Dean flirts with girls all the time.
Sometimes it’s because he thinks she smells good, or he likes the way her earrings sparkle, or he thinks she has kind eyes. Sometimes he doesn’t mean to, it just happens when Dean’s natural charm takes over, and she’s giggling before he realizes he’s made a joke.
And sometimes, Dean flirts with girls because he likes what it does to Sam. He picks one who’s Sam’s exact opposite, someone short, nothing but curves, who’s more interested in finding out if Dean owns a motorcycle than having a real conversation. Dean wouldn’t mind that kind of girl in his bed for a night, in all honesty, but Sam isn’t having it.
“Let’s go, Dean,” Sam snarls, not touching, but close enough at Dean’s back that Dean can feel his heat. Close enough that the girl backs away as her eyes widen in fear, or understanding, or both.
Dean follows Sam out to the Impala without a word, just a small graze of his fingers on the back of Sam’s neck before they get in the car.
Two seconds after they pull out of the parking lot, Sam’s sucking at Dean’s neck, fingers shaking with pent up aggression as he fumbles with Dean’s belt.
It’s all Dean can do to keep the car between the lines when Sam leans down and sucks Dean into his mouth. Dean doesn’t have to ask. He can feel it with every confident slide of Sam’s tongue, can hear it with each of Sam’s labored breaths.
“She didn’t have what you need. I do.”
And Sam’s silent words are right.
No one else can make Dean rock hard with a look. No one else can pull Dean away from a truly spectacular pair of breasts.
And no one could ever make Dean come as hard as he does when it’s Sam’s lips drawing it out of him.