Sam gets that stumbling into a motel at twelve in the fucking morning is an inconvenience. Not once in their lives has he ever come across one that was happy to see him and Dean at that hour. Can’t blame them.
But the joy on the kid’s face at telling them that the only room they have available is still being fixed from water damage (like hell it is at this hour) is all too visceral, and Sam’s heard Dean talk about people with a punchable face, and man, this guy’s got one. Except Sam just grits his teeth, Dean offers him a fake smile and off they go, back out into the fucking July heat with a room key and the promise they they’ll be called as soon as the crew leaves for the night.
And a reassurance that the bed is perfectly fine, so long as they don’t mind sharing. Whatever. Sam just wanted to lay the fuck down, tired of riding over crappy roads, listening to Dean sing the same songs over and over again, all the while Sam tries to hold onto some sense of his sanity. It’s rough, because the more tired Dean gets, the louder he sings to keep himself awake. Always has.
They get back in the Impala, and Sam sighs - loudly, obviously - and lets his head drop to the back of the seat. He isn’t sure just how much he missed this life, but… this wasn’t ever his favorite part. Hurry up and wait. The lead they have isn’t even all that solid, but as literally nothing has come up on the radar in the last three weeks, it’s all they have. And the shop where these supposedly “cursed objects” are, well, Sam doesn’t feel like picking any locks tonight. His brain hurts, his body aches, and Dean’s grinning like he’s got the bastard already.
“What do you mean, what.” Dean turns his body towards Sam, one hand up on the wheel, happy as hell for no discernible reason other than he’s alive and… yeah, that’s it. “Means you get to dd after we get to know the locals a little better.” His voice is scratchy from singing all fucking day, like nails on the back of Sam’s neck, or a just too hot shower. Pleasant, in a raw, itchy sort of way and Sam… Sam’s still remembering. Things they did before.
Neither one of them have made the move to pick up where they left off, but Sam can’t be blamed for that. Neither can Dean. They’re just learning how to live with each other again, and in all truth, Sam doesn’t expect it. They were kids, mostly, and Dean… Dean deserved better than him at the time. Never mind that the lips that taught Sam how to kiss, well, they haven’t changed much, but the man around them has. Dean’s so fucking pretty, it’s infuriating, and Sam can’t decide what he wants. Jess is a warm memory, still raw in places, and Sam’s been clinging pretty damn hard to her as a reason for not bringing it up.
But Dean acts like he maybe, at some point, wants to find a reason to discuss it. If it’s okay with Sam. Sam can’t get the words out, but hell, neither can Dean. Whatever. Drinking with him is almost as good, even if he is probably going to watch Dean go off with some chick and leave Sam where, on his barstool while he takes her in the back of the Impala? It’s not like they have a fucking motel room to go back to right now.
“Yeah, can’t fucking wait.” Sam sits up and looks at Dean, not so much pissed as just irritated. He could have jerked off while Dean was in the shower, because sleeping in the same bed with him (of course it’s a single king) isn’t what his body needs right now. He has to have complete agreement between his two brains when it comes to the matter of “how do I talk my brother back into my pants” and he hates that he’s aware of it. But. Dean wouldn’t take anything less, either.
Dean cocks an eyebrow, sucks his teeth at Sam. “Afraid I’m gonna stand you up?”
Sam closes his eyes again and slinks down. “Just drive, Dean. If I’m gonna be tired, I wanna be tired with a beer.”
Finding Fairaday, Louisiana’s only watering hole doesn’t take all that long, as it’s probably the only outpost of collective civilization that this end of the parish has. Christ. “The Cotton Gin” is as bad a pun as it is a building, and Sam already has a pretty fucking good idea of exactly who they’re going to find in there. What, rather.
Dean’s easy, but even he stops at missing teeth and an incomprehensible drawl. Sam’s kinda smug about that, because maybe he’ll look like the girl of Dean’s dreams by comparison. Show him just what he picked up while he was in California, what to do with a body. It took a long time - and never really faded - for him to not picture Dean in his head when he hooked up, but time heals a lot. Had.
Right up until Dean had pushed him down on the floor and grinned “heya, Sammy.”
“C’mon, bugs are gettin’ bad out here.”
Of course they are. Because it’s fucking Louisiana in the middle of summer, and mosquito bites could be traded for currency. Dean taps his arm and Sam follows, sweating three steps out of the Impala, jealous of how comfortable Dean looks, striding in like he owns the place. Not in the least bit worried, and Sam feels way, way too conspicuous. Too tall, too…
“Looks like there are a coupla’ seats at the bar. Wanna sit there, or wait for a booth?” Dean’s already making a beeline for a stool, which makes the decision for Sam in a hurry. He shifts the pistol in his waistband and follows, eyes watching the muscles under Dean’s t-shirt, as smooth and hardy as they were years ago. Dean’s filled out even more, a picture-perfect capture of vitality, the sincere blaze of saving people, hunting things making him swagger like he’s a hero returning from war and not a broke-ass hunter who’s got exactly forty dollars to his name.
He’ll spend every bit of it here tonight, and walk out with triple what he came in with.
The bartender, who looks exactly like he stepped out of a William Faulkner novel, nods a greeting at them, Creole down to his soles as he asks what he can get for them. He’s… handsome. Charming. Sam actually smiles back at him as he has an El Sol slid towards him, and alright, maybe Fairaday isn’t such a bad place after all.
He can’t be that much older than Dean. Probably isn’t.
He turns away, and Dean hmphs. “Beer’s not cold enough.”
“Cause it’s still ninety fucking degress outside, man. Chill.” Sam watches him pour a few shots and fuck it, he’ll sleep it off in the car if he has to.
“You chill,” Dean mutters, and not even the barmaid with her tits all bound up in flannel is enough to pull the frown off of Dean’s face right away. “Gonna play pool.”
He slides off his barstool, plucks Sam’s beer out of his hands and takes a long swig, his grin gone. “Behave.”
Yeah, whatever - Sam plans on behaving perfectly. He hears the name Mackie directed to the bartender, and Sam watches without watching for a while, imagining what it would be like to hear the deep, rumbly voice against his ear. God, maybe he’s hornier than he realized, because he actually starts to get a little bit hard, letting the half-formed fantasy go through his mind as he chats and has two, three, four beers, the tension from earlier slipping away and it’s a good, good buzz he’s got going, and Mackie even offers him a shot on the house since “you look new in town.”
He’s downing it as he catches Dean looking at him, white knuckle grip on his empty beer bottle, the pool cue in his left hand bending where he’s gripping it. Sam really, really doesn’t have time for this tonight, not when his whole situation has taken a turn for the better, a very handsome guy is flirting with him, and he’s enjoying being drunk. Well. Very, very tipsy.
“Boyfriend’s jealous.” Mackie hands Sam a glass of water, leans in and gives Dean a big, toothy grin. “Has plenty of reason to be.”
“Yeah, he… oh, he’s not my…” Sam isn’t sure how to finish that one, so he sips his water and turns away from Dean’s death glare. “I didn’t uh, we…”
“Complicated, then.” Mackie sounds like he knows precisely what’s going on, and Sam shrugs. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”
“No, listen - that’s just him. We’ve been around each other a long time, he’s… protective. That’s all.”
“If he gets that agitated over talkin’, what would happen if I asked you upstairs after closing?”
The reality kind of hits Sam in a one-two punch, gut warm with booze, desire, and a lot of blurry indecision. Dean’s walking over now, jaw set, and God, he’s acting like a complete asshole.
Which he doesn’t need to do, and nor does Sam want to deal with it. “What are you two talkin’ about?”
“Just where the night’s going, brother. Calm down.” Mackie straightens up, and fuck, it hadn’t hit Sam how tall he was until then. Taller than him, it looks like, muscular too.
Not Dean, but…
Maybe it doesn’t need to be Dean.
He also has to find a way to calm Dean down, because this is not something he wants bruises out of in the morning. Dean fights fucking mean when he’s got booze in him, and he’s matched Sam for every one that he’s had so far tonight. Sam doesn’t want to fight with him at all, but Dean’s stubborn and acting really, really shitty.
“‘Scuse us.” Sam gets off his stool and cocks his head towards the hallway leading to the restrooms, concentrating on not bumping into other people on his way there. Dean follows, way too close, his body heat making him sweat harder, tension making his belly try to knot back up. God, Dean just… needs to not be Dean, for a little bit. It certainly isn’t like there’s a shortage of stares that have been thrown his way tonight, and Sam’s managed to keep his jealousy pretty well under control.
The door to the men’s room swings open, and Sam has Dean by the collar in a second, placing him against the sink in a way that he hopes like hell screams “don’t fucking move.”
“You really need to get over yourself.” Sam lets his shirt go, but doesn’t move back. “Having a good night, and you have to do… that. Dean, come the fuck on.”
“Why?” Dean throws so much venom into that one syllable, that Sam actually wants to cow back. “Why, Sam - that’s not… you can’t-”
“Can’t what, Dean. Get what I need?” Christ, it shouldn’t be that fucking hard. If Dean would get his fucking shit together, and maybe let Sam know it’s okay, they wouldn’t be here. It’s not like there have been a ton of guys since Dean, mostly because they weren’t him.
And Mackie, God, he’s about as far from Dean as he can get. Easy. Warm without condition. Attentive which, he knows it’s his job, but Sam knows there’s a sincerity in that too. Shit that Dean’s not super great about being open about.
At least not before.
Sam isn’t sure that’s changed or not.
Dean crosses his arms, swallows, hurt hanging around the edges of his expression. “Why’d you have to get it from him?”
“Because, Dean, I’m not…” Sam backs off, scrubs a hand down his face. He’s kind of numb, the alcohol dulling a lot of nerve endings and making it way too damn hard to think without thinking. “I’m tired, I’m horny, and I want to know what’s going on. Mackie’s only worried about one of those things and dammit, that’s what I need, alright? Just…”
Dean straightens up from his place against the sink, hands coming up and then dropping. “‘S about us, isn’t it?”
“Kinda hard to forget, Dean.” Sam goes to the other sink and wets his hands, running them over his hot cheeks and then back through his hair. “And I don’t want to fucking try and guess if there’s still an us, if there will be, and how the fuck we get around what’s happened. Shit’s changed, Dean, and you know that. So yeah, a little bit of fun without you in my head might be what I need right now.”
Dean’s mouth flattens, and he nods, stiffly. Sam hates the hurt look on his face, but he needed to hear it. Sam needed to say it. “Before you go back out there, you wanna listen for a sec?”
Because that’s something they’re both super at.
“Need to piss anyway.” Sam goes to the urinal, unzips, and closes his eyes while Dean’s voice rolls over the tile. Echos, deep-gravely, and Sam’s kinda starting to forget what Mackie might sound like that close.
“Was givin’ you time, man. Space. Knew what Jess meant to you, what… that life did. Can’t say I was ever on board with it myself but Sam, I wanted you to be happy. I know you’re still carryin’ her with you, and that shit doesn’t go away quick. You wanna take the night with him? Fine. But I’m not makin’ a move because I don’t want you anymore Sam, cause you’re right. It is kinda hard to forget.”
Sam stands there for a long, long moment, tucking himself back in his pants and flushing, sweat making his t-shirt cling under his arms, across his chest like it’s way, way too tight for him to be in it. “Thanks for bein’ straight with me.”
He wishes like hell he had more than that to give Dean.
“Couldn’t ever lie to you about that, not us, Sam. Not us us.” Dean takes a step forward, hands shoved in his pockets. “Think I’m gonna hang here for a second, if you wanna go settle up for the night. Doesn’t mean I have to watch.”
Sam licks his lips, fingers itching to touch, hold, whatever Dean needs. What he needs. “You’ve got the cash, ‘s your job. I don’t wanna, you know.”
“Turn him down. Always hurts me just as much as it does the other guy.” Sam isn’t even sure if he could have gone through with it, no matter how good the idea of Mackie sounded. Smelled. Looked. “And I don’t think we should go back out there just yet.”
“Cause doing this out in the middle of rural Louisiana’s a sure as hell way to get our shit kicked in.” Sam’s got the distance between them closed up in a big damn hurry, mouth swooping to Dean’s and the last time, the last time he kissed Dean he was not taller than him. Not even as tall. It’s a weird, devastatingly hot acknowledgement to make that he’s got to dip Dean back a little bit to get the angle right, a solid five inches of difference between them now. Dean clings to him, fingers finding purchase in the sweat-soaked cotton of Sam’s t-shirt, pulling him close against the sink until there’s nothing but their own breaths caught between them.
Fuck he missed this.
It shatters him when Dean has to pull away for a breath, fingers sliding up to his face, breath shuddering, then dragging Sam back in for another. Missed you, and Sam’s lifting him to get up on the sink, tongue finally getting on board with the rest of him as he dumps his nervous system full of Dean’s mouth. Licks the yeast and salt up, holding the back of Dean’s head with his left hand while the right slides up to his chest, right over his pounding heart. Sam’s there too, doesn’t miss how Dean’s legs wrap around his waist.
They never got around to evening up the score, on that front. Dean topped, every time, and Sam went with it without question. Loved every second of his big brother’s dick stretching him, the thick bastard.
But Dean’s acting like he wants it more than any other damn thing he’s had in life. Shit, maybe he found that out about himself somewhere along the way too, but it’s been a long, long time since they’ve had each other like that, and Sam… Sam doesn’t want it like that, not here. He wants time, space and a comfortable fucking bed.
“Sammy, let… let me do it. Let me take care of you.” Dean nips at his jaw, his ear, all the places that were his first, no one else’s - it’s still the same gut-rolling heat and arousal, turned up by a factor of about a fucking million because his body managed to forget just how much of an effect it had on him. “Get in the stall.”
Words that are going to stick in his fucking mind forever, but Sam isn’t sure if he cares so much about location for what’s about to go down; this, he can have here. Wants here. Wants to walk back out and let Mackie be the push they needed for this to happen, and no more.
He wonders just how much he could have let happen, and it not be Dean. He’s going to have to make peace with that one day, that a whole hell of a lot of his sexual identity is shaped like his big brother. Not tonight.
Dean gets them in the handicap stall, and picks right back up from where he left their kiss off.
“Fuckin’ giant,” Dean mouths, and Sam doesn’t miss how he’s the one without his back to the wall, Dean pressed up against the flaky, graffiti covered metal. He yanks Sam’s head down, legs spread, Sam’s thigh kicked between them. “The hell’d they feed you there?”
Sam doesn’t answer, his fingers hooked in Dean’s collar because like hell if he’s getting away from him, the other splayed against the wall above Dean’s head. It occurs to him that he can overwhelm Dean, and Dean isn’t pushing him off. Or asking to switch.
Dean likes this.
Arousal streaks hot and fast like a missile through his body, and Dean groans into his mouth, rubbing himself against Sam’s thigh. Dean’s hands have a lot more freedom than his do at the moment, rubbing down Sam’s sides, his hips, over his ass - touching to remap, learn the new routes of Sam’s long-muscled body. Ropey, whipcord flanks, curling biceps that aren’t quite to the point of making the material of his t-shirt stretch but they’ll be there some day, torso lengthy, a canvas that he wants Dean to paint in his own colors. His body has changed so, so much and yet Dean sure as hell seems like he’s adapting fast, eager to learn.
He can feel Dean’s dick, hard in his jeans, burned against his thigh and alright, Sam knows what to do with that. Drops the hand next to Dean’s head and turns in, palm first, squeezing the thick shaft right up near the head, Dean’s favorite spot. Dean moans, grabs Sam’s wrist and why, why he turns Sam away from there and puts his hand back up on the wall - “the hell, Dean?”
“Takin’ care of you.” Dean’s still got the sharp edge of jealousy hanging at the back of his voice, and doesn’t seem all that keen on letting Sam forget that he was there first. “But from what I’m feelin’, Sammy, what-”
“It got bigger, Dean. Lot bigger.”
Sam’s a solid nine now, and wasn’t the last time that Dean saw him. Like he didn’t have enough rumors swirling around him in his freshman and sophomore years, and during that time, he grew a fucking monster dick. Typical.
Of course, there were plenty who enjoyed it but no one, no one had that dirtily possessive look in their eye that Dean has right now. Like it’s Dean’s right and prerogative that he gets to have the most pleasure out of it.
Dean whimpers, drags his teeth across Sam’s bottom lip, making Sam’s dick spurt precome where it’s trapped up against his right hip. “Think you need to show me.” He drops to his knees, makes Sam stay right where he’s braced against the wall.
There’s nothing else in the world that can compare to the look that Dean gives him as he looks up, mouthing at the bulge of his cock, knees planted firmly so he doesn’t miss a damn thing. Sam makes himself stop swaying, the alcohol making things kinda swimmy and blurred but he sees Dean clearly enough, green eyes dilated with lust, booze, things that he’s seen plenty of times in the past in the exact same place.
The sound of the door opening has Sam slamming his mouth shut, barely breathing as they listen to the guy piss, groan with relief, belch - all during which Dean works with silent fingers at the buckle of his belt and zipper, pulling slow and easy until Sam’s cock hits open air, Dean’s breath hot and damp to his skin-
“Holy shit. ”
Dean really, really can’t look at him like that. Not now, not like this, not that intense, deep fascination at how fucking big Sam got, oh no, not if he wants to stand half a chance of lasting more than a minute. The only thing keeping him from painting Dean’s face right now is the dulling thanks to the alcohol, but he’s dripping wet and Dean’s mouth hasn’t even touched him yet.
“How… fuck, Sammy. ”
He’s apparently done being hesitant.
Takes Sam without so much as a thought, mouth hot hot, wet, down, down, down until he’s got all but the last fucking inch down his throat. Holy fucking Christ, it… Dean’s had practice at this. His throat feels fucking goddamn incredible, sealed up around him and working slow, Dean’s fingers holding his balls, tugging them not quite gently, like he’s got a clue about how fucking much Sam likes that.
Sam wraps his left hand around the back of Dean’s head and closes his eyes, biting his lip to keep from getting loud. Dean hums, breathing deep through his nose, pulling back with barely a sound, just the wet, heated slide of his spit-slick dick out of his mouth.
“ Dean. ”
“Big fuckin’ bastard.” Dean coughs, once, kitten licks the head and down his circumcision scar. “Fuckin’ hell, Sammy, how the hell aren’t you battin’ em off of you?”
“Was, til I met Jess.”
“Anyone ever take you that deep?”
Brady, once, and Sam had to listen to him gag for half an hour afterwards.
Dean grins, holding Sam’s shaft steady and God, why would he ever let anyone else creep into his mind with Dean already on his knees? He closes his eyes, happy as a pig in shit as he opens his jaw wide and swallows Sam again. Fucking hell he’s good at this, and Sam might ask him later just where the fuck he learned to do that. He doesn’t even think he cares all that much, beyond what Dean is doing right now and it feels really fucking good.
Sam grips the back of his head tighter, feels himself slip in that last little bit. Dean holds him there, Sam heavy against the stall wall, then he pulls out, back in, out, in, a steady, slow rhythm that shatters every breath he takes. Dean doesn’t fucking back off, lets Sam use him, fingers curled around his thighs while Sam takes and takes. All the frustration, the not-kisses, all of it, melts away like ice under a warming sun. All Sam’s left with is Dean, warm, whole, devoted to fuck all but sucking Sam’s cock right now.
That look in his eyes when Sam whipped out, fuck, that’s gonna stick. Replaying it has Sam’s orgasm speeding up, tugs at Dean’s hair (he remembers that instruction from… before) and Dean nods, just barely, but he fucking nods, it’s okay, Sammy, not gonna spill a drop and he comes, comes and comes, right down Dean’s throat and the whole fucking world blows up behind his eyes, teeth sunk into his tongue and lip because he absolutely can’t get loud, ending up with his face buried in the crook of his elbow and Dean pressed up completely to the metal wall.
It takes Dean turning his head and letting him go from his mouth to get Sam’s brain kicked back into gear, his dick spit-dripping, come leaking on Dean’s cheek where it rests. “You’ve done that before,” Dean says, voice cracked but fucking ecstatic.
“So’ve you - c’mere.” Sam helps him up, pulls him right into his arms and replaces his cock with his tongue, kissing and kissing until they’re both out of breath again. He reaches down to start giving back, because holy shit Dean deserves it after taking him so beautifully like that - only to encounter damp, sticky denim and Dean whimpering when he presses down a little harder.
“Creamed myself. Feels too damn good when I get my skull drilled like that - you just got me there way faster than most.” Dean just drops all that information so goddamn casually, and presses his forehead to Sam’s when he gives him a look.
“Gonna tell you once, and then it’s behind us, but there’s been more than a few times when some pool games didn’t go like I wanted, so for three hundred bucks, they got the treatment instead. Banked a lot of it, but haven’t done it since we hooked back up, Sammy, and I promise it ain’t happening again. But you gotta learn on the job.” Dean doesn’t sound ashamed, just matter of fact. “And I’m kinda awesome at it.”
“Think it passed awesome right around the second you shoved your nose in my pubes.” He loves him, a whole goddamn lot, and he can’t find a decent way to tell him that. “And three hundred’s way too low for that.”
“Hey, I didn’t make you put a rubber on. Three hundred’s the trade off for me suckin’ latex.” Dean still has his fingers wrapped around Sam’s dick, stroking for no discernible reason beyond he’s getting attached to it. “But hell, Sammy, we gotta talk more about this. ”
“Does it have to be here?” Sam’s really getting tired of standing, and the front seat of the Impala seems like a really fucking good place to talk right now.
Dean’s idea is the back seat, but Sam’s not going to raise an argument against that decision.
It takes a while for them to find a better routine than “I want to put my fucking tongue in your mouth right this second” - just because they have work to do and Sam does feel guilty about spending so much time enjoying each other’s bodies like that.
Even though it’s indescribable, how much better it feels now than it did back then.
They know more. More acquainted with what their own bodies can do. Sam, for one, is a hell of a lot more confident in his own skin than he ever was with Dean before. Doesn’t wait for Dean to initiate, because he knows Dean’s crap about saying what he wants - he just grabs. Well. He’s not crap with the girls he hooks up with, but apparently telling Sam he wants to suck his dick is a chore of some sort for him to get out.
Sam doesn’t have a problem with letting Dean know it’s something he wants.
It’s still weird, in a way, just because they’re the same and yet so, so different. The last time that Sam slept in the same bed as Dean consistently he was a lot smaller, and even Dean still had some growing to do. They simply don’t fit in a queen sized bed together anymore, and Dean stumbles asking for one king. Whatever. Sam can deal with that, and asks when Dean resorts to smiling and eyebrows to ask for what they need.
And the way Dean looks at him when he takes charge, there’s something to that. When Sam’s the one to hold him down, back him up against a wall, the car - Dean likes being moved around. Pushed. Held. All of that, and Sam hasn’t found an instance yet where Dean’s told him no. He isn’t sure that it’s a thing they can put words to - another one of those times where Sam is apparently just supposed to figure it out without saying anything - so he’s learning by doing.
There’s been a hell of a lot of doing, too. God, Sam’s dick is so sore from Dean draining his nuts at every possible chance that he’s actually going to have to tell Dean to give him twelve hours so that his body has a chance to catch back up. He does at least take a measure of comfort in knowing that Dean’s not in the least bit intimidated by how big he is; in fact, Dean’s enthusiasm is only outweighed by the goddamn smile on his face when he gets Sam rock hard.
Not that it takes much, because again, Dean knows what the fuck he’s doing.
Sam’s choosing to not be jealous and instead enjoying that he’s the one benefiting the most. His brother’s sexual tells are all on the surface when he’s between Sam’s legs, and Sam doesn’t have trouble exploiting them, not when he finds out that all of the sinful, dirty noises Dean makes just for him.
He just wishes that he could give him a little more on the reciprocation end of things, just because by the time Dean’s done sucking him off, it doesn’t take much for Sam to send him over the edge.
Guilt’s a powerful fucking motivator.
Two weeks later, they’re still in the south, cast up in northern Arkansas, caught in a three day downpour that’s pretty much stuck them in place for the time being. Sam’s done all the research he can without having access to the town archives, and Dean’s been helpful to the point of as much as Dean normally is. Sam does the legwork, Dean asks the questions. They’ve built up their case as much as they can, but the whole flooding thing is keeping them locked in their hotel room until further notice. Which means Dean’s been either horny or grouchy, and both of those things get taken out on Sam. It’s like if he doesn’t get a certain amount of time behind the wheel every day, it takes a piece of himself away.
Sam wants to think he’s done a pretty admirable job of bearing the brunt of Dean’s low-burning wrath, either kissing him to shut him up or not sniping back when Dean tries to be aggravating. Neither of them are particularly effective solutions, but right now they’re the only weapons in his arsenal. He’s to the point of doodling on his notepad, while Dean lays on the bed, singing along to a song only he can hear, replacing the lyrics in places with things like how much Sam smells, his ridiculous height, and so on.
Which means he wants attention.
Sam’s trying to prove that he doesn’t cave so easily but God, between the constant pounding of the rain on their roof (and the drip of a slow leak over the ridiculously loud bathtub) and Dean’s increasingly out of tune singing, he’s had about all he can take.
“Dean, please shut up. Just. Shut. Up.” Doesn’t even bother to turn around and look at him, because that means giving Dean more than he wants. “George Strait you ain’t.”
“Wasn’t even imitating him, Sammy. Supposed to be Randy Travis.” Dean resumes singing, quiet, then suddenly really, really loud, and Sam sighs, counts to five before he stands up and stretches - doesn’t miss how Dean got quiet really fast too.
“Well, your impression sucks. Take it to Nashville and see how far you get.” Sam goes over to the bed and crawls up so that he’s hovering over Dean, up on his hands and knees. “What?”
“Nothin’. Just. You’re over here now, and I like that better.”
“I was over there because you’re on my fucking nerves.”
Dean grins, hands going up to Sam’s shoulders and squeezing his delts. “What’s your deal, man? Been avoidin’ me all day. Was it cause I flushed the toilet when you were showering this morning? Cause I really am sorry about that one, ‘specially since the hot water ain’t so great here.”
Sam sighs, and rolls so that he’s laying on Dean’s right, shotgun to driver. “Can I ask you this without you thinking it’s something I’m making a big deal out of?”
“Sammy, you make everything a big deal.”
“Just. Shut up. Listen.” Sam props up on his side, right hand laying on Dean’s belly. “Is there something that you want from me, something we haven’t done or… talked about before? Cause I don’t remember you being this… pliant, before. Letting me drive.” Speaking in metaphors without it being a metaphor is a tough job, but it’s not like Dean can run away from him now. They’re having this conversation, and Dean’s going to have to give him an answer one way or the other.
Dean looks up at him, the fingers of his right hand tracing the veins in Sam’s forearm, chewing his lip while he searches for an answer. Sam’s willing to wait, if it’s an honest one. “I mean… seein’ you all grown up like that, Sam, it messed with me. Cause this whole time you were… you’ve been my Sammy, not somethin’ or someone else.” He finally manages to look at Sam, eyes greener than green, open, sincere, and that mouth, Christ, pink and pillow soft. “You still are but… I don’t think I was ready for all of. This.” Gestures towards Sam’s outstretched body, folded up to curve alongside him as best he can. “I’m not complaining.”
Warmth bursts in Sam’s chest, the beating of his heart drowning out the sound of the rain nailing the roof. Dean’s giving him this smoky hot look, Sam’s hand hovering at his waistline. “No.”
When Sam leans down to kiss him, Dean opens up fast, and Sam isn’t even sure that he really answered his question - but it doesn’t take all that much to figure out that Dean’s got a thing for him being able to overwhelm him with such ease now. As the kiss deepens, Sam takes the chance and moves his hand further down between Dean’s legs, pressing in under his balls, and even with his jeans on, Dean’s still molten hot there, thighs spreading when Sam rubs near his hole.
“Anyone been there before, Dean?”
Dean whimpers, fingers urgent when they wrap around Sam’s wrist. “No. God, no, Sammy, just you. Only one I wanted to…”
“Pop your cherry?”
Dean bites on his bottom lip, and Sam knows he’s found the right answer. “Shit, Dean. ” Bites back at him, hard, breath loud through his nostrils, going right for Dean’s belt. “Want me inside you?”
It’s been a long, long time since Sam topped a guy, and wasn’t anything like Dean. A twink that Sam didn’t even have all that much weight on, but he’d been bendy and willing and took Sam surprisingly well. Dean’s never been a twink in his life, and Sam’s painfully aware of how well built Dean would be for that. To just. Take his cock over and over again and come up begging for more.
Dean helps Sam get his jeans and boxers off, cock smacking his belly and already dripping precome. He’s flushed deep pink, cut pretty like Sam is, the exact same as when Sam was fifteen and just learning how to give decent fucking head. Spent a hell of a lot of time with Dean in his mouth, alternating between his mouth, his cock, his balls - all of that got honed in California.
Gorgeous like the rest of him, and Sam indulges the possessive warmth rockets through him with another kiss. “Tell me somethin’, Dean - you ever messed with yourself, down there?”
Dean shifts, makes sure Sam’s long, long fingers are as close to his ass as they can be. “You really think this is some idle curiosity? Shit, Sam, I wore out… there were toys. Were. Either lost ‘em or had to toss ‘em, haven’t used the one I’ve got now since I picked you up. Cause it’s not you.”
Holy fucking shit.
“Need it, don’t you?” Sam drags his middle and index fingers down, right over the hot, dry pucker of Dean’s hole. Barely any fucking hair down there, and so much the better. “God, Dean why didn’t you fuckin’ say something?”
Shame actually makes Dean turn red, and Sam really, really doesn’t think he should find that quite as arousing as he does. “Not supposed to want it like that, Sam.”
“Dean, hey.” Sam kisses him, sweet, slow and dirty, pulling Dean away from that headspace. “‘S okay if you do. You think I’m not gonna want to see you on my cock? Think less of you for wanting, needing to be filled up?” He rubs harder, wishing like hell he had some lube. Spit and precome are all they’ve been working with lately, and they haven’t actually stuck anything anywhere. Not yet.
That’s about to fucking change.
Dean whines so honestly, so prettily and Sam’s weak for that. God, Dean acts like he’s in fucking heat the longer Sam teases his hole, and it’s cruel, to not give over and start opening him up. Sam doesn’t have any condoms (they burned in the fire, and he hasn’t gotten any since) and no lube - which means Dean’s gonna have to be the prepared one this time.
“Tell me you’ve got something.” Sam has to make that call now, or he’s not getting up until Dean’s spent himself however he can make it happen.
Dean sits up, kicks his jeans off from around his ankles. Shirt goes with it too, and he’s naked, a fucking sculpture come to life. Dean naked in full daylight, hell, Sam’s breath steals out of his lungs. He bends over to look through his duffel (and what a fucking sight that is) and promptly comes back to the bed, laying back down next to Sam as he puts the lube right in his hand.
“Rubbers I’ve got ain’t gonna fit you, so we’re improvising today.” Takes Sam’s free hand and sucks three fingers right into his mouth, tongue swirling around them just like if it was his dick. Fucking. Hell. Sam’s dick jumps in his sweats, eye contact never breaking as Dean sucks him all the way down to his knuckles, better than any porn Sam’s ever watched before. Keeps Sam’s hand right where he wants it, only letting go when he gets tired and replaces it with Sam’s tongue in his mouth.
Filthy hot, and Sam can’t begin to want him any other way.
He keeps the kiss going, turning Dean over onto his back and making him hike his leg up, full fucking access for what he’s about to do. Dean looks fucking decadent, ass up, dick throbbing, moaning into Sam’s teeth when he finally gets around to adding lube to a couple of his fingers and catching the tips just inside his tight rim. Sam catalogues that information away for later, rocking his fingers in slowly, noticing that half the bottle is gone already.
And it’s lube expressly for anal play, too, which means Dean’s only ever used this by himself.
Sam’s going to die from the images playing in his own mind long before some monster does the job. He burns with a million different questions, wants to know what Dean likes the most, fingers or his toy, what position he does it in - and yet, none of it matters, not when Sam’s already sliding in two fingers and opening him up with a slowness Sam’s damned sure is as torturous for Dean as it is him.
Dean clings to him, doing his best to ride Sam’s knuckles, finally tearing his mouth away and letting out a moan that makes Sam’s whole body light up. “Fucking Christ, Sam, move. ” Dean bites at his jaw, whimpers when Sam sinks his teeth into his neck, adds more lube and slides in a third, fucking faster, deeper, crooking until he’s found his prostate. Dean’s a shaky mess, hasn’t put a hand on himself.
“Touch, Dean, ‘s okay.”
Dean slams his mouth back into Sam’s, biting out don’t need to.
“ More, Sam.”
Dean’s ass is a wreck. Sam can tell without even looking down, knows exactly how gaped open he’s getting. His fingers are squelchy with lube and it, God, it isn’t hard to add a fourth. Knuckles deep, wrist slicked and this is quickly getting to a line that Sam’s not sure he wants to cross, but at four, Dean stops begging and just sobs into Sam’s neck and ear, pumping his hips on Sam’s fingers, breath catching higher and higher until he tenses all the way down; comes spurts all over his naked belly, thick, white ropes that Sam’s brought up from a place deep inside him. Dean’s voice is lost somewhere halfway through and Sam just kisses him, not stopping until Dean’s collapsed to the bed and his chest is heaving, ass clenched around Sam’s fingers and giving him a look that dares Sam to take them out.
Sam can’t touch himself, his other arm around Dean’s shoulders - not that it’s gonna take much. Dean manages to piece enough of himself back together to pull the waistband of his sweats down and get a hand around him, taking all of ten seconds to stroke Sam off and make him come everywhere. Blinding pleasure has Sam bent over Dean, bodies smushed and stuck together, right as a fresh clap of thunder makes the lights dim.
There’s got to be some sort of poetry in that. Has to.
Dean’s slow to come back up, and only with an effort does he let Sam go to pull him over on top of him, both of them a sticky, spunk-tinged mess. “You’re buying fucking condoms, Sam. All of ‘em you can get.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if we just skipped ‘em?” Hell, taking his brother bare - that’s almost enough to bone him right back up.
“No glove, no love, Sam. You know better than that.” Dean’s a hard positive on that, and yeah, Sam does know. Risk is too big, and it’s not like either one of them have set foot in a testing clinic recently. “But I’m serious. Soon as this rain stops. And lube. Lots of it.”
That Dean just came his fucking brains out and is already thinking about getting his ass stuffed again, Sam has to admire that.
But it’s not like he doesn’t want to see just how far and honestly he can break Dean down, either.
Sam’s mission to find condoms proves to be a more frustrating than he had intended.
His intention was to go around, store to store, and buy up as many as he possibly could. Because if things are going to be like they were before, he and Dean are going to be at each other as often as they can. Poster children for addiction, especially when it comes to each other’s bodies. God, just going down on each other is a hell of an experience and fucking… Sam remembers enough of how it was before. How wild, messy, desperate they got. How Dean’s body, breath, scent, followed him all the way to Palo Alto and stuck with him through a whole hell of a lot more than it should have.
It takes time, to come back and down from that. From Dean. Just fingering him, making him come without a hand on himself had been a fucking high, and to hear Dean beg after - Sam’s burning with purpose, and he has to get inside him as soon as he can. Doesn’t matter that they both fucking came their brains out, Sam doesn’t want anything else right now. How could he?
He finally comes across a drug store, not another car in the parking lot (it’s raining just enough to not be dangerous anymore) and he wheels the Impala to a stop, feeling weird as hell walking in without Dean. At Dean’s firm insistence, he had made this trip alone. Something about needing to get ready - but he had given Sam two hundred dollars to buy all the lube and rubbers he can with it. Which isn’t gonna be much, considering that Magnums aren’t cheap anyway.
Sam is going to do the best that he can.
There’s only the clerk at the front (who doesn’t even look up from his magazine) and the pharmacy folks, so Sam goes right to the condoms, fingers twitching. Picks up the dark black and gold boxes, both the smaller ones and the couple of twenty four packs that are on the shelf; Dean uses the plain blue ones, and he wonders if he should get one for him, just in case he feels like giving it up for Dean.
Considering the hungry look that he left Dean with after showering, there’s probably not much of a chance. Their dynamic has shifted enough so that both he and Dean are pretty confident that this is how it’s going to be for a while. Dean, a fucking bottom. It still blows his goddamn mind, no matter how much he turns it over in his head. It’s not… a complete surprise. Dean always did have a thing for being instructed, moved, pinned - that last summer, when Sam was finally nose to nose with him, Sam was on top a lot more than Dean had him on his back. Of course, Sam was still bottoming back then, but he was the one calling the shots. He had felt mighty fucking powerful at the time, that he was the one who got to bend and taste Dean however he wanted, as much as he wanted.
On a very fundamental level, not much has changed, save for them both getting their shit together in order to be a little more honest about what they really want from each other. Maybe there has been some maturity that’s kicked in, and Sam won’t have to spend so much time picking Dean’s brain until he gets a firm answer. Sure, they lie out of necessity to each other a lot but not together, not like that. Sam can take a lot but having Dean hold out on him because he’s ashamed or doesn’t want to admit to how much he likes something, Sam won’t have it.
He sighs, picks up a basket that someone abandoned nearby and starts to fill it up. Sweeps all the lube off the shelf too, even if it isn’t the special one that Dean had - it’ll do for now. Shouldn’t be hard just going fucking shopping, but Sam knows what’s on the tail end of this trip. Dean, his, only his, for as long as he wants him. Hell, once probably isn’t going to be enough.
But he’s nervous. This isn’t his first time topping, but it’s still Dean. Talking about it, imagining it, all different from actually doing, and Sam very badly doesn’t want to fuck this one up. Can’t. Sam doesn’t fear Dean thinking he’s going to be bad at it, but there’s a lot of nerves and history and well, himself to try and get over. It still feels like a dream, that he’s getting to do this in the first place but - what if he can’t. What if the intimidation of popping Dean’s cherry isn’t…
He gets a grip before he starts knocking things off the shelf. Buying this many condoms at one time is traumatizing enough as it is, and Sam doesn’t need to draw more attention. He grips the basket firmly and goes up the counter, has to clear his throat to get the cashier’s attention - who lights up in a big damn hurry when he sees Sam, and grins even brighter when he sees what he’s buying.
“Some people have all the luck.”
He - Christian, according to his nametag- rings up Sam way slower than he should, and Sam pretends to not see him checking him out every three seconds. The guy’s cute, but all of Sam’s desires are currently Dean shaped. He gives him the total - finally - and Sam really, really can’t believe he spent that much money on condoms at one time. Not his fault. Dean’s.
He doesn’t even manage a thank you as he goes back out into the rain, and has to sit behind the wheel for a long moment to pull himself together. His dick is fucking throbbing already, and Dean’s a solid twenty minutes away, because it’s fucking Arkansas and nothing is close to its neighbor, it seems.
His phone rings, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.
“‘D you get em?”
Dean’s voice is all hot urgency, and Sam finally starts the car up. “Yeah, I… yeah. It took me a while to find a place that had enough.” Backs out of the space, palms sweaty. “I’m coming, right now.”
“Okay.” A pause, followed by a shaky breath. “Sammy, hey… listen, I… I tried to tell you earlier. Couldn’t. But I’m glad we’re doin’ it like this. Somethin’ I’ve been thinking about for a really fuckin’ long time and I’m glad it’s you. Taking my. You know.”
Heat claws at Sam’s stomach, and he drops a hand to grind the heel of his palm against his dick. “Your virginity?”
Dean moans, and Sam hears the faint click of the lube being opened. “Just hurry. ”
Were it not for the rain-slick pavement, Sam’s foot would be through the floorboard. He has just enough sense left to not wreck the fucking care before he even gets there and lose out on the experience, but that fast, desperate beat in Dean’s voice right before he hung up - Sam’s hardwired to haul ass when he sounds like that.
And he certainly doesn’t remember Dean getting fucking dressed before he left, either.
Just means that there isn’t any good or easy way for him to get back to Dean quickly enough.
Back tracing to the hotel takes more effort than it should (it’s not like it’s super easy to get lost in this part of the country) and Sam’s fighting his own growing arousal the entire time, gut rolling and mouth dry. God knows what Dean was doing with that lube - Sam’s brain very helpfully supplies about ten thousand different images, none of them sweet or innocent. He ends up shoving his hand down the front of his jeans, holding his cock until he finally reaches the motel parking lot, parked crooked, nearly tripping in his haste to get out of the car. He grabs his overloaded shopping bag and beats it for the door, knocking fast to let Dean know its him before he fishes his room key out of his pocket.
Sam forces a few deep breaths down before he steps in, the bed tucked off behind a thin wall before he steps in.
He’s glad that he did take a second to breathe, because there’s not much to prepare him for the sight that greets him one he’s in.
Dean’s sprawled out on the bed, still just as naked as he was when Sam left him. His amulet hangs heavy around his neck, center chest, following the movements of Dean’s pecs as he breathes. His cock lays hard on his belly, leaking precome, legs thrown apart and there, fuck, Dean’s toy. Big fucking dildo that has his toes curling every time he pushes it back inside, his eyes closed, licking and biting his lips, sharp little gasps and moans punched out of his chest as he rocks it slow, steady, his other hand gripping his nuts tightly.
Sam isn’t sure if he should be pissed for Dean not waiting or overjoyed that he got to see this version of Dean, greedy to have his hole stuffed and not able to hold out until Sam got back.
“Want me to go so you can finish up?” Sam’s got his free hand on his crotch, stroking through his jeans as he approaches the bed. Dean looks up at him, eyes still half closed. “I’ve waited this long, so…” Sam can’t stop looking, his brother’s hole all stretched and pink around the toy. One day, he will sit back and watch properly, let Dean see what he could have but chose for himself.
Dean pulls his dildo all the way out, hole clenching around nothing, lube-wet, the look on his face moving from desperate at the emptiness to smug at how turned on he’s just made Sam. Fucker. “You really gettin’ jealous over silicone?”
“Seem s to me like you’re having plenty of fun all by yourself.” Sam drops his bag on the foot of the bed, stripping fast, his keys, pistol, everything landing on the patchy carpet with dull thumps. “Unless you forgot what I’d left for.”
“Like hell.” Dean sits up pulls Sam towards him, settling back against the pillows and putting Sam between his legs. “Figured I’d help things along.”
Alright, fine. Sam can live with that. “Can do it better than you.” He nips at Dean’s jaw, hands on Dean’s hips and rolling them, needing Dean’s weight on top of him.
And because he really, really likes to be ridden. Christ, Dean fucking himself on his cock has been seared into his brain for weeks now, and Sam’s got zero intention of letting that fantasy die.
Sam picks up a box of condoms and opens it, Dean leaning down and working pure sin with his teeth, up along his jaw and earlobe. Keeps his eyes open when Sam picks off one of the gold foil packets and pulls the condom out, his own blood keeping his dick steady as he rolls it down his shaft. Dean gasps when he snugs it around the bottom, a hot fuck, Sammy breathed against his mouth when he sees just how tight it is around Sam's dick.
Even with the intention of its design, a Magnum is still a near uncomfortably tight fit - and Dean is getting that much more turned on because of it. God, it might kill Sam before they're even done, so goddamn hard that he feels every beat of his heart bedded in the latex.
"So fuckin' big." Dean lubes him up, kissing Sam with all the tongue he's got while he coats his dick. Adds a little more to his already slick covered hole, the excess smearing down his thighs. Sam moans when Dean shuffles up and guides him right to his hole, sinking down and back - hotwetperfect the only thing that Sam is conscious of, nothing but Dean and how goddamn tight he is, all his - and how easy it is to be greedy about it.
They have to stop and take a long, blood-pounding breath, connected in a way that Sam feels like it means a whole hell of a lot more than it ever did in their time before. Dean finds his mouth again, kisses him a little slower, a heavy, needed weight against Sam's body. Sam finds his hips and squeezes tight, because words have lost whatever meaning they might have - what could he say?
"Got you, Sammy." Dean starts to move, dead slow, crying a bitten off little sound as he shifts and Sam finds all of these places inside him that haven't been felt before. Sam grips his hips more tightly, watches Dean straighten up and arch his back. He's a fucking vision, sweat dripping, hips snaking, indulging with his whole being at how goddamn big Sam feels inside him.
Sam plants his heels into the mattress and places his right hand at the base of Dean's throat, fucking up into him right as he pulls Dean's mouth back into his.
"Should have known you'd be a goddamn greedy slut for it, Dean. Saw that dildo, makin' you gape for me." He steals a hard kiss from Dean's lips, takes back control when he bucks and shifts Dean's weight just enough to let Dean know he isn't calling the shots right now. "Ride me like you're fuckin' made for it."
"You really gonna kink shame me right now?" Dean squeezes around Sam, growls when Sam smacks him on the ass. "Fuckin' right I want that big goddamn dick in me." Shuts Sam up with a kiss that nearly brings his rhythm to a halt, grinds down and back and makes Sam see things he hasn't before. Makes him tighten his grip on his throat, swallows the harder that Dean licks across his tongue like pure wildfire.
Sam loses track of where they start and end, not really caring about how their breaths, their edges, how and when the kisses end or start. He's being consumed whole, undone by every movement of Dean's hips, the wet, possessive cut of his tongue in his mouth. His orgasm starts as a slow, rolling burn deep down in his body, huge, urgent, gathering and gathering in power. Dean's close too, voice punched up high by the squeeze of Sam's fingers at his windpipe, hunched down close so that Sam can't let his mouth go.
Dean's dick sears a brand against Sam's stomach, trapped and leaking between them. Dean starts to reach for himself - "Just on my cock, Dean. Like you did on my fingers." Changes the angle ever so slightly, knows he's hitting Dean in the prostate with every stroke of his hips. "Come for me Dean, just like this."
The sound that Dean lets out makes Sam's skin electrify, bare seconds after Sam asks, spurting thick, white stripes over their bellies. Sam slams up, balls deep, as far as he can go, depth-crushed as wave after wave of pleasure rocks him. He can feel the condom fill over him, coated in his own body-hot come, sobbing DeanDeanDeanDean and then he falls, deep, downwards, pulling Dean right along with him.
There isn't a time in his life when he's felt release so utterly complete, and Dean can't stop kissing him, as laid open and exposed to Sam as Sam is to him. There's an honesty in each touch, and Sam knows him, his nature, keeps it to himself.
Dean only rolls off of him when he can't hold his body upright any longer. Sam doesn't move, one arm flung over Dean's come-sticky belly, breathing in pure, humid air as they come back to each other. Sweat seeps from every pore, into the bed, into Dean - and yet he still doesn't move.
Sam shushes Dean with a motion of his hand, not at all ready to speak yet. He's somewhere beyond afterglow, body still coursing with ecstasy. Dean does reach over and pull the condom off, tying it up and dropping in the direction of his discarded jeans - they can always find it later.
The need to say something hangs in the air along with the heavy, lingering air of sex. Sam closes his eyes, swallows, picking his words carefully.
"Sorry I kinda choked you out there."
Dean rubs his arm, tracing his veins again. "Hey, never said I didn't like it a little rough. You pick that dirty mouth up at school too?"
"Hey, some of it does come naturally." He finally feels collected enough to roll over on his side, actually check to see how Dean's doing. Dean's eyes are half opened, fingers of his left hand gingerly checking himself - when he winces, Sam feels it in sympathy. "Was I uh, too rough?"
"Nothin' a little rest and a beer won't fix - and stop looking at me like that Sam, I'm fine. No...crisis of masculinity here." Dean puts his leg down and gets Sam by the back of the head, another soft kiss - "we're good, baby boy."
"This mean I get to drive again?"
"The car? No. Me? Just as soon as I've got somethin' to come out again. This ain't over Sam." Every syllable scratches at the base of Sam’s neck like the start of the world’s best massage, making Sam kiss Dean with a hunger that he definitely shouldn’t be capable of feeling right now.
“How far do you think you can go, Dean?”
“Til I can’t anymore Sammy.”
Sam believes him, too.