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Dean shoves a hand into the laundry basket and pulls out a fistful of clothes. He tosses them carelessly into the rolling cart at the laundromat, then starts folding them with all the precision of a drunk trying to build a house of cards. Underwear, underwear, a pair of worn-out jeans, underwear, a light blue short-sleeve shirt he doesn’t recognize.
He spreads it out, gives it a once-over, then flips it inside out. There’s a bold number printed on the front in blocky font, and the bottom edge is jagged like it was hacked off with the wrong kind of scissors. It’s a crop top.
Dean stares at it for another moment before glancing at Sam, who’s sitting against the wall with an open book balanced on his knees.
“I think someone left a shirt in the dryer,” Dean says.
Sam’s eyes track the line of his page before lifting to meet Dean’s. “Oh, no,” he mutters. His cheeks flush from their usual sleep-deprived gray to a soft, dusty pink. “That’s mine.”
Dean keeps staring at him, holding the tiny scrap of fabric mid-air like Sam had just spoken in tongues. When it’s clear Sam’s not going to elaborate, Dean swallows hard and croaks, “Oh.”
Sam gives a sheepish smile and goes back to reading, like this isn’t a big deal. Like the shirt isn’t small enough to fit a damn Chihuahua. Dean forces himself to fold the crop top and toss it onto Sam’s pile, on top of a pair of those same beat-up jeans.
A few minutes later, while carefully folding the sleeves of a shirt that doesn’t require that much attention, Dean says in an overly casual tone, “I don’t think I’ve seen you wear it.”
From his angle, he can’t see Sam’s face, but he hears the faint sigh break the laundromat’s silence. Somewhere in the back, a washer churns in the spin cycle.
“Well, I used to, back in California,” Sam says, leaving the sentence dangling in the air like that’s supposed to explain everything. It probably would, if Dean’s brain wasn’t stuck on a loop of CropTopSamStomachSkin.
Dean lets the jeans he’s holding fall to the cart and turns to look at him. He must be wearing his confusion on his face, because Sam adds, “But I can’t wear it everywhere.”
Dean nods. Not every place is like California. Almost nowhere is.
Sam sighs again. “And, well…” He hesitates, looking up at Dean with an almost pleading expression, blinking like he wants Dean to cut him off. “I don’t know… if—”
Dean gets it. It hits him like a punch to the gut. Sam isn’t sure if Dean’s okay with it.
Dean turns back to the clothes, gripping the fabric in his hands and biting the inside of his cheek to force himself to breathe normally. “You should wear it,” he says firmly.
He doesn’t see Sam’s expression, but he hears the sound of a page turning, then another, and another.
There aren’t many places like California. And Dean’s never wanted so badly to be one of them.
Two weeks later, Dean wakes up, and the first thing he sees is Sam’s stomach. Then the rest of him, framed in the doorway of the bathroom. He’s holding a toothbrush, a smear of toothpaste clinging to the corner of his lower lip. Dean lets his eyes linger there because he’s too afraid to look anywhere lower, at the wide chest wrapped in soft pastel blue cotton.
Dean sits up, kicks the sheets off as Sam disappears back into the bathroom. The smell of coffee wafts from the table, tempting and warm. Dean dives in, hoping it’ll scrub the image of his brother in that shrunken excuse for a shirt out of his head. It doesn’t, but it does burn his tongue.
Sam comes back, the toothpaste gone from his lips. Dean doesn’t know where to look now. He opens the laptop sitting nearby and starts searching for a case to distract himself.
A couple of days ago, they torched the bones of a housekeeper who’d been haunting a family for not taking care of her old home properly. Dean almost died doing it, and right now, he wishes he had.
Especially when Sam leans over him, reaching past his shoulder to peer at the screen.
Sam’s arm is bare, an old scar cutting across the skin near his elbow. Dean feels the heat of him before he even gets close. Sam leans in further, bracing a hand on the back of Dean’s chair. His knuckles press into Dean’s spine, making it impossible to read a single word of the article in front of him or hear whatever Sam’s saying.
“What?” Dean asks, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. When did Sam’s hands get so goddamn warm?
Sam straightens up, looking down at him. His stomach is barely ten inches from Dean’s face. If Dean just turned his head slightly to the right and leaned in, he could bury his nose in Sam’s navel. For one wild second, he imagines it—gripping Sam’s hips, holding him still while he traces the trail of hair dipping below the jeans’ waistband.
Sam’s fingers land lightly on his shoulder, nearly giving Dean a heart attack. “You feeling okay?”
Dean nods, scrubbing a hand over his eyes to force himself to look anywhere but at Sam. “Yeah,” he lies. “Just tired.”
Sam studies him for a long moment with curious eyes before blinking and stepping back. “We could stay here another day or two,” he offers. He stretches out on his bed with a relaxed sigh, crossing his ankles and looking over at Dean. “What do you think?”
Dean thinks only one of them is getting out of this room alive. Him or that damned crop top.
“There’s no way that’s a good idea,” Dean says. “I stole the diner waiter’s wallet.”
Sam laughs, grabbing the TV remote from the nightstand. “Then find us a case.”
Dean goes back to scrolling through police reports, drains his coffee, and texts Bobby to see if he’s got anything. Eventually, he finds a report out of Milwaukee—something about a guy found dead with his skull intact but completely empty. It’s supernatural enough to warrant a visit, playing FBI agents.
He glances over at Sam, sprawled on his bed watching an old black-and-white movie. At least Sam will have to wear something other than that nightmare of a crop top.
It’s the height of summer. The heat haze makes the horizon ripple, and the dust from Bobby’s salvage yard sticks to their sweaty skin.
Dean’s head is buried in the Impala’s trunk, tossing guns into a beat-up duffel for cleaning and reloading. They’ve stopped in Sioux Falls to check in on Bobby after months of wandering the country.
Sam’s on the porch steps, propped up on his elbows. The crop top rides up lazily over his stomach, golden and damp in the early afternoon sun.
Dean walks past, nudging Sam’s arm with the tip of his boot just to irritate him. Sam looks up and smiles lazily, sunlight dancing across his face.
Dean almost drops the whole damn bag on the porch. Instead, he marches inside, nausea twisting in his stomach.
Bobby’s in the kitchen, one hand around a cold beer, the other cleaning a rifle. “Got everything?” he asks without looking up.
Dean grunts something affirmative and dumps the bag on the table. He pulls out a pistol, ejecting the magazine to clean it.
After a few minutes, Bobby glances at him again. “Where’s your brother?”
Dean shrugs. “Sunning himself like a lady on vacation.” He wants to sound annoyed, but he isn’t. Not when the July sun turns Sam’s hair golden, and his pupils shrink to leave a sea of green, blue, and hazel.
Bobby raises a curious brow but doesn’t press. He takes another swig of his beer and goes back to sharpening the blade of a heavy-handled knife.
The rhythmic scrape of metal against stone lulls Dean into a rare sense of calm. He grabs a beer from the fridge, cracks it open with the ring on his finger, and watches the cap roll across the table before coming to a stop between a rifle butt and a freshly polished knife blade.
He’s packed away most of the weapons and downed half his beer when the front door slams.
Sam strolls into the kitchen, his face flushed from the sun and his hair tucked behind his ears. He stretches with a careless yawn, not even bothering to cover his mouth.
Dean attacks the pistol’s magazine like it insulted his mother. Then Sam’s suddenly next to him, close enough that his arm presses against Dean’s like they’re crammed in an elevator, not Bobby’s spacious, empty kitchen.
“There’s beer in the fridge,” Bobby says, not even glancing up from his folding knife.
“Thanks,” Sam says, but he doesn’t move. If anything, he leans closer, his side brushing against Dean’s arm as he grabs his laptop off the table.
In an instant, the spread of weapons is replaced by Sam’s broad shoulders in smooth light-blue fabric. The crop top stops abruptly, exposing golden skin and a trail of light hair diving into the waistband of his faded jeans.
Dean takes a small, desperate step back, putting space between himself and the sun-warmed heat of Sam’s body.
He’s thinking that touching Sam’s lower back with just one finger wouldn’t be weird. That threading his hand through the hair at Sam’s nape to push his head down against the table could be considered brotherly, if he tried hard enough. But then Sam straightens, and all that’s left in front of Dean are guns and wood grain.
Sam tucks the laptop under one arm and grabs Dean’s beer with his free hand. He takes a long swig, and Dean watches the liquid travel down his throat, bile rising in his own.
Bobby looks up only when Sam sets the bottle back on the table, licking a stray drop from his lips.
Dean squeezes the magazine in his fist until the plastic makes an alarming creak.
Sam throws him a glance that looks vaguely smug, then gestures toward the computer. “Gonna do some research,” he says.
In a second, he’s out of the room, but Dean’s still staring at his bare back. The heavy, suffocating feeling in his stomach only grows when Bobby clears his throat.
Dean looks at him, pulling together all the calm he can fake in that moment, but the skeptical look on Bobby’s face says he still looks like someone about to keel over from a heart attack.
Bobby nods toward the spot where Sam just disappeared. “He’s looking good,” he mutters.
Dean nods back, barely, his throat dryer than the Grand Canyon. He doesn’t dare take a sip of beer, too afraid he might taste Sam on his lips. Because he wants to.
Bobby shrugs, and Dean thinks, with relief, that the conversation’s over. But then Bobby looks at him again. “You’re okay with it, right?” he asks.
Dean doesn’t need to ask what he’s talking about. Bobby saw his eyes on Sam’s bare skin. Hell, anyone would’ve seen it.
Before he can think of anything else, Dean feels his cheeks heat up. He shifts his gaze to the clip he’s still holding in his hand while a giant, screaming no forms on the tip of his tongue.
No, he’s not okay with it. No, no, no. That damn crop top is the root of all evil, and he wants to see it burn.
He’s about to confess under Bobby’s probing stare, but at the last second, he bites the inside of his cheek and jerks his head in a sharp, almost violent nod. Like this lie, out of all the lies he’s ever told, is costing him the most.
“Yeah,” he says at last, voice low and growling. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Dean throws himself behind the wheel and fires up the engine in one frantic motion. A second later, Sam climbs in and slams the door shut, shouting, “Drive, drive, drive!”
Dean slams his foot on the gas, pulling onto the empty road, the blue lights in the rearview mirror shrinking as Sam’s hot breath fogs up the passenger-side window where he’s pressed his cheek to watch the building disappear behind them.
They’d just killed a shapeshifter posing as a gas station clerk near the Nebraska-Iowa border. The guy wore the company’s ridiculous cap, and his belt dug into his round belly, but his eyes gleamed on the security camera footage at the entrance.
Inside the store, Sam had elbowed Dean in the ribs, casually nodding toward the man. Taking him down had been easy enough; convincing the old lady hiding in the frozen food aisle not to call the cops had been another story.
They failed.
A squad car pulled into the parking lot just as Sam was erasing the security footage and Dean was keeping watch through the big windows out front.
They bolted out the back, bullets whizzing overhead as they dove into the car.
Dean can still feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins, but the farther they get from those flashing blue lights, the looser his grip on the steering wheel becomes.
He glances in the rearview mirror again, then focuses back on the road. It’s practically deserted, and the night bleeds into the countryside as they leave the main road behind.
Sam shifts beside him. “You’re bleeding,” he says, voice sharp with surprise.
Dean glances down at himself and sees a red stain spreading slowly across his shoulder.
“It’s nothing,” he mutters, but now that the rush is fading, the pain hits him in slow, piercing waves.
Sam digs into the duffel bag on the backseat, then leans toward Dean in one fluid motion.
His knee presses into Dean’s thigh as he turns to unbutton his shirt. Then his palm slides over Dean’s shoulder, pulling the fabric down his arm.
Dean keeps his eyes on the road, clenching his teeth every time Sam’s fingers apply a little more pressure. The short-sleeved T-shirt he’s wearing beneath the flannel reeks of sweat and blood.
Sam opens the first aid kit, pushing Dean’s sleeve higher to expose the wound. The scrape of the fabric against torn skin makes Dean hiss.
“You got grazed,” Sam says. His breath brushes against Dean’s ear, and the spot where his knee presses into Dean’s leg suddenly feels unbearable. Every nerve in Dean’s body seems to stretch toward that one point of contact, that warm circle of Sam’s knee.
“Bet it’s just a scratch,” Dean grits out, mostly out of stubbornness. The pain, now sharpened by the cold air from the vent hitting his shoulder, is the only thing keeping him grounded. It’s the only thing tolerable about Sam’s hand on his bare arm, his breath against Dean’s cheek.
Sam grabs a piece of gauze, wets it with disinfectant, and wraps his other hand around Dean’s bicep, steadying him. His fingers are cool and grip tighter than Dean expected as he starts cleaning the wound.
Dean closes his eyes for just a second, biting his lower lip so hard he tastes blood. Then he opens them and locks his gaze back on the road. No cars, just grass and darkness swallowing the edges of the asphalt. His vision blurs at the corners as Sam works the gauze over his skin, but Dean doesn’t make a sound, even though he wants to yell.
“Almost done,” Sam says. His hand slides lower, brushing the crook of Dean’s elbow, then down to his wrist in a touch that’s supposed to distract but only makes everything worse.
The pain throbs from his shoulder to his neck, a steady pulse, until Sam pulls back and tosses the bloodied gauze onto the dashboard.
“You’re bleeding too much,” Sam says, reaching for more gauze to clean his hands. “I need to stitch you up.”
Dean takes a deep breath, blinking back the tears that had sprung to his eyes while Sam disinfected the gash. He pretends Sam didn’t say anything, even when he moves closer, carefully wiping the skin around the wound.
“Dean...” Sam murmurs, his voice low, like they’re in a hospital room instead of their car, alone. It’s a whisper, soft against Dean’s ear, and it sends a shiver cascading down his spine.
Dean shakes his head, forcing himself to keep his focus on the road. He’s afraid to turn and see how close Sam is, afraid of the heat spreading from his gut to his chest like spilled oil.
“I’m fine,” he says, though he’s not so sure. His head feels lighter now, and he’s not certain he can keep driving much longer. But they need to put as much distance as possible between themselves and that gas station. He needs to keep his hands busy somehow.
Sam presses two fingers to Dean’s chin, gently freeing his lower lip from his teeth with his thumb. He wipes the blood from Dean’s mouth with the pad of his thumb.
Dean doesn’t have the strength to let go of the wheel and shove him away. He doesn’t have the desire to, either.
“Pull over,” Sam says.
Dean shakes his head again, more firmly this time. Stopping to patch himself up is a bad idea, and they both know it. The cops could still be on their tail, and they haven’t even crossed the state line yet. “We’re still too close,” he answers. “We can’t risk it.”
Sam lets go of his face and drops his hand to his own knee, his fist clenched around the bloodstained gauze. “At least let me drive,” he mutters.
Dean shrugs. That’s an even worse idea. Being stuck in a tiny box with Sam, his hands free and his eyes freer, is the last thing he needs right now. He’d rather take another bullet in the other arm.
“I’m fine, really,” he repeats, briefly turning to look at Sam, just as the headlights of an oncoming car sweep over him. His eyes are all pupil, there’s a scratch on his cheekbone, and he looks both exhausted and worried. All Dean wants to do is lean against him and close his eyes for a while.
“Let me make it to Iowa first,” he says, gripping the wheel tighter and shifting in his seat. “Please,” he adds, and there must be something desperate in his voice because Sam studies him for a long moment before nodding.
“Once we cross the state line, we stop at the first motel we see,” Sam says.
Dean licks his lips and nods. Sam snaps the first-aid kit shut and tosses it into the back seat.
Dean expects Sam to move back to the passenger seat, but instead, Sam stretches his arm behind Dean’s back and presses up against his side.
The whole drive to the motel, Sam fidgets with the sleeve of Dean’s shirt, and Dean soaks up Sam’s warmth. Maybe getting shot isn’t so bad after all.
Dean miscalculated. His aim was off, and now he’s two balls behind. He also thought he’d get used to the sight of his brother in a crop top after all this time. Wrong again.
Sam leans over the pool table, arm stretched across the green felt, fingers gripping the cue stick. Dean watches his side flex, his bare stomach brushing against the sleek black edge of the table. A shiver runs down Dean’s spine, and he quickly takes a long swig of beer.
Sam takes his shot, and the sound of another solid ball sinking into a pocket jolts Dean. He tears his eyes away from his brother’s exposed skin and forces himself to look at Sam’s face.
Sam grins, straightens up, and leans on the cue stick with a movement that twists something deep in Dean’s gut. “What’s up?” Sam asks, and Dean can’t tell if he’s genuinely clueless about what’s running through his head or if he’s just messing with him.
“When’d you get so good at this?” Dean grumbles, halfway through another gulp of beer.
Sam shrugs and twirls the cue stick in his fingers. He studies it for a moment before glancing up. “College isn’t all about studying.”
A low-hanging lamp above the pool table casts shadows that sharpen Sam’s features, making him look feline, dangerous. The way Sam’s eyes settle on him makes Dean feel like there’s a whole lot more behind that gaze than there should be.
Suddenly, Dean feels irritated and angry. And jealous. Jealous of the places Sam’s been, the people he’s met. He wants to know more but also to forget that time when Sam was gone, to pretend they were never apart, that Sam’s life has always been tangled up with his.
Dean swallows the bitter taste in his mouth and readies himself to shoot when a group of rowdy middle-aged men passes by their table.
Dean barely notices them until they stop at the pool table next to theirs, suddenly whispering and staring.
Sam steps sideways, placing himself between Dean and the men. His expression tightens as he says, “Your turn.”
Dean plays on autopilot, sinking a solid and a stripe, but his attention drifts back to the group nearby.
The men keep staring. At Sam, specifically. Their murmurs grow louder, setting Dean’s nerves on edge.
Sam ignores them, bends over the table again, and takes a sniper-precise shot. When he straightens, only the eight ball is left, while there are still three solids on the table.
Dean focuses on his brother, on the way the crop top sways above his hips as Sam circles the table, deciding on his next move.
Finally, Sam stops across from Dean, nods toward the nearest pocket, and quirks the corner of his mouth in a smug, almost cocky grin. The look raises every hair on Dean’s neck.
“How much you wanna bet I can sink it there?” Sam asks.
The eight ball is near the table’s right edge, the cue ball close to the bottom-left pocket. Dean points at the pocket Sam’s chosen, the top-center one. “You’d need a miracle,” he says.
Sam’s grin widens, but Dean’s eyes are locked on his brother’s shoulders as they dip low, his body nearly sprawled across the table, his bare back a stretch of pastel blue and golden skin.
Sam lines up the shot, his cue nestled between his thumb and forefinger, then glances up at Dean from beneath his lashes. “If I make it, you buy me a drink,” he says.
Dean raises an eyebrow. “I always buy you drinks, Sammy,” he replies. “Technically, tonight it’s some guy named Ben Solomon footing the bill.”
The beer bottle feels cool and solid in Dean’s grip, but it’s no match for the heat spreading through him when Sam’s dilated eyes meet his, intense and dark and bottomless. That’s when Dean gets it. Sam’s not asking for just a drink—he’s asking for an I-want-to-take-you-home kind of drink.
Dean leans against the table, swallowing hard. There’s a whole pool table between them, yet it feels like Sam is kneeling in front of him, his breath ghosting over Dean’s stomach.
“Sam…” Dean murmurs, but his brother’s already looking down, ready to take his shot.
That’s when it happens—raucous laughter and then a loud voice from the neighboring table, deliberately clear: “Since when do fags play pool?”
Dean stiffens, his head snapping toward the men like a predator zeroing in on prey.
A second later, Sam’s at his side, stepping between Dean and the group. He grips Dean’s forearm, his eyes searching his cautiously. “It’s fine, Dean,” Sam says.
Dean focuses on his brother’s face and notices a faint crease on his forehead. “Sammy,” he says softly. He wants to reach up, smooth it away with his thumb, and then push past Sam to take down every one of those guys.
“Let’s go,” Sam murmurs. His grip on Dean’s forearm tightens, a silent plea to get him to move.
Dean isn’t sure he wants to, but Sam is staring at him, eyes full of something Dean can’t quite name. Something that tugs at him.
“Fine,” he says eventually, letting Sam pull him along. “Let’s go.”
They step out of the bar, and the cool late-August air rushes to greet them. Dean stops just outside the door, taking a deep breath to steady himself.
Sam stays close, his fingers still pressed to Dean’s arm, his shoulder brushing against him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry they… that they thought you—that we—”
Dean looks up at him, and all he feels is a gaping hole in the center of his chest. Before he can stop himself, he grabs Sam by the shoulders and pushes him up against the wall.
Sam stares at him with wide, startled eyes, his chest rising and falling faster beneath the thin fabric of his crop top.
Dean looks at him for what feels like forever, his hands firm on Sam’s shoulders, pinning him there. He doesn’t think Sam would move even if Dean let go. He closes his eyes, trying to breathe slower, but every attempt catches in his throat. “Shit, I…” he mutters, lost and confused. His gaze flicks up to Sam again, and then he drops his head to Sam’s chest. He presses his forehead against his sternum like he wants to crawl inside and disappear.
Sam’s shirt smells like laundry detergent, and his hands are warm when they slide up to cradle Dean’s neck. “Dean… are you okay?”
Dean shakes his head, letting Sam tilt his face up to look at him.
“Is this about what happened back there? You know they weren’t talking about y—”
Dean shoves a hand into Sam’s chest, cutting him off. “I don’t give a damn, Sam.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. One of his hands comes up to cup Dean’s cheek, like he’s afraid Dean might crumble right in front of him. “Then what—”
Dean curses under his breath and crashes their mouths together, swallowing the rest of Sam’s question. The kiss is rough, messy, all teeth and desperation, and Sam gasps against his mouth, caught off guard.
Dean’s hand slides to Sam’s waist, his thumb brushing over bare skin. His tongue presses past Sam’s parted lips, claiming every inch he can reach. Sam’s fingers twist into the collar of Dean’s shirt, yanking him closer with a low, breathy sound that Dean’s never heard him make before.
“Sammy,” Dean breathes, his voice raw as his hands skim over Sam’s sides, gripping the soft skin just above his hips. His fingers dig in, and Sam lets out a muffled noise against his lips, something that’s half protest, half plea.
Sam’s arms wrap around him, his palms pressing against the small of Dean’s back, pulling them flush together.
Dean licks into Sam’s mouth, swallowing the taste of him like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. His head spins, buzzing with SammySammySammy, and he doesn’t notice the bar door swing open behind them until it slams shut again.
A moment later, Dean is yanked back by a rough shove, nearly knocked to the ground. He stumbles, turning to face the same group of men from earlier.
The one in the middle glares at them, his expression twisted with disgust. “Take your freak show somewhere else,” he sneers.
Dean freezes for a second, rage boiling up so fast it nearly blinds him. Before he knows it, he’s lunging forward.
Sam tries to step between them, but Dean’s already got the guy by the shirt, slamming a fist into his face. The man stumbles back, blood blooming from his nose, but he comes at Dean swinging.
Dean sidesteps, shoves him down with a knee to the back of his legs, and grabs a fistful of his hair. He yanks the guy’s head up, growling, “Why don’t you take your freak show somewhere else?”
The man doesn’t answer, so Dean smashes his face into the pavement. Blood drips onto the concrete, and Dean grins, satisfaction curling in his chest. He’s pulling back for another hit when a hand grips his shoulder.
“That’s enough,” Sam says, low and firm in his ear. His other hand settles on Dean’s hip, fingers digging into his skin. The touch makes Dean feel like Sam’s never really touched him before, not like this.
The other men hurry past them, one stopping to haul their friend to his feet. Within moments, the group disappears into the shadows.
The alley is dark, quiet now, and Dean’s forehead is damp with sweat. Sam’s hands haven’t moved, grounding him. “What the hell was that, Dean?”
Dean shrugs. “A punch. It’s a pretty well-known fighting technique.”
Sam rolls his eyes and steps closer, his hand sliding to the back of Dean’s neck, his fingers threading into his hair. He studies Dean for a long moment before leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. It’s barely a touch, but Dean feels like his chest is collapsing in on itself.
He steps forward, chasing the kiss, but Sam pulls back, letting him go. “Let’s get out of here,” Sam says.
Dean nods, falling into step behind him as they head toward the Impala. Halfway there, his hand drifts to Sam’s waist, slipping beneath his shirt.
Sam doesn’t say anything, but he leans closer, pressing their shoulders together as his fingers hook into Dean’s back pocket.
Dean’s heart pounds in his chest, so loud he’s surprised Sam can’t hear it. “For the record, you wouldn’t have made the shot,” he mutters.
Sam shoves him lightly. “You’re such a jerk,” he says, but he’s grinning ear to ear.
Dean walks him to the passenger side, and before Sam can open the door, Dean presses him back against the car. His hands spread across Sam’s stomach, brushing over soft, goosebump-covered skin, and Dean smirks.
“You’re not allowed to wear this thing anymore,” he says.
Sam huffs a laugh. “I knew you hated it.”
Dean leans in, burying his nose against Sam’s shoulder. He inhales, then bites softly at the fabric and skin beneath. “I want to tear it to shreds.”