It's always been habit to sleep with a weapon in reach. Dean's used to a pillow with the hard bump of a knife under it; often wakes from a good night's sleep (he's no fucking princess and a blade's no fucking pea) to find the hilt warm in his hand.
He used to put his hand someplace lower and even warmer a few minutes later, if he heard Sam showering and knew he'd got time. Used to.
The knife's always under the pillow now, where it's handy.
Dean's blood isn't demon blood, but it quiets Sammy down some. He doesn't need much; a small nick that bleeds red and turns to a white scar in time. Sam sucks and laps, eager, hungry and Dean, shamed for both of them, turns his head aside and runs his hand through Sam's hair, grabbing a handful eventually and hauling Sam off him.
Spreading his legs for Sam afterward, when Sam's raring to go, juiced up and smiling, is worse. Shouldn't be, but it is.
Maybe he'll ask Sam to at least brush his fucking teeth before he kisses Dean's mouth and cock, leaving Dean's blood smeared all over him on the outside, where it doesn't belong, red and cool and sticky.
But Sam's not listening to him much these days.
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