It turns out it really is a long story, especially since Dean makes Sam run through it twice, and then a third time just for good measure, while Dean digests every word and considers what their options are.
He's still thinking, digesting, whatever – and Sam's still rambling on about how the hell (which is funny, sort of) they're going to find Crowley anyway – when his stomach growls. Right after that, Sam's stomach rumbles, like it's answering Dean's.
It's enough to change the direction of their thoughts, at least for a few minutes, and for Dean to notice the sun's started downward; it'll be dark in less than a hour. Stupid fall and stupid shorter days.
"Got a preference?" Dean asks, watching highway signs sliding past. He's in the mood for a steak, some beer, and a bed. A shower somewhere in there would be nice, too.
"Long as it's not fast food, I don't care." Sam's rifling through the journal – Dean wonders when did it stop being 'Dad's journal', and just start being 'the journal'? – and glances back up at him. "Dean?"
"Huh? Oh—yeah. Okay, no fast food. Take out okay?"
"Fine." Sam's already squinting down at whatever it is he's trying to read up, so Dean takes the next exit that advertises food and lodging signs, and guides the Impala into the parking lot of the first motel he spots. Okay, room, shower, dinner. That'll work, too.
"They're partners," he says quietly, as he puts the car in park and turns it off. The engine ticks over, sounding loud in the sudden quiet.
"Partners? Who?" Sam's tucking the journal back into the glove box, and he looks over at Dean, one eyebrow raised in confusion.
"The dudes who helped us. Barnes, and, uh—me. I mean Dean. Damien! Barnes and Damien. They're partners."
"Uh-huh," Sam nods, frowning, clearly not getting it. Dean shakes his head.
"Never mind. I'll get us a room, you get stuff outta the trunk."
He's in and out in a flash, people not exactly lined up for rooms at this No-Tell motel. Sam's still wrestling with the bags and the trunk, and muttering under his breath. Dean leaves him to it and goes to get ice and some sodas.
Sam's left the door cracked open for him when he returns, ice bucket under one arm, three sodas juggled in his hands. Dean nudges the door open with his foot, and barely has time to clear the doorway when large hands are grabbing the cans away from him, then pushing him none too gently until his back thuds against the door, pushing it shut with enough force to shake the frame.
"God, Sam, what--?"
"Partners, or partners, like us?" Sam's right up in Dean's personal space, looming, pressing in on him, holding him against the door with nothing but the weight of his body. Dean shivers at the contact.
"Like us," he manages, the words breathed into Sam's mouth because Sam's fucking devouring him, hot and eager, and God, yes.
Dean opens for the kiss, the invasion, Sam's mouth wet and good, tongue wicked clever as it slides around Dean's mouth, teasing and tasting, making Dean want.
"Tell me you want it." Sam bites at Dean's mouth, sucks on his lower lip until Dean feels it swelling, heating up. He grabs handfuls of Sam's shirt and hauls him close, closer, no room for anything but air between them. "Say it," Sam hisses, sucking a bruise into the tender skin under Dean's jaw.
"Want it," he gasps, tilting his head back, rewarded with another bite that stings and throbs in time with his heartbeat. "Want it, want you, c'mon, Sammy."
He'll never admit this to a single other living soul, but Dean kind of likes – some times, not all the time – when Sam manhandles him. Tugs and pulls, pushes and shoves, getting Dean where he wants him. Dean doesn't object; he wants to be naked under Sam as badly as Sam wants it, so he moves and shifts, working his jacket and shirts off while Sam undoes both their belts, then zippers and buttons, so they're naked when they hit the mattress, boots and jeans kicked off, a short sloppy trail of clothing from door to bed.
The only sounds in the room right now are the wet, sucking noises they're both making, kissing and biting at any inch of skin they can get to, and the hungry, rough pants and grunts when skin rubs against skin. Dean reaches between them and wraps his hand around their dicks; Sam is already fully hard, tip damp and getting damper. Dean's nearly there, dick heavy and thick and filling out as they rub together, Sam's slick like tiny kisses dropped here and there along Dean's length.
"Wanna fuck you," Sam says, the words a low growl that vibrate through Dean. He shudders and nods, groaning when Sam fumbles between his legs, then down, finger rubbing over his hole, still loose and a little swollen from yesterday – Christ, just yesterday, before the text and the night spent driving, and then all the crap at the hotel. "Love it when you're still a little open." Sam rubs, presses, bites at Dean's mouth and swallows his moan when the single finger breaches him. "Lube?"
It's really hard to think when Sam's fingering him, even if it's mostly just press-and-rub, more of a tease than anything. He swallows roughly. "Um. Your bag, I think."
Sam's gone in a blink and back just as quickly, the lube clutched in one hand, rubber in the other. "Hands and knees," he says, and Dean rolls, shifts, groans when Sam leans in and fucking licks him, tongue flicking out against, over, around the rim of the tender muscle under it spasms. Dean hears the sound of Sam opening the condom, and then the pop sound when the lube is opened, and wet fingers press into him, fuck into him and Dean just wants more. More now, faster, harder, and he bites down on the words, just letting the hiss and whine of air out.
Sam is fucking huge, not just long but thick, and Dean groans when Sam pushes into him, shaking with the pleasure of stretching wide, opening to take it. To take his brother in.
"Fucking love this," Sam mutters, voice low and gravelly, rumbling through Dean. "Love the way my dick looks, going in, the way your ass opens, clings to it."
"I'd stay here forever, if I could." Sam sinks all the way in, holding still for a minute for Dean to adjust before sliding out, thrusting back in, a slow, steady rhythm they'll both abandon in a minute or two.
"Me too," Dean manages, and then shuts his mouth again. Sometimes, when Sam's fucking him like this, and he's all open and raw and loving it, sometimes there's a disconnect between his brain and his mouth. "C'mon, Sammy. Fuck me. Fuck me like you mean it."
"You're so on." Sam laughs softly and shifts, pulling Dean up against him as he leans back on his haunches. Settling Dean down on his dick, effectively spearing him.
All Dean can do is shudder and shake, little rough noises escaping with each breath, like something has to get out, get free. Sam works his hips, swiveling and moving, each turn and twist pressing his dick up and in, pushing at his prostate until Dean's seeing stars and hearing nothing but white noise.
White noise turns to thunder, with lightning racing through him when Sam jerks him off in time to the twists and thrusts. Heat pools low, gathers slowly, then barrels through him hard and fast and so hot he's burning up. Incinerating in the best way possible. He grunts with each spasm, come hitting his stomach and sliding thick and warm, sticky-slick over his dick, over Sam's fingers.
He's on his back before he's even processed the movement, and Sam's got his legs up and open, driving back inside. Dean growls with each thrust, each hard slam inside that he feels all through him, an adrenaline chaser for the endorphin rush he just had, and he wants more of all it. He clenches himself around Sam, bearing down when Sam presses in, in, in, and then Dean feels it, feels Sam coming inside, the pulses of heat even through the latex separating them. Each spasm pulls a grunt out of Sam, thick and heavy, almost pained, until Sam goes stiff one last time, then half-collapses on top of Dean, driving the air out of him when he lands.
Dean tolerates it for a minute or two, and just as he's about to shove at Sam – he weighs a fucking ton, and breath play might be one thing, but asphyxia post-sex? No thanks – Sam rolls, pulling Dean toward him as he goes, into a spoon.
"Not gonna be the little spoon," Dean starts, and Sam shuts him up by biting at his jaw, his throat, sucking at the marks he put there just a little while ago. "Dammit, Sam—"
"Shut up," Sam says, voice soft, relaxed in a way it hasn't been in almost forty-eight hours. He pulls Dean closer against him and fumbles around, tugging and twisting. Dean's just about to ask what the hell he's doing when cool sheets slide up over them.
"Thought you were hungry," Dean says, settling. Fine. He'll be the little spoon for awhile. A little while.
Sam brushes a gentle kiss to Dean's temple. "We can eat later. Need—this."
"Mmm." Deep inside Dean's throbbing pleasantly, body still humming along on its endorphin rush, and Sam's big and warm against him, around him. "Yeah. Yeah."
Maybe a nap, and then food. It's the only sensible way to do it.