Dean missed kissing.
Which was a little weird, maybe.
Sex was one thing--and, no question, sex was awesome--but for some reason, even in the middle of things, even when he should have been focused on the talons reaching for his face or the barrel of the gun pointed at his head or the black eyes leering into his own, it was his mouth that ached, that wished for one more kiss before his brain or his blood or his soul went splat against the floor.
Which, yeah. Kinda weird.
At some level, sex was easy. Impersonal, if he needed it to be; not in that dipshit Pretty Woman kind of way which, god, he may have watched more than once in hopes of seeing something, because the damn thing was rated R and surely that meant something, even back in 1990 whatever when the fucker was made. But then Sam had caught him at it a few days before and started in on a lecture straight out of some stupid film class about how the shopping montage was constructed so as to underscore the consumer mindset of the late 1980s and how it reinforced Hollywood's resistance to second-wave feminist ideals and that had pretty much fucking killed it for him, even after he'd clocked Sam in the chin with the remote and Sam had starting whining and things had degenerated into flailing fists and name-calling and spilled beer, which had kinda sucked since it was the last one, and even Dean wasn't willing to go out for more at two in the morning in the middle of West Virginia or whatever.
So. Sex was easy--whenever, whoever, fine. And it wasn't like he didn't kiss the women he was with; far from it. He went for it full out: nipping, sucking, sliding, trying to get his fill. In the moment, there was always a relief, like: yes. Ok. This is what I've been missing. Finally.
But then she'd come and he'd come and his mouth would still be like: what the fuck? Even with her tongue in there, her lips moving against his, his mouth still felt kinda empty. Unfulfilled.
And as soon as she'd left or he'd walked away his damn mouth would go back on red alert, start aching or sighing or some shit and he'd be right back where he started.
It was funny: he couldn't remember it bothering him before. Hell, he'd liked it, had fucking loved kissing from the time Cyndi Sherman laid one on him under the monkey bars but, man. This was something new.
Like, he knew how to shut up his cock. No problem. No one else necessary, when it came down to it: just a little time, a little privacy, some creative thinking and bam. But his damn mouth just would not leave him alone, would not shut the fuck up even in the middle of the night when he was trying to go back to sleep after Sam's snoring had woken him up. Even biting his tongue didn't help, didn't make the ache go away. His mouth just kept whispering "want." It sucked. And it was starting to piss him off.
"Dean?" Sam said, and he was right back in the car, his fingers curled around the wheel and his legs barking from sitting too long.
"What?" he snapped. "What the fuck is it?"
He heard his brother shifting around, trying to rearrange himself on the seat. Could practically hear him scowling.
"I said," Sam said in that bitchy tone that Dean hadn't gotten used to again, yet. "Are you sure you know where you're going? We haven't passed another car in like an hour and we're--"
"Jesus!" Dean huffed. "Yes, I do know where we're going, Sam. You're not the only one who can read a damn map."
"But nothing!" he barked, glaring over at Sam in the dark. "Dude, I did manage to do this just fine without you, you know. Got along just fine by myself."
There was a pause.
"Oh," Sam said, his voice small between them. "Yeah. I know you did."
Dean gritted his teeth. Stopped himself from apologizing.
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
And yeah, the motel was right where Dean remembered it: tucked just off 81, buried in the Rust Belt, threadbare and worn but just about perfect at 1 in the morning. Clean. Familiar, even though it'd been years since he'd been out this way.
He charged in ahead of Sam and commandeered the bathroom. Took a long shower and tried to suck up all the hot water. Left damp towels on the floor and burst out without speaking, marching past Sam and not looking up until he heard the door slam in return.
He attacked a half-eaten package of Fig Newtons and drank a warm beer and pointedly did not think about why he was so angry. Why he felt like putting his fist through the TV, which was just ridiculous. Especially since this place had Cinemax.
Then he finished the last cookie and the bottle rattled empty against his teeth and his mouth was like, hello? Remember me?
He cruised around the channels, listening to Sam's shaving noises: water, tap of the razor against the sink. Pause. Water, tap of the razor. Pause. It was louder than MTV, somehow, which was kind of a good thing because MTV just made him madder with all of its reality bullshit. VH1 was even worse. If he had to sit through Journey's Behind the Music one more fucking time he was gonna ring Steve Perry's doorbell and punch him in the face, that smug, shrieky little bastard.
He heard Sam come out, settle on the other bed, but his brain was too invested in being pissed off to really do anything with that information other than file it next to "shit that doesn't matter" and he kept pressing the channel keys until he was moving up the dial faster than his brain could register the images and---
Sam got between him and the screen and, nope, the mute button didn't work on him.
"Dude!" Sam said, looming over him, and when had the bastard gotten so tall? "What are you doing?"
"'s it look like I'm doing? Watchin' TV, Sammy." And was that really his voice? Sounded higher and tighter than usual. Weird.
Sam leaned down and pulled the remote from his hand. Reached back and snapped off the set and kind of knelt in front of Dean, all concerned and clean-shaven.
"Seriously," Sam said, his brow knitting behind his floppy fucking hair. "You've been a bitch all day, man. What the hell?"
Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh please," he scoffed. "Put Dr. Phil back in the box, dude."
Sam's mouth tightened and he stood up all at once. Glaring. "It's me, isn't it?"
"It's me. You don't need me, Dean, I tried to tell you that and you wouldn't listen," and now Sam was babbling and jesus, that never ended well. "You wouldn't listen and now you're pissed at me for being here and you're the one who--"
Dean tucked his head into his hands. Tried to shut Sam out. He so did not have the patience for this self-hating bullshit, well, ever, but especially now when he had his own problem, thank you very much, and it was circling his lips like water in a drain, driven towards the center of his mouth by some annoying force that he was pretty sure was gonna make him crazy.
He felt Sam's hands on his shoulders, tugging, his voice dropping past Dean's arms and into his ears.
"No, listen, this isn't fair, you shouldn't have asked me to come with you and I shouldn't have left. I should have just stayed and--"
That did it. Dean sat up, yanked himself free. "And, what? Stayed out there and--what, exactly? Gone back to school? Pretended everything was normal? Everything was fine? That Dad wasn't out there, somewhere, needing our help? That Jess wasn't dead? That I didn't need you to--"
His brain caught up with his mouth a moment too late and he stopped. Watched the color drain out of Sam's face and the old instincts kicked in, louder and harder now than they had been in years, than they had been since before Sam left, and he got up, reached out automatically as he said:
"Sammy. Sammy, I'm sorry, I didn't mean--" His fingers closed around the curve of Sam's arm and his mouth closed. Words stopped coming. Sam just looking at him, sad and sad and drawn up into himself, his face falling and rising with his breath.
"Yeah, yeah, you did," he mumbled, finally, blinking.
"Dude," Dean said, shaking him a little, his other hand finding Sam's elbow. "Look. I know. I know it was selfish, asking you to come with me, taking you away from--But I need your help, ok? I can't do this by myself."
Sam sighed. Blinked again, slow and heavy.
"Yeah," he said. Resigned. "Yeah, you can, Dean, you said it yourself, did just fine without me."
"No, but--" Dean started, but, yeah, he had said that, sort of. But that was different, hadn't meant it like--and why was he staring at Sam's mouth? He wasn't saying anything, was he? No, Sam was just--
"Want," his mouth whispered, and--no. Officially no fucking way was he going to kiss Sam. Dude, it was fucking Sam, for christ's sake, but yeah, yeah, oh hell yes he was.
Or was Sam kissing him?
Sam's hands on the tops of his shoulders. His arms trying to meet around Sam's back.
His tongue barged past Sam's lips, knocked into his teeth, basically kicked down the fucking door until he was all the way in, pushing and grabbing and diving and---
And it was a lot harder to kiss someone who was taller than he was but hell, he didn't care, but Sam did, apparently, because he shoved his hands up and around Dean's ears and ducked his head down, opened up a better line of attack. Dean's mouth was singing, fucking jumping up and down for joy as they kissed, as he bit Sam's lip, as he drove his tongue into Sam's throat. Didn't hurt that his brother seemed just as eager to take as he was to give. And oh, man, it was good.
Like, really good.
But, hey, could be even better.
He pulled away, turned Sam with his hands, and pushed, watched him fall back on the bed all limbs and flushed and mouth, that fucking mouth--
He threw himself at Sam, landed with a thud, almost caught his head on Sam's chin, but found what he was looking for and. Yeah. Way easier to kiss him like this, pinned down and pliant. Sam groaned, his tongue trembling against Dean's teeth, his hands closing around Dean's hips and ok, yes, this was officially fan-fucking-tastic.
Part of him wanted to go as fast as he could, pull it all from Sam's mouth while he could, while he was there, cause God knew if he'd ever be back. But part of him wanted to slow down, wanted to go soft and steady and take his time and that was the part that won, this time.
He drew back a little and started nipping, biting gently at Sam's tongue, then pulling Sam's lips between his own and sucking, just enough to make Sam arch up into him, digging his fingers into Dean's sides and gasping.
"Yeah," he breathed. "Oh, Dean, yeah, oh--" And of course Sam would make sounds like a girl, and Dean's brain filed that information away for blackmail's sake and closed his mouth, brushed his lips along Sam's, back and forth until Sam moaned, until he had no choice but to drop back down and make Sam take his tongue, like all of it at once and oh, hell yes, Sam was a big fan of that. He bucked his hips up into Dean's and fought back, tried to grab Dean's tongue in his teeth but Dean was faster, had the leverage, and he kept plunging in and out of Sam's mouth, rolling his hips and enjoying the friction, the feel of Sam's cock vibrating between them, his own not far behind.
He kept at it, they kept kissing, he kept getting more and more frantic until Sam panted "Enough" against his mouth and flipped him over, pushed him into the bed and tugged down his boxers and started to suck him, which. Wow. Holy shit.
He slid his fingers into Sam's stupid hair, which seemed slightly less stupid now that it gave him something to hold on to, something to focus on as he started to spiral, twisting and turning under Sam's mouth, at the mercy of his tongue. He felt so fucking good, so loose and sloppy and open that he drove his hips up, pushed himself over Sam's lips once and twice and again until Sam growled and slammed him back down, held his hips and wouldn't let him move and, yeah. That was even better. All that energy started to coil inside his body and he groaned, loud, really fucking loud and Sam sat up, suddenly. Stared right into his face.
Sam's mouth was red and slick. Dean's ached just looking at it.
And Sam smiled at him, low and lazy.
"Want to kiss you, Dean, want to kiss you," he rumbled, his eyes dark.
"Oh, Sammy, yeah, yeah," Dean shuddered, heard himself whine. "Kiss me, baby, fuck, just kiss--"
And Sam, of course, did no such thing. Just dropped down and circled the head of Dean's cock with his tongue once twice three times and Dean imploded, everything falling towards the center, collapsing, making him feel full again.
He opened his eyes and felt Sam looming over him, felt rather than saw that giant melon coming towards him. Sam kissed him, his mouth wet and full of Dean and all Dean had to do was open for him, was tip his head back and let Sam's tongue do the work and.
This is what he'd been missing.
Which, wow. Sammy was really, really good at.
Even when he was hard as fuck and clearly ready to come, his cock sliding over Dean's thigh, his hip, his stomach. Dean didn't want him to stop, wanted to take full and complete advantage of Sam's enthusiasm, of his fucking god-given talent to please, but then Sam was pushing against his body and shaking, right on the edge of exploding and well. He could sacrifice his own pleasure for Sam's. Just this once.
He snaked a hand between them, pushed his way into Sam's boxers and caught his cock, clamped his fingers around the base. Sam snapped his head back and he made an amazingly embarrassing sound that Dean was so going to give him shit about later and Dean yanked him, hard, heard himself growling, "C'mon, Sammy, c'mon. Come, baby, c'mon, come for me," and Sam hit a high note and pushed back and shot all over Dean's fingers, hot and slick and sweet.
He opened his eyes and grinned, his lips sliding back over his teeth. "Dean," he managed.
"Yeah?" Dean said, reaching for his face.
"You are--ew!" Sam squeaked, recoiling from Dean's fingers. "Dude! Get a towel."
"Hey, this is all you, Sammy," Dean said, shoving his palm into Sam's cheek. "All you, baby."
Sam shook him off like a wet dog and hopped up, still squeaking.
"Ew!" he managed again, batting at his face. "Dean!"
Dean sat up and yanked off his now Sam-soaked shirt. "While you're up, get me a towel, bitch."
Sam rolled his eyes and huffed. Stomped into the bathroom and flew out bearing a towel.
"Awes--" Dean started to say, until Sam dropped it on his head, and it was wet and cold and Sam was hooting like a howler monkey--
"It's all you, Dean," he cackled. "All you, baby!"
--and that was just not ok, no matter how good a kisser the bastard was. Dean grabbed the fucking towel and sprang at Sam, shoved the damn thing into his face, getting him good and wet and cold. Sam howled, pounded on Dean's back and cursed, and they rolled until Sam was on top of him, the stupid damp towel stuck between them, Sam's mouth over his, again.
"So," Sam panted, his breath slipping between Dean's teeth.
"So," Dean managed. "You gonna kiss me or what?"
"Or what," Sam said, or something, and did.