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Dean had hated his reading glasses when Sam first bullied him into getting them. It wasn’t so much that they made him feel old, or that he worried they made him less attractive–Sam had disabused him of that notion immediately and very, very thoroughly the day they arrived in the mail. It’s that they remind him that he’s only four years older than Sam, and if he is getting old enough to need them then Sam--
Not going there.
Sam is going to live forever if Dean has anything to say about it, and after all these years of hunting ghosts and demons and angels, well. He just might, at that. And if he can’t call in a favor or three, there’s this place. The Bunker. Filled to the brim with more books on magic and spells and magical equipment and experiments than any one man could ever possibly hope to read or use, although Dean has spent years giving it his best shot…which is probably why he needed reading glasses in the first place.
He doesn’t mind the glasses so much anymore, just one more tool in his quest. And–he’ll never admit this to Sam–he kind of likes it when he can look up from whatever he’s reading to where Sam is cleaning their guns or sharpening their knives while he’s wearing them. He maybe kind of likes the way they soften Sam’s edges a little. Hide the wrinkles and the gray hairs and the scars and let Dean pretend that Sam’s still the gorgeous young tech support flunky he’d met at Sandover all those years ago, eager to please and desperate to understand the energy crackling between them.
Sam’s true talents had lain elsewhere, of course–in hunting, and in fucking Dean senseless every chance they got–and Dean has never regretted running away with him. Best decision he’d ever made, and he’d do it again in a heartbeat. He smiles, thinking about the shocked look on “Mr. Adler"s face when Sam shot him with the gun he’d paid a small fortune for on eBay. The angel had been ranting about the two of them being brothers, which was absurd, though from what Dean’s learned since it’s possible that some other version of them living on some other world, in some other dimension might well be. He envies that version of Sam and Dean a little, if they’re also like him and Sam–he’s greedy, he wants to tie Sam to him every way he can.
“Hey.”
Sam takes the book from his hand and studies the spine. “Magickal Secrets To A Long And Healthy Life,” he reads, and shakes his head with a gentle smile. He’s aware, peripherally, of Dean’s quest–it’s one of those things they’ve agreed not to talk about beyond establishing that Dean’s not allowed to harm himself to help Sam. “You make sure you take that to heart, old man,” he teases, and leans down to kiss Dean, sweet and slow.
“Who are you calling old?” Dean protests, more out of habit than true indignation. He watches Sam mark his page in the book and set it on the table, and when Sam holds out a hand to pull him up and into his arms, he takes it gladly.
“Come to bed?” A whisper, pushed into his mouth and kissed into the hollow of his throat where Sam’s favorite trio of freckles live.
“Best offer I’ve had since this morning,” Dean says when he can breathe again. He’s not even slightly ashamed of the way he’s clinging to Sam’s shoulders, or that Sam must be able to feel how much he wants.
“Mmm…” Without warning, Sam’s hands slide down to his ass and lift, leaving Dean with no choice but to quickly wrap his legs around Sam’s waist. “That was a long time ago, I better refresh your memory now that you’ve hit the big five-o,” Sam says, still teasing in that way he has that really means I love you. “They say memory is the first thing to go.”
“Shut up and fuck me,” Dean grumbles, and Sam laughs all the way to their room.