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Too late again.
Sam tried not to let it get to him, he really did. It was impossible to work a job with that kind of self-doubt getting in the way. But a disconcerting pattern was emerging in his life and it was this: even when given a heads-up (god, Roger Miller’s head...) he’ll still be too late to save people. First Jess, and now the two Miller men. Maybe the visions weren’t warnings. They were punishments. He just wished he knew what he'd done to deserve them.
He rubbed at his temples as he dropped down on the bed. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean eyeballed him. Plain concern, it looked like. Obnoxious, but tolerable. At least he was looking at him again. Sam knew the psychic stuff was freaking his brother out no matter what he claimed in the car ride over to Roger’s place. He just wished he’d admit it. Then maybe they could move forward and figure out what the hell was happening to him. He flopped back on the coverlet and tried instead to get over the fact that he now knew what a kitchen window decapitating someone sounded like.
“How’s your head?” Dean grunted as he dropped beside him, reaching for the bore brush and revolver. In their haste to leave, most of their gear remained sprawled all over the second bed, still waiting to be cleaned. If a maid had dropped in while they were gone they’d have bigger problems than figuring out what the hell was going on with the Millers.
“Fine,” Sam grumbled. Dean turned around to look at him, one eyebrow arched. “I’m fine. Seriously.”
“You didn’t see it, man,” Dean pressed. “It looked like you were gonna start seizing. I thought I’d have to make you wear a helmet like that chick in Garden State.”
Sam paused. “...You’ve seen Garden State?”
“Shaddup. Seriously, are you okay?”
Pulsing threads of pain ran from behind his eyes and through his brain, gathering in a throbbing knot at the base of his skull. Yet, it still paled in comparison to the waking nightmare from earlier in the evening. At least he still had a head.
Dean’s eyes bored into his own. His gray matter gave another loud complaint.
“It’s just a tension headache,” Sam admitted reluctantly. “It’s fine.”
Dean gave a dramatic sigh, setting the weapon and cleaning tool aside. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Hup up.”
“Huh?”
Dean elbowed him over, shuffling and rearranging them until Dean sat up against the headboard, Sam’s head pillowed in his lap. Sam swallowed hard as Dean’s fingers found his temples and started to rub.
“Do I have to pay for this service?” Sam joked as his gaze darted around the room. Anywhere but up at Dean’s face. He settled on the deer head mounted on the wall, grimaced, then stared at his feet instead.
“Oh, you will. You’re on laundry duty for two weeks, at least,” Dean promised. “You’re waxing the car, too. Now, relax. It’s no magic fingers but I ain’t half bad if I do say so myself.”
Oh. Dean was serious. Sam exhaled shakily and tried to relax even as his heart kicked into overdrive.
It turned out Dean wasn’t exaggerating about his skills. Just the right amount of pressure and soothing circles soon had Sam’s eyes drifting shut as the rest of him slowly unknotted and sank into the mattress. From above him came a smug chuckle. Whatever. Two weeks of laundry and a wax were totally worth this. Occasionally Dean would dip down to massage his neck and Sam actually moaned in relief as the red oscillation in his skull began to dull.
“Am I good or am I good?” Dean hummed as his thumbs dug into his hairline.
“You’re good,” Sam said sleepily, even knowing how his brother was undoubtedly crowing his satisfaction. Dean was good. Too good, almost. A different throbbing had started, lower down and much more pleasant. His pants were pretty loose, though. Maybe Dean wouldn’t notice.
“You can go for it if you want.”
And that hope went down the drain. Sam’s eyes snapped open and he sat up to flee--or tried to. Dean forced him back down with a hand to the center of his chest. “Would you relax? You’re undoing all my work.”
Sam slowly laid back down, shoulders tight. “Sorry. I, uh...”
“Hey, no worries,” Dean replied smoothly, resuming his rub-down as if his brother hadn’t just popped a boner from his touch alone. “I really am that good.”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed shakily. To his annoyance, his body seemed to agree with Dean’s bold claims. Already the tension was draining away.
“I meant what I said, you know,” Dean continued, sliding his hands into Sam’s hair and digging his fingers into Sam’s scalp. Sam shuddered, pressing back into the touch. “It’s fine. It’s good for headaches. Endorphins and all that.”
Endorphins. That was one explanation. The other was that Sam was an even bigger freak than he thought.
“No,” Sam blurted. “That’s okay. This is good.”
“Suit yourself,” Dean said and that was the end of it.
Or, it should have been. Sam held out for maybe five minutes, his brother’s magic fingers dragging him down into a hazy half-dream where no visions or regrets existed. He was floating, surrounded by Dean’s touch and smell and nothing hurt. At first, it was just to relieve the pressure a bit, grinding his palm into his groin and sighing at the relief it brought. But then came Dean’s murmured, “Atta boy,” and he couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t let himself take care of this discomfort too.
The zipper went down a tooth at a time, not to prolong the anticipation but to make sure he doesn’t jolt himself from the dream state he was in. He was pretty sure this wasn’t allowed anywhere else. He eased himself out of his boxers, shivering when his dick hit open air, and for a long time just held himself feeling the throb and the weight in his palm. For the first time, Dean’s rhythm faltered, but only for a moment. He half expected some snide comment, asking if he knew what to do with it, but Dean remained silent aside from a few encouraging rumbles as Sam tugged loosely at his cock.
Dean was right about this too. The pain had vanished almost entirely, and he now rode a low, rolling wave of satisfaction curling up his spine. Dean brushed against his jaw and his mouth dropped open mindlessly, asking wordlessly for another primal need to be fulfilled. A thumb hooked his teeth and Sam’s lips closed on it, nibbling and groaning his contentment.
“Feel good, Sammy?” Dean asked. Sam could only manage a choked, Mmmhmm. “Yeah, I know it does,” he purred, smug as ever. “I take care of you, don’t I? You’re better now.” Sam whined in disagreement. He wasn’t better, not yet. His hand sped up on along his length as the other reached up, blindly grabbing for Dean’s knee and squeezing. His head ground back into Dean’s lap and he could feel it, feel that his brother was hard too. He turned his head, slurring his request into Dean’s denim-clad thigh. “What was that?”
The thumb left his mouth and Sam found that he missed it. “I want your dick in my mouth,” he breathed. Dean groaned and he yanked Sam’s hair. Sam cried out and precum blurted from the tip of his cock.
“Not right now,” Dean said firmly. “Maybe later, huh? When you’re paying me back.” Sam whimpered. “For now I just want you to get yourself off for me, okay? Make yourself cum.”
It wasn’t a request. Sam’s hand flew over his dick but Dean gripped his shoulder, the hand in his hair pulling side to side, shaking his head no. “Relax,” he reminded. “Nice and slow. You’ll get there.”
He slowed down but only just, only completely managing it when he matched his strokes to Dean kneading the back of his neck. “I wanna,” he complained and Dean laughed, warm, taunting, and affectionate.
“Not stopping you,” he pointed out. “You can do it. Come on. Let go. Just like that.”
Just like that. Sam’s hips bucked off the bed as he came but he was otherwise still, limp and loose and putty in Dean’s hands, helpless to his praises. He was faintly aware of cum on his hands and his jeans but it was all secondary to riding the wave of bliss pulling him under and under. He didn’t decide to stop touching himself so much as his hand simply dropped away, a puppet with cut strings. His eyelids fluttered and he knew that within moments he’d be unconscious. Thoughts of cleaning himself, changing, or feeling shame were fairytales. The brief brush of lips across his forehead, likewise, was surely equally fantastical.
“You’ll be fine, Sammy,” Dean whispered as Sam went under. “I swear.”
When he woke the next morning he was in his boxers and all the weapons were put away. They needed to head over to the Millers in an hour. Dean didn’t ask about laundry or waxing the Impala and Sam didn’t mention it. In any case, his head felt better, at least for now. He supposed that would have to be enough.