“C’mon dude, we’re going out,” Dean says as he reaches over and smacks Sam across the back of his head, currently buried in some book or other, freaking thing as thick as his arm. Damn smart-ass kid, he’s gonna go somewhere, Dean thinks, and he grins past the ache as Sam yelps and jumps on the bed, head jerking forward. Dean gets a glare and a half-hearted punch for his trouble.
“Asshole,” Sam mumbles and he marks his place in the book with a worn bookmark the colour of rusted blood. Dean stares at it for a moment, thoughts caught on how that colour seems to be a permanent fixture in his life, trapped under his fingernails, a bitch to get out of his clothes. Blood splatter may look cool but it is not fun to clean up and it smells, deep, rich and overpowering. Toxic. Dean coughs, mentally shakes himself and then winks at his brother, ocean eyes looking at him expectantly.
He throws a thick, warm hoodie at Sam’s face, followed by a pair of woolly socks. There’s a wind outside and it’s pretty freaking cold this time of evening, big empty spaces surrounded by evergreen trees with no breakers or insulation. Dean laughs as Sam splutters and glares at him, a loud guffaw, belly rolling as anticipation thrums in his veins. He laughs even harder when Sam pops his head through the neck of the hoodie, floppy hair full of static and standing on end in several different directions, cowlick wilting and falling down over his forehead. He stands by the side of Sam’s bed and grabs his head in the crook of his elbow and drags him to his chest. Sam’s arms flail and windmill wildly, scrabbling to pull Dean off him, yelling curses and Dean can’t stop laughing, impossible warmth flooding through him when he feels Sam’s breath gusts against his chest, feeling it through the thin material of his t-shirt.
Sam gets his feet under him and launches himself off the bed, pushing the both of them to the floor in a loud thump and they roll, kicking and wrestling, mock punching. Sam’s laughing now too and Dean can barely breath, panting and giggling as Sam’s fingers find his ribs under his t-shirt and start to tickle him mercilessly.
“Cry Uncle,” he huffs against Dean’s ear, pinning him down with his freakishly long legs and the weight of his newly well-muscled sixteen year old frame. Dean shudders helplessly and pushes that reaction away.
“You fucker,” Dean gasps,” no fucking way, dickwad.”
Sam keeps his fingers right there against his ribs and brings his face up to look at Dean dead in the eye and then he smirks. Dean is panting harshly, heat flaring in his stomach, and still laughing uncontrollably, his hands and arms flopping around uselessly because he can’t seem to control them. God, he’s about to pass out from laughter. He bucks up against Sam, swallows his groan, and when it fails miserably, he grits out, “Uncle, you motherfucker.”
Sam keeps tickling him for a few moments longer and then rolls over to lie beside Dean as they catch their breath. He’s red in the face, sweating, and Dean knows he doesn’t look any better, pupils blown, gasping for air like a fish out of water. Thank God, Dad isn’t home, he wouldn’t have allowed this and he would never have allowed Dean to take Sam out for the night to do something stupid and illegal.
Speaking of, Dean clambers up onto his feet and smacks Sam in the stomach, grinning mischievously at the puff of air that leaves his mouth and the death glare he gets from Sam. He grabs his own hoodie, making sure the plastic bag is still in the front pocket, grin growing wider when he hears the tell-tale rustle. He also grabs the comforter that was in a messy bundle at the end of his bed. He leans against the entrance of the bedroom while Sam pulls on his well-worn boots, whistling the tune of ‘Ramble On’.
As they pass through the kitchen on their way out, Dean plucks a lighter from one of the duffels on the table and ignores the questioning look Sam gives him. They clamber into the Impala, doors swinging shut and Sam keeps shooting him questioning looks, combined with his trademark bitchface, but Dean can still see the small smile hidden in the corner of mouth and so he pretends he can’t hear the plaintive cries of “Dean, where are we fucking going?” over the roar of the engine and the sound of Led Zeppelin.
Ten minutes later, Dean pulls off the road and into an empty field, a big stretch of land surrounded by absolutely nothing except the occasional tree. There is nobody for miles and miles, no car on the deserted back country road. He keeps the engine running so that the music can keep playing, echoing through the night, like a soundtrack to Dean’s life. Keep on keeping on.
“Dean, will you finally fucking tell me what is going on?” Sam whines, following Dean as he clambers out of the car.
“Dude, might wanna wash that dirty mouth out with soap.” Dean replies.
Dean rolls his eyes. Of course Sam would say that, the whiny little bitch. Dean takes his hoodie out from the backseat and puts it on, relishing the sudden warmth, and then pulls the six-pack from behind the front seat, watching with glee as Sam’s eyes light up.
“Awesome, man!” Sam reaches out to give Dean a high five and he huffs out, “Dork” before returning it and then handing a beer to Sam. He gulps down half the thing while he goes to sit on the hood of the Impala and Dean can’t help but to snort. Sam hears it and glances over at him, eyebrow quirked up.
“A bit eager much, Sam?”
It’s Sam’s turn to roll his eyes and snort and Dean walks around to the front of the Impala, stopping to stand right in front of Sam, pulling the plastic bag out of his front pocket, dangling it in Sam’s face. Sam chokes on his beer and nearly spits it out.
“Weed? What? Where the fuck did you get that, Dean?”
“Sam, you know I never reveal my sources!” Dean waggles his eyebrows at Sam and winks. “Wanna get high?”
Almost an hour later, Sam is lying splayed out on the dusty ground, giggling manically, and Dean is sitting beside him, back against the front right tire of the Impala, transfixed by the way his little brother is squirming, writhing, pink mouth wide open, the bow of his lips catching the light of the moon. There is a strange buzzing under his skin, more intense than the usual high he gets from weed. Maybe it was a bad batch. Maybe he shouldn’t have mixed it with the beer. But he can’t stop staring, his own mouth hanging open, having forgotten what was so funny, why Sam is laughing, and he can’t stop staring, hands clenching into muscle of his thighs. Maybe this had been a bad idea. A really fucking bad idea. God, he was so stupid, all those ideas and thought springing into his mind’s eye, everything he’d pushed down, but it’s all flooding back. He’s so fucking turned on right now and he feels sick to his stomach.
Dean watches as Sam’s jeans get covered in mud and dust and grass stains, a regular occurrence but this time the cause is so innocent, a young boy, a little brother playing around, not running from something evil and terrible and horrifying and then falling to the ground, arms raised to fight it off and it rips open the flesh along your upper arm - -
He knows he’s panting in fear, he can’t help it, the buzz under his skin turning into something wrong and his hand wraps around that old scar from the wound he’d gotten when he was Sam’s age and he’s so fucking horny and scared and he just feels wrong. He groans and his eyes slip closed, fluttering helplessly. He slides sideways to the ground, dizzy and nauseous, retching feebly into the dust. He feels warm hands cup his face gently and press his forehead, can feel a warm breath ghost across his cheek.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice sounds scared and worried and careful, cracking in several places but soft against the rushing in Dean’s ears. Dean feels delirious and sick, swirling patterns on the back of his eyelids and his hands are really cold, really fucking cold. He pushes words out of his sloppy moving mouth. “’M hands are fucking cold.”
Sam’s large hands, God, Dean thinks, when did they get so big, move from his face and grip Dean’s own, rubbing them until Dean can feel them again. He smiles faintly and flickers his eyes open and Sam is right there, cat eyes wide open, big with fear but luminous in the half-light.
“Hey Dean,” he says softly,” you okay? Please say you’re okay.”
Dean grins up at Sam blearily. “Just feeling sick, man, no biggie. Too much beer.” He blinks rapidly because Sam is still so close to him, big and tall and so beautiful.
“Yeah,” Sam replies, eyes weary and hesitant.
“Stop growing, okay? Just - - you keep growing and I don’t know how to deal with a grown baby brother.”
Sam looks really, really confused but slightly relieved that Dean doesn’t seem to be getting any worse but he does kinda feel like puking his guts out so the jury is still out on that one.
“Hell, when did you get so pretty, Sam? I turn around for two seconds and then you’re all pretty and sexy as hell. It’s distracting.” Dean smiles beatifically up at him, all teeth and wide eyes. He feels better now, like something heavy has been sitting on his chest for too many years, making it hard to breathe and hard to move.
And then Sam kisses him, slow and lazy and full of promise, nipping gently at Dean’s lower lip and then tugging, sucking it into his mouth. Dean makes a surprised noise that turns into a loud moan as Sam licks into his mouth, tongue hot and wet and slick. Sam’s hands come back up to cup his face as Dean’s arms wrap around his shoulders and pulls him down on top of him. Sam’s body fits perfectly against his, angles slotting together, and Dean moves his hands to cup Sam’s ass, Sam groaning at the contact, little puffs of air that brush Dean’s mouth in a tantalising caress.
Sam pushes his knee between Dean’s and up, Dean grinding down on it and God, yes, right there, sparks rushing down his spine, vision going hazy. He is too stoned for this, too woozy but he won’t stop, he wants to never stop, hips thrusting up to meet his brothers and he can feel Sam’s hard cock brush his own, the contact amazing even through their jeans, and they moan together, rutting against each other faster now, desperation tingeing their movements.
Dean moves his hands under Sam’s jeans, reaching down to cup his bare ass, skin hot and soft, Dean’s grip turning bruising as Sam fucking growls into his mouth.
“Yes, Dean, God, yes, like that. Faster. Fucking faster - - oh, God.”
And suddenly, Dean’s right on the edge, pleasure building higher and higher, winding him up tighter and tighter, and he’s going to come in his fucking jeans like a teenager and it’s so fucking perfect. The heat in his stomach and thighs burns even brighter and something snaps inside Dean and he’s coming, arching up into Sam’s thrusting hips, high whine swallowed by Sam’s bruising, brutal kiss.
“Oh, God, Sam!” Dean chokes out and then Sam bites into the juncture between neck and shoulder, making his own helpless groans and moans, hips stuttering and pushing into Dean’s, drawing out Dean’s own orgasm. He can feel warmth spread though Sam’s jeans and then Sam flops down heavily on him, driving all the air out of his lungs.
Dean gulps in breath after breath as Sam pants heavily into his neck and they both come down slowly, Dean feeling limp and lethargic, losing all feeling in his fingers and toes. He stares up at the open sky instead of saying something, mind trying to take this all in and failing. He can’t think about this. He can’t do it. He just gazes at the stars, running his fingers through Sam’s hair, his other hand still tucked under the waistband of Sam’s jeans, resting against the bare skin there.
Sam eventually stirs, lifting himself up to place a quick, chaste kiss on Dean’s lips before saying, “Hey Dean?”
“Yeah,” Dean answers, voice gruff and rough around the edges.
“No beer, next time we do this, m’kay?”
Sam’s grin is brighter than the stars gathered in the patch of sky behind his head and Dean knows his answering grin is just as bright.
“Sure thing, Sam. Perhaps less clothes as well?”
Dean swallows the surprised moan Sam makes and they make out lazily under the stars until they both start shivering, moving to the warmth of the back seat of the Impala, where they stay until the early morning light creeps through the window.