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Supernatural
I needed a break from the demonverse fic, the boys needed a break from *life*. Sam gives Dean a backrub. Fair warning, though, there's still content some readers may find to be incest.
Sam rolls his eyes and smacks Dean on the head. "Call us even, 'cause, man, I'm pretty disturbed that you feel the need to hide the fact that your shoulder is fucked up from me."


When they stumble back into their motel room, Sam shoves his laptop out of the way and collapses on the bed. He really, really hates digging up graves. Typical case, vengeful spirit, nothing new, it's just... it's physically exhausting and no matter how important it may be to salt and burn, to purify those bones and put the spirit genuinely to rest, it's still a violation of the grave and it never sits quite right in Sam's stomach and behind his eyes.

He opens his eyes and looks over at Dean who is sitting down a hell of a lot more gingerly on his own bed, wincing and favouring his left shoulder.

"Dude," Sam says. "You told me that shoulder was healed up."

"That's 'cause it is," Dean insists, grabbing the remote. He turns the crappy tv on and they're treated to a crackly, deep-voiced man talking about supermassive black holes because the set gets snow, more snow, and a really shitty signal from the local PBS affiliate.

"Right," Sam says dryly. "That'd be why you're wincing, over there, 'cause it's healed up perfectly." Sam heaves himself back off his bed with great effort and jabs Dean in the shoulder. Sam lifts a silent eyebrow when Dean hisses.

"Shut up," Dean says, sullenly.

"What, me? Say anything? I cannot imagine why you would think such a terrible thing of me," Sam says, earnestly, and digs a couple fingers into Dean's shoulder more gently. "Jesus, Dean, have you even taken a muscle relaxant for this?"

Dean mutters something under his breath and Sam digs in a little meanly. "Can't hear you there, sport," Sam says.

"Yes," Dean says, annoyed. "I have, Sammy, because I'm not a fucking moron and I need to be in good shape to do this goddamned fucking job of ours. Digging up that damned grave just torqued it--who the hell buries anything that deep, anyway?"

Sam stops. "You could have said something, you know," he says, softly.

"Yeah, I really couldn't," Dean says. It's probably true. Sam wishes like hell his brother would let him in, would stop trying to pretend he's fucking Superman because he figured that out when he was nine. He still trusts Dean with, with everything, with his life, his heart, his soul. It'd be nice if Dean could let him give that back.

But then Dean wouldn't be Dean. "Take your shirt off," he says, instead of saying any of the hundred other things he'd rather say.

"But, sir! You haven't even bought me a drink yet!" Dean deadpans.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'll be sure to keep that in mind, princess. Just shut up and do it. And get on your stomach, too," he says, and digs through his bag for some hand lotion.

"Yeah, okay, not so sure I like where this is headed," Dean says. It's a joke, mostly; at least, that's what Sam tells himself. It doesn't matter, though, because Dean's pulling his shirt off.

Sam straddles Dean's ass because, really, there's no good position for this kind of thing without a proper table, so you go with the only semi-comfortable position. He misses Cheyenne deeply right now, which would be the first time in his life--she'd been Jess's annoying as fuck roommate from her sophmore year. She was a complete fruit loop, but she'd had a massage table and right now he'd kill for that. But Cheyenne is in Stanford and they are here in Bumfuck, Kentucky and this isn't the first time he's given a backrub like this, anyway.

Sam smoothes lotion across Dean's upper shoulders and feels around his left shoulder, the upper traps. He winces at the amount of scar tissue he can feel in there underneath all the general tension. "How can you call this healing?" he asks. "I'm surprised you can move your shoulder at all."

Dean makes an exasperated noise into the thin, threadbare blanket. "It's not that bad," he says, until Sam kneads into the shoulder gently; Dean whimpers.

"Right," Sam says and digs his thumb a little into a particularly tight spot, scar tissue knotting up the muscle. He smirks as his brother moans under him. "Whatever you say, bro."

He doesn't spend that long working on Dean's shoulder, though, because it's so damn tight it just can't take any deep work. Instead, he does long strokes up his brother's back, kneading and smoothing out the muscles by his spine, digs his thumbs into Dean's sacrum--that gets him some more moans, which isn't a fucking surprise considering how much time Dean sits slouched in the driver's seat of the Impala--his entire low back must hate him for that. Finally he digs into his brother's neck, which is almost as bad as the shoulder. Sometimes Sam really hates having large hands because it is hard to dig into the small neck muscles with hands as large as his, but Dean loosens up under him all the same, and, bonus, his shoulder loosens up some more too.

When he finally trails off into lazy, smooth strokes that are more petting than anything else, Dean rumbles underneath him. "Dude," he says, and his voice sounds like he just got laid. "Where the fuck did you learn that, Sammy?"

"Okay, one, seriously, it's Sam, and two, have you heard of foreplay? Girls like a good backrub."

"That's kinda creepy, dude," Dean says sleepily and without much punch. "Me being your brother and all."

Sam rolls his eyes and smacks Dean on the head. "Call us even, 'cause, man, I'm pretty disturbed that you feel the need to hide the fact that your shoulder is fucked up from me."

"Hey! What happened to sympathy for the gimp?" Dean asks--he's clearly trying for indignant outrage but pretty much entirely misses.

Sam can't help it; he laughs. "Not so much," he says through the laughter.

"Seriously, though," and Dean's voice does go serious now. "Thanks and all, but this is starting to get a little awkward," he says. Sam hasn't moved and he hasn't stopped trailing lazy circles on Dean's back.

"Yeah, right," Sam says quickly, and rolls off Dean and onto his back. "Sorry." He really should get up and go back to his own bed because this isn't making it any less awkward but he's fucking exhausted and he actually cannot make himself move right now.

"Dude," Dean says, after a few minutes. "You have a bed."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah, and you know what? I'm too fucking tired to move. Doing something about your fucked up shoulder just took the last bit of energy I had," he says. "So suck it up, bitch."

Sam smiles beatifically as Dean mutters something foul and probably anatomically impossible under his breath without moving himself. "I love you too, Dean," he says back, sweet as saccharine, and he laughs when Dean hits him weakly with a pillow before fumbling with the remote to kill the background snow that the weak-ass signal has dropped out to.

Dean's breathing evens out pretty quickly after that. Sam wishes he could sleep as easily but the nightmares and migraines that so often wait for him have made his insomnia worse so he's still awake when Dean shifts in his sleep, throwing his good arm out and across Sam's stomach, his right leg across Sam's leg, holding him tight.

Sam tries to think about how much he's going to be able to mock Dean in the morning for his octopus-act but... Dean is warm and heavy and comforting and the fact that he's curled into his brother pretty much leaves him just as wide open for mockery. And as fucked to hell as their lives are, this is somewhere near the bottom of the list of reasons why.

Dean lives under Sam's skin, in his blood, in his heart, and that bothers Sam a lot less than it would if their lives had even a vague and passing resemblance to normal, if a yellow-eyed demon weren't out for his soul. If Dean is in him somewhere, then maybe the demon can't win, because Dean is good. Dean is something pure and bright and the demon can't break that even if he can break Sam.

Sam doesn't mind his brother's warmth, the damp humidity of Dean's breath, and after a time he finds himself dozing off, remembering the soft, satiny feel of Dean's skin under his hands.
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