The old metal frame of the bed creaked as Dean crawled on top of Sam.
Dean bowed his forehead onto Sam’s shoulder, breathing in the salt of his skin. He let the tip of his tongue pass his lips and stretched further until it made contact with the raised, inked skin. Sam sighed underneath him, his blushing chest meeting Dean’s tongue.
Dean fingered a scar on his side, healed and white, and moved up to kiss him on the mouth. Sam rocked his hips into Dean’s, moaned against his parted lips.
His cheeks were pink, his hair mussed, a comfortable smile dimpling his sweaty face. He brought Sam close, their bodies perfectly slotted together, and tasted the sweat on the exposed column of his throat.
Dean pushed Sam’s thighs up and apart when he finished inside him, cleaning him up with a reverence that he would only afford to Sam. He quivered underneath his brother and begged him for more, and Dean would always oblige: eagerly, gladly, like this was the sole reason he was raised from the dead.
Dean didn’t need to say it out loud and neither did Sam. The next time they fought, the words would come.