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Every now and again, when the summer heat hits that point where it’s not just oppressive, it’s practically deadly, Dean does something he’s not exactly proud of. As he slides into the driver’s seat of his father’s ’67 Impala, vinyl sunbaked through the windshield, almost unbearably hot through his clothes, instantly taking his shape and making him gasp as it sticks to his skin where his teeshirt has hitched up; he breathes in the scent of old sweat and hot plastic, and he shudders. Actually shudders.

It goes straight to the core of him, and it turns him on like he cannot even believe. When Sam is with him he tries to pass it off as just being overheated, getting into a car near hot as an oven really isn’t the sort of thing most people enjoy, after all, but still he’s pretty sure it’s obvious that’s not the only reason he’s uncomfortable. Sam has the good sense to keep his mouth shut though, and Dean’s glad of it, because he’d really hate to have to find someplace to bury a body in the woods on short notice. Again. It’d be really inconvenient, and bodies fuckin’ reek in the summer.

But oh, when Sam isn’t around, Dean stops, he leans back in the seat, and he breathes it in. It’s the scent he always returns to, when he’s fucking some girl in an alley, when he’s frightened and just wants to go home again… It happens more than he cares to admit, like maybe when he’s had a little too much to drink. Times like that, he might unzip his jeans and fondle himself, remembering all those nights he and Sammy spent sitting in the car drinking, parked out in a field somewhere, just looking out the windows at nothing.

It’s the memories, he tells himself. It’s all the good times, all the bad times, everything all together. That’s what does it. Deep down though, he knows it’s actually her. His first love. That damned car. So it isn’t really too much of a surprise when one night he’s had way, way too much to drink, he lays down in the back seat intending to sleep it off, and finds himself grinding up against the seat instead.

The seatbelt buckle is pressing hard against his crotch, he can feel the corners of it through the front of his jeans, and oh god help him, he really likes it. It’s not soft like a girl’s hand or gentle like someone’s mouth, it’s hard and unforgiving and he shifts just a little, unfastening his belt buckle, unzipping his jeans, sliding his boxers down so his cock and balls are out, pressing against that cool nighttime vinyl.

It’s colder than he expected, and he sucks breath in through clenched teeth, hissing with the chill of it. It isn’t long before the seat starts to warm up beneath his skin, beneath his cock, and yeah, he gets it, now. He knows exactly why some girls can be impossible, then go from zero to slut in about half a heartbeat when it comes to the chance to be fucked in the back of a car like this. It’s the car. It’s nothing but pure sex refined down to metal and sticky vinyl, fogged windows, and sweat.

There’s less shame in it than he expected, realizing that he’s actually gone so low that he’s fucking his car for chrissakes, but he’s not going to whip out his prude hat just because something feels good. Anyway, it’s not as if anybody ever has to know. It can be their little secret. This car holds so many of his secrets already, what’s one more? And he knows, she’ll never tell.

He’s shifted so that he’s grinding into the dip where the two cushions meet, and it’s the perfect width and depth for his cock, feels almost like somebody designed this car for just this purpose. The zipper on his jeans is rubbing into the back of his balls with just the right bite, and he scoots back a bit, shoves that belt buckle right between his legs, squeezes his thighs, and oh, oh that’s it.

He’s thinking he could really get off on this when the imp of the perverse, as if this just isn’t quite perverse enough, whispers that maybe… Oh, maybe he should go ahead and make use of the seatbelt, too. It’s right there at eye level, and if he just reaches a little bit, there, he’s got it across the back of his neck, and he’s pushing his fingers into that metal hole, and it’s just too much to resist. He wraps it tight around his throat and presses the tab into his mouth, near breaking his teeth on it in the process. The taste of metal fills his mouth, he’s thrusting his tongue through that tight square, hard plastic is pressed against his ass, there’s the zipper on his balls, and his precome has slicked the seat to the point he’s got the perfect amount of friction, just the right drag. He feels the heat of it welling up in him, starting at the base of his spine, going straight up and right back down again, and he’s digging his fingernails into the vinyl, oh god baby, sorry, forgive me…

When Sammy, that bastard, knocks on the window.

Dean near chokes himself out trying to get untangled before Sam catches on to what’s actually happening. He shoves his cock, still dripping, back into his pants, and since he’s got no time at all, he just pulls his shirt down over his fly, sliding over on top of the wet spot as he sits up.

“Oh hey, Sammy, what’s up!” he says, with that nonchalant little laugh he can never manage to stop when he’s nervous, and he smiles, rather weakly even by his standards. Sam’s a little trashed though, so Dean hopes maybe he won’t notice.

“Just wondered where you’d got off to,” Sam says, and slides in next to him. He doesn’t even bother to close the door, one gawky foot dangling out along the running board. The cool nighttime air is streaming in, and Dean realizes just how hot it’s gotten in here, and suddenly he’s really uncomfortable with the whole situation.

“Strike out?” Dean smirks, pulling his teeshirt away from his neck.

“Eh, she wasn’t really my type anyway.” Sam shrugs. “What about you?”

“Had a little too much to give a gal my full attention, if you know what I mean!” Dean puts every last ounce of macho into the innuendo. It’s overkill, but he wants the idea to stick.

“Uh huh.” Sam has an oddly knowing smile on his face, and he’s closing the door, sliding a little closer.

Dean cocks an eyebrow, trying to play it off, bluff his way through this like he does just about everything else, but Sam isn’t having any of it. It really sinks in that Sam doesn’t believe him when he slides his hand under Dean’s shirt and dips straight into his jeans.

Oh Christ, Dean really hasn’t had enough to drink for this, but clearly Sammy has, because he’s leaning over with lips parted, Dean can smell the booze on his breath, and then just like that his baby brother is kissing him. Car and brother in one night, he’s thinking that’s got to be a new world record, but then Sam’s tongue is in his mouth, hot and wet and slutty, and Dean’s not really so keen on thinking anymore.

Sam slides him down onto his back, hand still on his cock, and he’s starting to work him, those big clumsy good-for-nothing hands sure are good for this. Dean shifts his hips, slides his leg between Sam’s thighs, pressing against Sam’s cock, and Sam’s hard too. Sammy. His little brother. Is hard for him. He stifles a moan at the realization, and Sam bites Dean’s lip for his trouble, whispering, “Want to hear it, Dean. Want to hear you.”

Dean doesn’t really know what to say, until Sam leans close to his ear and murmurs, “Tell me about it,” and from the way he says ‘it’ there’s only one thing he could possibly mean. Sam must’ve been watching. Must’ve seen him. Must’ve, because he’s taken hold of the belt buckle, and he’s fondling it, rubbing it against his face as Dean watches. Chrome glints in the moonlight, and Sam is pressing hard enough it leaves little marks in his skin.

Dean just opens his mouth, gaping like an idiot. Sam smirks at him, and says, “Car got your tongue?”

For just a moment they both burst out laughing, and everything is normal, they’re just brothers horsing around, and then Sam squeezes his balls. Dean’s eyes near roll back in his head as he gasps and thrusts up against Sam’s hand. “That’s it,” Sam growls, “I know you want it. Tell me.”

“I want it,” Dean manages to force out from between clenched teeth, “I want it! That good enough for you? I want it. Just get on with it already.” He’s not quite sure what it is he wants, but he knows he wants it, and Sam knows him better than he knows himself anyway. Sam knows what he wants. Whatever it is.

Sam wraps the seatbelt around his hand and pulls it tight across Dean’s windpipe. Dean is still adjusting to the whole idea while Sam is pulling him out of his jeans, boxers. Somehow Dean manages to remember to kick off his boots so he can ditch the clothes. The vinyl is cold and warm all at once against his ass, and realizing he’s probably going to get fucked like a girl in the backseat of his own car somehow makes him even harder.

It’s not the first time he’s been fucked, but it’s been more than a little while, and the way Sammy’s sucking on his fingers, it’s just not going to cut it. “Bag,” he gasps, gesturing towards the front seat, “Bag!”

Sam takes the cue and leans over, reaching into the front seat, without ever letting go of the seatbelt, and rummages a bit before he finally gives up and just grabs the whole bag, dumping it out in the backseat floorboard. Thankfully, the lube doesn’t roll under the seat, or anything else stupid, and Sam grabs it, flips the cap, and squeezes a dollop straight between Dean’s buttcheeks.

“Fuck, Sammy!” Dean gasps, jumping a little bit at the cold, “Gimme a fucking break, will ya? Shit.”

Sam just laughs, starts slicking his fingers with the lube that’s spilled all over Dean’s ass. Dean closes his eyes, slides a little closer to Sam’s hand. Sam’s fingers brush up against Dean’s tight opening, then they’re gone, the fucking tease, and Dean’s about to say something about what a pussy his little brother’s grown up to be, when they’re back again. Slender and insistent, pressing up against him, slowly pushing into him, and Dean just groans instead.

How Sammy knows he can take two fingers straight away Dean just doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to think about it, maybe not ever, but it’s good, and he’s shoving his hips against Sam’s hand, fucking himself open while Sam watches. When Dean manages to open his eyes for a moment, he notices that Sam really is watching him. He’s practically gawping, in fact, and before Dean’s eyes flicker closed again, he thinks he even sees him lick his lips.

There’s a third finger sliding in now, and Dean bucks up hard just as Sam twists his hand and curls his fingers and that’s it, that’s all Dean can take of this foreplay bullshit. He grabs Sam’s biceps and drags him down close, knotting his fingers in long sandy hair, and he shuts his eyes tight and tries really hard not to think about it as he growls, “Just fuck me, dammit.”

He hears the wet squish as Sammy starts stroking his cock, getting it all nice and lathered up for him, and saliva pools under his tongue at that mental image. It’s not as if he’s never seen his brother naked before, not as if he’s never seen him with morning wood, and, yeah. It’s hot. Dean spreads his legs a little further, lets one socked foot rest on the floorboard. Sam has let go of the seatbelt, and he grabs Dean’s hips, pulling him closer, positioning him just right, pushing one knee up against the back of the seat.

The belt buckle is pressing meanly into his side at this angle, and Sammy fucks into him so deep and so fast that he’s sure it’s gonna leave a nasty bruise right above his kidney. Somewhere, he knows it hurts like a bitch, but he just shifts over a little and arches so hard against the vinyl he can feel the seams biting into his back. He wants it harder and deeper and Sammy’s gonna give it to him. This is how they both want it, nothing but base need and lust, no room for feelings. Sam is moaning low and guttural and he’s almost snarling with every thrust, fingernails digging into Dean’s hips.

Dean twists his hand in Sam’s hair, yanks his head back and stares right at him. Sam is a little surprised, but he doesn’t cringe or look away. He’s biting his lip, fucking deep into Dean with every stroke, sweat breaking out at his temples, veins in his neck standing out thick and thready. Dean pulls him down and kisses him, and it’s like an argument, the way they suck and bite at each other, the way Sam fucks him relentlessly and the way Dean fucks back, the way they’re both panting and sweating and holding on to each other so tightly there are going to be hand-shaped bruises in really awkward places come morning, but neither of them care.

Dean’s cock is aching, dripping, slapping wetly against his stomach, and when he thinks maybe Sam won’t notice, maybe he’s too busy, Dean starts to slide his hand down between his legs. Of course, Sam does notice, and the sound of his voice is absolutely sinful as he whispers, “Wanna come, Dean?”

Dean actually has to bite back a whimper, and it takes him a second to catch his breath before he can finally manage to choke out a decent enough approximation of oh fuck yes, and it comes out something like, ‘mhmfhyeah.’

Sam wraps his hand around Dean’s, and starts to pump his fist up and down along the shaft of his cock, fingertips brushing across the tip at the top of each stroke, knuckles digging into his balls as their hands reach his base. It’s faster than he wants, but it’s not exactly something he’s going to argue with, Sammy’s big hand making him come even as he’s fucking himself apart on that thick cock. Every muscle in his body goes rigid and he can’t take it anymore, come squirts everywhere. It’s on Sammy’s skin, it’s on the seat, oh not on the seat, crap, and he throws his head back and gasps, overwhelmed with the ecstasy of it.

Then Sammy is pulling out and Dean is confused, but Sam has taken hold of the back of his neck and is guiding him to sit up, is gently pressing his face against the seatback. “I think you made a bit of a mess, Dean,” he purrs, “Better clean it up.”

Out of the corner of his eye Dean sees Sammy leaning against the door, stroking himself, and it doesn’t matter anymore what anyone thinks about him, he starts to lick his own come off the battered vinyl backseat of his father’s ’67 Impala so his brother can get off watching him. Sam moans, watching him, and Dean remembers the come on Sam’s stomach, too. After this, practically nothing feels taboo, and he slides down between his brother’s legs and starts to lick it from his skin, the slick of it salty with sweat, and it tastes amazing.

Sammy is panting now, jerking himself hard and quick, and Dean can tell he’s close. He swallows, licks his lips, and wraps his mouth around the head of Sam’s cock. The back of Sam’s hand catches him square in the face on the upstroke. Dean sees stars like he’s just gotten clocked, his nose stings and he wonders if maybe he’s just about to get a nosebleed, but then Sam’s hands are on the back of his head, and he’s thrusting into Dean’s mouth, and all Dean has time to worry about is not gagging as the head of Sam’s cock bumps against the back of his throat.

It’s been a while since he’s done this, too, but the booze hasn’t worn off just yet, and somehow he manages to relax right into it, even if it feels like Sam is fucking halfway down his throat. Sam is desperate to get hold of him, fingers scrabbling to get a grip in short hair as Dean starts to take over the rhythm. Sam finally grabs hold of the back of Dean’s neck, rests his other hand on his shoulder, but his grip isn’t near so tight anymore, and Dean can feel him trembling. This is the first time it feels like Sam has started to lose control, and he’ll be damned, even if his jaw falls off, he’s going to make sure Sammy doesn’t stop short again.

He grabs Sam’s hips and pulls him closer, makes him slump down in the seat. It’s a better angle, and Sam slides further into his mouth. Dean’s throat clenches up, and he’s swallowing hard, breathing deep through his nose, anything to keep from choking, as he hears him cry out, “Oh god!” Sam thrusts up so hard, Dean really does think he’s going to get a nosebleed this time, but Sammy’s coming now, and what’s a little blood between brothers, anyway.

The second Sam is done Dean pulls off and he’s half-choking, gasping, trying to catch his breath, wiping the blood from his nose, blinking sweat out of his eyes. Sam grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him close, closes his eyes as he leans in and kisses him quietly, gently, and that’s it, Dean just melts. It’s alright though, Sammy’s got him, Sammy’s always got him. He’s practically squeezing him half to death in one of those big moose hugs of his, but maybe, yeah, this isn’t so bad.