Here’s the playlist for the fic.
Six A.M., a little too early for Dean’s liking, but when Sam was set on something and equipped with those fucking stupid dewy eyes, Dean couldn’t exactly say no, could he?
Dean’s grumbling stopped when Sam stepped out of the bathroom, looking decidedly uncomfortable and blushing redder than hell.
Dean realized he was staring when Sam’s hands moved to his hips.
“My face is up here, Dean,” he said, glowering.
“Oh, uh, right. Sorry. I just… Damn,” Dean commented, reaching back to scratch his neck in embarrassment.
Dean was dressed similarly to Sam, but fuck. Sam wore those skinny jeans really, really well. His legs just seemed to go on and on forever, and Dean wouldn’t mind spending years looking at them, no matter how much Sam bitched.
Sam’s leather jacket fit snugly, and it made him look thinner and lithe, but still not someone you’d wanna mess with. It was zipped most of the way shut, but you could see just a bit of one of Dean’s older black ‘Zeppelin shirts– Sam still hadn’t gained all of his weight back from the trials. His scuffed up boots had been replaced with a newer, black pair. Around his neck, he wore Dad’s dog tags, and nestled in the crook of his right arm was a shiny black motorcycle helmet with a “STANFORD” bumper sticker taped to the back.