears.

"You swore you wouldn't laugh, you asshole."

"Yeah, but I thought something was really wrong."

"Dean!" Sam shifted like he was going to try and push Dean off, but Dean kept talking.

"I just—that's totally normal, Sammy! People get zits, especially teenagers. Even health nuts like you."

"I didn't want you to see it," Sam confessed. "I'm—it's gross."

Dean pushed himself up on the heels of his hands so he could really see Sam and, more importantly, Sam could see him.

"Here's the deal. I don't do this because you've got a bangin' body—which you do, by the way—and I don't do it because I'm horny—which is practically one of my personality traits. This is okay because it's you, Sam. A whole legion of zits wouldn't change that."

Sam gazed up at him like he'd said something profound, or at least sweet. They were so going to lose their man cards if they kept it up at this rate.

"Now take your fucking pants off and get on your hands and knees."

He expected Sam to argue—Sam usually did—but he just did as he was told, tilting his hips away from Dean as though he was still trying to hide the blemish on his ass. And it was there—angry and red and looking like it hurt like a motherfucker—but if Sam hadn't said anything Dean probably wouldn't have even thought twice about it. Mostly because it didn't matter. It never had.

He wouldn't tell Sam, but his little brother had sported noticeable acne on his back or ass every now and again since he hit puberty. It had never been a concern for Dean—it wasn't even a turnoff because all he saw was Sam.

Dean crawled up the bed, settling in close behind Sam, running his hands over Sam's narrow hips and down his thighs. Sam was covered in goosebumps.

They had done this a couple times, and Dean loved doing it if only for the way it turned Sam vocal and needy, but Sam wouldn't ask for it, still somehow laboring under the incredibly silly impression that rimming was merely a courtesy on Dean's part. The disgust Sam projected on Dean was probably Sam's own. It had to suck, as a kid so stuck on being "normal" to find himself so turned on by his big brother licking his asshole.

Dean paid the blemish only the tiniest attention—laying a quick "make it better" kiss on the irritated skin.

Sam swatted at him. "Fucking bastard."

"Hey, watch your mouth,"

"Fuck me, you bastard," Sam deadpanned.

Dean patted Sam's ass like he would a dog, "Good boy."

He leaned down and lapping at Sam's balls. He drew them slowly into his mouth, one at a time, sucking gently, rolling them around on his tongue.

He paused a moment, listening to Sam's tiny whimpering noises and panting—already incoherent—then he pressed open-mouthed kisses to Sam's perineum, working his way up with little kitten licks. He spread Sam's ass cheeks and licked in a tight circle around his entrance.

"Dean, Dean, fuck! Deeeeeean," Sam balled his fists up in the comforter, his hips twitching involuntarily.

"I know, Sammy, gonna give you what you need,"

Dean ran his finger over the pucker, teasing with nowhere near enough pressure to penetrate, until Sam reached back and grabbed the back of Dean's head, trying to get him back on task.

"Please—please, Dean, don't stop,"

Dean huffed a laugh, but complied. He kissed against the furled entrance, probing with his tongue the way he would if he were kissing Sam's mouth, slow but insistent. All of Sam's discomfort seemed to have disappeared; he moaned and tore at the sheets as Dean opened him up, stretching the edge of the sphincter with the tips of his thumbs so he could press his tongue deeper into Sam. He worked Sam hard, bringing him right to the edge again and again, until he was shaking and swearing breathlessly.

It was only when Sam was practically sobbing—head of his cock purple and dripping with precome and saliva, collapsed on the bed, ass in the air—that Dean paused. He laid his cheek against Sam's ass.

"Sammy,"

Sam mumbled something against the bed that sounded like "fucker."

"Don't ever think that I don't want you," Dean spread Sam's ass and punctuated his words with a thrust of his tongue. "Exactly. Like. This."

He kept his mouth on Sam, sucking and lapping and driving deep into him, working Sam's cock until he came with a muffled yelp, mouth full of bedspread.

Then Dean closed his eyes and kept working Sam with his mouth. He focused on the way Sam tasted, the aftershocks quivering through Sam's body, the slick of Sam's come on his own cock, until he came, pumping his tongue into Sam through his own climax, until, when he finally let go, Sam slumped boneless to the bed.