#ended up with less contact more UST instead lmao

[weaksspot]

early seasons bath time for @demongirlmeg :-) (read on ao3)

Dean’s arm is fucked up, worse than just tape-a-plastic-bag-over-it-and-shower-anyway fucked up—his wrist and several fingers got smashed pretty bad and a whole lot of skin got torn off when he was dragged what felt like a hundred miles an hour down a stretch of asphalt by a screaming spirit, so now he’s all wrapped up in splints and bandages and a course of antibiotics to counter any infection from the god damn dirt and gore that got smeared into the road rash—and Sam is trying to wrangle him into a bath.

Because of course they got the motel room with the busted shower, and of course there aren’t any other rooms available. Of course they got the last one.

“You cannot get into bed like this,” Sam’s saying, in that voice he uses when he thinks Dean’s being bratty. “You’re filthy and you stink, Dean, and you have to let me clean your face up anyway. You’re still bleeding.”

“It’s a head wound. Head wounds do that,” Dean says, churlish. He knows he’s whining but he can’t help it; he’s woozy from the adrenaline of the hunt ebbing out of him and from the painkillers the nurse gave him. The side of his face is glowing hot where the skin is all raw. He had to let Sam drive them back to the motel. He wants to go to sleep.

“Look—I’ll put fucking bubbles in it, if you want, but you need to take a bath.”

Dean groans.

“Dean.”

He looks up at Sam, standing over him, his too big baby brother, arms folded and eyebrows raised.

“I’m serious.”

“I ain’t a stray dog.”

“Well, you smell like one,” Sam says, and reaches out and gets his hands under Dean’s arms to haul him up, and there’s no fighting him.

The bathroom is blurry with steam, the air hot. Sam crouches down and unties Dean’s shoelaces for him and then looks like he’s about to go for his belt too so Dean kicks him with his socked foot, scoots him back across the tile a little bit and Sam just snort-laughs and says fine, if you think you don’t need my help. Dean fumbles his belt and jeans open himself, one-handed, and waits for Sam to slide round and face the other way before he actually strips. It’s not that he’s self-conscious. Obviously not. Sometimes it’s just—sometimes it’s just.

He makes it to the bathtub all by himself, leans hard on his good hand as he lowers himself in. It’s almost too hot. Just this side of bearable. Sam looks over again when he hears Dean sink up to his neck, groaning. His fucked up arm dangles useless over the edge of the tub, now and then producing a warm throb of pain.

“Good?” Sam sounds so pleased with himself, the little fucker. Dean closes his eyes and lets the water lap at his chin and doesn’t answer.

Sweetheart that he is, Sam sits there quietly and just lets Dean soak for a good five minutes before he says anything else. But then what he says is: “I’m gonna wash your hair.” Dean’s eyes snap open, and he stares over the side of the tub as Sam shifts onto his knees and shuffles across the scant space.

“I don't need you to wash my damn hair,” he says, but he takes so long to say it that Sam is already shrugging out of his flannel, leaning his elbows onto the edge of the bath. Dean surreptitiously closes his legs where they’d been splayed open, mindlessly comfortable.

“You gonna do it yourself, with one hand?” Sam has his eyebrows raised like he’s being perfectly reasonable. Dean scowls at him.

“Of course I can do it with one hand,” he grumbles. “Just—” he struggles into sitting up a bit more, skin squeaking on the plastic, and sticks his hand out. “Gimme some soap.”

“Shampoo,” Sam corrects him. One eyebrow goes a little higher than the other.

“Whatever. Jesus. They’re the same thing.”

It’s the heat of the water, and of the torn skin, that’s making Dean’s face so warm. Not how close Sam is, kneeling there fully dressed while Dean’s just. In here.

“No they’re not,” Sam tells him, all calm, but there’s a bit of pink in his cheeks, too. In the tip of his nose. He’s the only person in the world that Dean’s ever seen who blushes in the tip of his nose, like he has a cold.

Still—Sam produces a little travel bottle of shampoo, holds it up and squeezes a blob of it into Dean’s hand like he’d asked, and then sits back and watches the ensuing pathetic attempt to scrub it into his hair. He does it, but, Jesus—with the painkillers and the ache in his shoulders and sheer exhaustion, it’s hard. Dean drops his sudsy hand into the water and lets his head clunk back against the bath and glares at the ceiling. Shampoo trickles into the scraped up side of his face, and it stings.

After a minute, Sam says, “You gonna let me help?”

“No,” Dean mumbles. Then he closes his eyes again, and says: “…fine.”

There’s some quiet shuffling beside him, and then Sam’s hand, gentle, on his forehead. Smoothing his hair back, and then—scrubbing, at the crown of his head, just like Dean does himself every time he washes his hair but God, it feels real different when it’s someone else. When it’s Sammy. Dean drops his chin to his chest, eyes tight shut, teeth pressed together, but he can’t do anything about the shiver that goes through him when Sam’s nails scrape softly behind his each ear, over the nape of his neck. A fingertip running along the curve of his ear where blood had stuck and dried.

“Okay?” Sam asks, real low. Real close.

“Shut up,” Dean whispers into his knees.

“Put your head back,” Sam murmurs, and Dean does but slowly, reluctant, eyes still closed. One of Sam’s big hands comes up to cup his hairline, keeping the shampoo from getting into his eyes, as he scoops up palmfuls of water with the other to rinse it out. It’s so careful, so gentle, and it’s exactly what Dean used to do for him when he was little, too little to do it himself. For a second he can’t breathe quite right.

Sam’s hands fall away and Dean opens his eyes. His brother is just sitting there leaning on the edge of the tub like everything is fine and normal, except that his face is almost as red as Dean’s own is.

“We used to do this the other way round,” Dean says. “I used to wash your hair.”

He feels lightheaded. From the painkillers, probably. The adrenaline. The way Sam is looking at him, too steady. Sam’s t-shirt is damp and sticking to his chest. “You had so much damn hair. Never let anybody cut it ’cept me, and when I did you used to scream bloody murder if I snipped off more than the tiniest goddamn bit.” He’s rambling. He shuts his mouth.

Sam is smiling, just slightly. There’s a little smear of blood across his left cheekbone and in this light his eyes look dark. “I remember.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Sam nods. Still looking at him with all that focus. Dean watches him suck his lip between his teeth and feels his dick twitch. He looks away. Breathes out slowly.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice is low and rough.

Dean shakes his head and doesn’t look at him, can’t look at him, because if he does—if he does. He lifts his not-fucked hand out of the water and rubs it over his face, squeezes hard at his temples. “If I don’t get out of this tub in a minute I’m gonna pass out and drown.”

His brother doesn't say anything for five unsteady breaths. Dean counts them, for something to concentrate on. Then he moves, stands up, and Dean keeps his eyes forward, right forward, does not even think about how if he turned his head he’d be at just the right height to—

“I’ll get you a towel,” Sam says, and Dean swallows the spit that's gathered under his tongue, and mumbles, “thanks, Sammy.”