Title: Helping Hand
Author: Rose Ganymede
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Category: Wincest
Word Count: 1635
Spoilers: post-”Children Shouldn’t Play With Dead Things”
Summary: Broken arms can get in the way of more than just the hunt. But Dean, as always, has got his brother's back.
Notes/Warnings: cyndrarae hurt her hand recently, and so to cheer her up, I offered her a fic of her choice; she asked for one " about Sam/Jared's broken hand and Dean being.. well, Dean," and here it is, just in time for her birthday :) Happy birthday, hun! And my apologies to everyone for the cheesiest title ever ;)
Disclaimer: Borrowed with great love and appreciation from Kripke, Singer, the CW, and all the rest. No harm or profit intended - just giving the Winchester brothers another place to play.



Dean wakes up early for once, and it’s not even to the smell of Sam waving coffee under his nose. No, but Sam is up, so to speak, awake apparently - Dean can tell by the sounds of his breathing, heavier than when he’s sleeping, quicker, and then there’s the soft rustling of sheets. Dean stifles a laugh, considers interrupting with a carefully timed comment, decides instead to go back to sleep. This is hard, though - literally, and again, Dean amazes himself at his master of wit and holding in laughter. Sam sure was taking a while, and maybe he was milking it, so to speak (fuck, but Dean almost lets one out at that one - am a genius), but no, that curse under his brother’s breath didn’t sound like an Oh, shit, that feels good, and that sigh? Not one of contentment. It was all coming together now. Well, not for Sammy - God, I kill myself.

“Need some help over there, Sammy?” Dean eases himself up onto his elbows just as Sam nearly jumps out his skin, bumping his broken arm with a sharp intake of breath. He hastily pulls the sheets up to his chin, as if that could hide everything, and turns to glare at his brother. Dean, in turn, simply waggles his eyebrows lecherously.

“I don’t think even you’re that much of a sexual deviant, Dean.” It’s hard to take Sam seriously, however; that red blush on his face takes away all the force of the daggers his eyes are shooting at Dean. And shit, if that hadn’t been the wrong thing to say, Sam realizes - by the look in Dean’s eyes, he was taking Sam’s words as a challenge.

“Oh, really? I’m the…the deviant? And you’re not at all?” Dean snorts, shifting to a sitting position on the bed. “I think we have proof positive here that that’s not true.” He smirks and swings his legs over the edge.

Sam shakes his head, waving his hands in protest. “This isn’t deviancy, Dean - it’s inevitable. And none of your business.” He flips Dean the finger and turns back on his side. He doesn’t hear Dean moving, knows his brother is still staring at him. “Dude, I think I’ve got it under control here.”

Dean lets out a loose, easy laugh; god, but it irks Sam. “Well, I don’t exactly wanna listen to you practing ambi…dextriousness all morning.”

Normally, that would’ve been pretty funny, but Sam is already quite frustrated this morning, thank you. “Then go back to bed, jerk.”

“Jerk.” Dean snickers. “You know, Sammy,” he begins, and then Dean os sliding stealthily out of bed, and Sam only realizes that Dean has joined him when the mattress dips under his older brother’s weight. Sam refuses to turn around; maybe Dean will just get bored and go away. He isn’t backing down here; surely Dean will first. Because yes, now Dean is snaking an arm around his waist, and no, he will not move; Sam will not give Dean the satisfaction of freaking him out.

Dean’s breath ghosts at Sam’s ear suddenly, and he feels Sam shudder. His hand has found his brother’s thigh, and Sam’s leg twitches. Dean chuckles darkly, his voice coming out lower, huskier than usual. “I think you’re just afraid, Sam. Afraid that you might be wrong.”

The way Dean says the word, Sam wondered just which way his brother means it. Dean’s thumb has begun to tease at the seam of Sam’s boxers , running over his thigh in soft, slow circles. Sam’s voice comes out cracked and choked.

“Dean, what are you doing?”

“I can stop at any time, Sammy,” but Dean’s touch remains. “Just say the word.”

Sam gulps, deciding something, forcing the words to come out stronger, louder. “Don’t have to. You…you can’t do this, Dean.”

Sam can feel his brother’s smirk stretch across his lips, lips that had fallen so very close to Sam’s neck.

“Oh? Is that what you really think? See, Sammy, that’s where we’re so different, you and me. You’re always thinking with that upstairs brain of yours, and I’m,” and here Dean’s hand slides to the inside of Sam’s thigh, gripping it tightly, “not.”

“Dean,” Sam warns.

/>“Just tell me, Sam.”

But Sam won‘t, and Dean knows it. And okay, maybe Dean’s rethinking this move for a moment here, but they’d started this, and he wasn’t backing down, not from a job he started…not from a job he could finish.

After all, Sammy’s his responsibility, right? Dean almost lets out a laugh at the twisted logic of that. What’s a little hand job between brothers? Really, in their lives, they’d done worse things. Weirder things. Right? And this?

This will feel good at least; it’ll be good for Sammy. Dean sucks in a deep breath and searches out the bulge in his brother’s shorts with only slightly trembling hands. Sam bucks against him - out of desire, surprise, fear, neither are sure. Dean calms him, pushing Sam back down, palming him through the thin fabric before he pulls his brother out. Sam moans a little, and fuck, if that doesn’t make something stir inside Dean - out loud, he just laughs. Whispers in Sam’s ear. “I got ya, Sammy. Hey, I got ya.”

Sam moans again as Dean’s hands begin to move - his right around Sam, left holding down his brother’s leg. Dean marvels at the feel, the quiver of Sam’s thigh, the thick pulse of Sam’s dick. It’s heavy with blood, flushed red and curved up in Dean’s hand; feels so different and yet so familiar, so right and yet so strange. His thumb begins to work its way around Sam’s slit, smearing the pre-cum around it so Sam’s gasping, and all of a sudden, Dean feels a bit short of breath himself. Sam rocks into him, needing the friction of Dean’s hand. Dean curls warm, calloused fingers around his brother and starts to stroke. Slow at first, long and deliberate, and Sam’s moaning is a constant now, and so is the feeling in Dean’s stomach. He’s uncomfortably aware now of the bulge in his own shorts, nudging up against his brother’s ass, but best not to think about that now. Can’t think, no, and Dean’s tugging roughly now, insistently, and Sam’s eyes have finally met his, his head turned enough just so that lips almost touch lips, and the look in Sam’s eyes, all pupil and wide…

“Sammy,” Dean moans, and Sam doesn’t mind the way he says that name now, not at all. The urgency, the need, the want, the love - it’s all there, in two drawn out syllables, one low, drawled out word. The only one Dean needs to say, the one that means everything, and Sam can barely manage a response, but a gasp of a “Dean“ comes out just as Sam comes, shooting all over Dean’s palm.

Sam feels like a rag doll in his arms now, if that’s all possible - a fucking heavy rag dog - all limp and loose in Dean’s arms, and sure, maybe it’s kind of weird, but maybe it’s kind of nice too. They don’t get to touch like this much anymore, like they used to. Well, not that they used to touch quite like this, and Dean shudders - I am not a friggin’ pedophile. But he’d missed holding Sam, feeling warm and safe with his arms around his kid brother, knowing he had him, he could take care of him, they had each other…

Dean is startled out of his reverie by a groan from Sam, who has twisted in Dean’s arms so that they’re facing. His face is unguarded as always, a steady stream of emotions parading across it, and then there’s this awkward smile, and Sam’s gaze has shifted pointedly to…

Oh. Dean’s shifting so that he’s no longer poking his brother in the side, and he offers a sheepish grin. “One good turn deserves another, right?” Dean almost laughs at how fast his brother’s eyes go shocked and wide.

“No! Dean, no!” Sam shifts away further, but he’s on the edge of the bed now, all weak and spent, and he’s no match for Dean.

“Oh, c’mon, Sammy,” he wheedles, the soft grin a thousand watts now, and Dean is wondering in the back of his head if the same moves that work on chicks work on…Sam. “Help a brother out.” Sam sucks in a deep breath and sort of laughs.

“Dean,” he repeats, gesturing to his cast with his one, good hand.

“Well,” Dean muses, then licks at his lips. Sam looks like he just choked on his own tongue. He shakes his head. “No. No way. Dude, seriously.”

“Seriously,” Dean agrees, smirking. He tries for the pleading puppy dog eyes Sam’s known for, wonders if that wrinkle in his brother’s forehead means he’s landed it. “Oh, c’mon, Sammy. Bet you…$50.”

Sam lets out a bark of a laugh. “Dean, I’m not a prostitute.” He smirks, and there’s that roll of heat in Dean’s gut again. “And I don’t take credit cards. From strange men.”

Dean looks a bit surprised at that for a moment, then shrugs. He rolls over in the bed, away, and Sam thinks maybe he’s…relieved? But then Dean’s rolled back again, wallet in hand, and okay, Sam forgot about the hustling from the night before.

“Dean…”

“Sammy…”

And yeah, okay, he was really getting used to the way Dean said his name.