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Wes: Karma, brother. For all those times I walked in on you and PJ fucking.

PJ: Won’t happen if you don’t visit, Wes. Problem solved!

Idiots.

I silence my notifications and return the phone to my back pocket. Just in time for⁠—

“No!” Dean shoots up to a sitting position, his eyes flying open in the middle of the scream.

At first, he doesn’t notice me standing here by his bed. His gaze is unfocused. Sightless. His breath saws in and out.

He runs his hands through his blond hair before falling back again. His head hits the pillow with a quiet thump. One hand presses against his chest, as if he can keep his heart from flying out. Right now I know it’s going a mile a minute and he’s willing it to calm down. He’s got his eyes squeezed shut, as if he can make what he just saw disappear by thinking hard enough.

“Bad dream?”

“Fuck.” His eyes fly open again. Tears cling to his lashes as he studies me in the glow of the little cat night-light his daughter picked out for him. “Mike.”

He stares at me.

I stare at him.

For a minute he holds out on me, even though we both know he’ll crack first. We both know what he’s going to do.

Sure enough, he slides over to the far side of the double bed, pulling the sheets back as he goes. He’s wearing a loose pair of basketball shorts and nothing else. Orange. I hate the color orange.

“Those shorts are ugly.”

“School colors,” he murmurs. “You know that.”

“Take them off.”

He hesitates. Why does he even bother?

My hand goes to his cheek, brown skin against beige as I rub gentle circles. “Dean. You want me to make it better, don’t you?”

“You know I do.”

“Then take the shorts off.”

They snag on his erection as he pushes them down and kicks them to the floor. When he reaches for me, I slap his hand away.

“You need to earn it.”

His Adam’s apple bobs with a thick swallow. “I know.”

“But you still want it.”

“Yes.”

“You need it.” Not a question. We both know.

“Yes.”

“Beg me.”

“Please, Mike.”

“Even though you don’t deserve it?”