"Hey," Dean said. "Want to—?"
"What?" Sam said, blankly, and then Dean leaned over and kissed him.
They'd had a few drinks, but they weren't hammered or anything, so that didn't explain it. And they hadn't run into any succubi or witches or voudoun priestesses or sorcerors or—they hadn't run into anything but garden-variety vengeful spirits for a while now, so it wasn't some kind of curse or spell. They weren't fresh off a near-death experience or anything—things had actually been going pretty well for a change, a run of ten straight jobs without so much as a scraped knee, and the upshot was Sam had no fucking clue where this had come from, and he still hadn't figured it out before Dean had bent him back onto the motel bed and started unbuckling his belt.
Maybe it had been that girl at the bar? Sam wondered, lifting his hips so Dean could slide his jeans down. Dean had flirted with her a little bit, before coming back to the table with their beers; but it didn't seem likely, they'd talked maybe ten minutes, just while Dean was trying to get hold of the bartender, and she'd been hanging with some other guy by the time they'd left.
It was weird, no question, but it wasn't weird, far as Sam could figure out, and that meant Dean was just doing this because—because he wanted to, as bizarre as that was. It would've cracked Sam right up, the idea that Dean wanted to put his hand on Sam's dick and his tongue in Sam's mouth, except for the fact that Dean was doing all of that right now, which meant he wanted to, unless—Sam broke off and panted, "Christo," and Dean rolled his completely normal eyes, so not possession either, and then he bit Sam's nipple.
"Ow, that fucking hurt!" Sam said, and Dean said, "Aw, I'll kiss it better, princess," and licked it.
"Jerk," Sam said. "So why—"
Dean lifted his head and gave him a hard, steady look. "I can stop anytime."
"Fine, you're just a freak, forget I asked," Sam said, and kissed him back.
= End =
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