john gets fourteen-year-old sammy a protection charm to keep in his pocket. it's supposed to heat up when he's in danger, which in sam's opinion, is about as helpful as having a personal alarm that only goes off once he's already been shot, and he tells john this pointedly.
john just says it'll give him and dean a few extra seconds to get their guards up--hit them with their fists up instead of unawares. dean thinks it's a great idea and implores sam to keep it. sam shrugs. it's about the size and width of a half-dollar, bronze in colour, and unobtrusive in his jeans pocket, so he keeps it on him.
sam and dean are left alone in the motel room while john prowls a nearby bar for info, and sam and dean are sprawled across the two beds. sam is reading a book on his back, holding the book above his head. the sleeves of his jacket gape and settle down near his elbows, a few sizes too large. his hair is mussed on the pillows, and he chews on his lip absently as he reads. dean is on his stomach on the other bed, ostensibly reading a magazine, but his eyes are riveted to the sliver of sam's stomach where his shirt has ridden up.
the skin is smooth and never-seen-sun pale, a little mole next to his navel that drives dean a little crazy. his eyes glaze over as he imagines hooking a finger underneath sam's shirt and skimming a hand up his stomach. would he squirm, like when dean tickled him? would he arch into it? or instead, dean pulling the rough denim waistband of his jeans down, instead, hooking a thumb into the belt loop. fuck, he wouldn't even have to unbutton the pants--they're his own hand-me-downs, and the waistband gapes a bit on sam's narrow hips. dean--
sam yelps, and drops the book. it clatters to the floor, and dean jerks to attention, hiding his guilty half-mast against the mattress as sam begins to squirm. he fumbles at his waistband, and for a blinding moment, dean thinks he's going to pull his jeans right off those hips, that he heard dean--but sam fumbles in his pockets and comes out with the protection charm. he flings it down on the mattress and shakes his hand like it's burned.
"fuck!" he hisses, "that almost burned a hole straight through my pants!"
the charm bounces to a stop on the mattress, no longer bronze but red-hot.
"just now?" dean asks, heartbeat in his throat and mouth bone-dry.
sam is still shaking his hand out, staring at the charm on the bed. "yeah," he says. he casts a look around the motel room. "unless it thinks a paper-cut is a nuclear-level threat, it must be defective."
but it's not, dean knows. there is only one danger that poses a threat to sam in this room. and the charm fucking knows it. he gets up, puts his shoes on, and stumbles out of the motel room without another word.