Work Header

On The Road By Seven

Work Text:

Dean had said to himself four o'clock- four o'clock- four o'clock over and over as he'd fallen asleep last night. He couldn't set the alarm so he'd relied on his internal timing and now he stretched, muzzy half-asleep, a glance at the green digital glow telling him ten after four.

His smile distorted, low noise in his throat as muscles gathered oxygen in and in as his mouth pull-twitched sleepy while he yawned. He was half-hard, relaxed and comfy; Sam was fit to him, soles on the tops of his feet, calves to his shins, ass to his cock, back to his chest.

Dean's eyes shut and he nuzzled Sam's hair. His hands wandered, soaked in the warm texture of skin and lax muscles. Sam made noises, indistinct, tilt of the top shoulder to give Dean greater access.

What followed was natural, what Dean had woken up for, what they alone could find and give and have. It was a soft blur, dreamy haze - Sam rolling under Dean boosting over, wet kisses, Sam's legs open, Dean's knees to the mattress, cocks on their bellies as they held and thrust languid and lazy. Somewhere in there words, breath, heartbeats and Dean hadn't opened his eyes again, just felt and reveled and Sam, all around him.

Sam came first, unfurl release legs taut hips lifted, hand in Dean's hair, hand on Dean's back. They kissed - swallowed want and cries and a broken whine - and when Sam's lips closed, sucked, pulled around Dean's tongue he came seconds after.

They laughed, quiet warm chuckles, shifted so Sam snuggled under Dean's chin, legs tangled, spent cocks blood-hot tucked together, arms wrapped, hands aimless slow caresses.

The next time Dean's bleary gaze found the clock it was almost five. He was warm and content and already hard - wanted more always more - and the firm sit of Sam's answering hardness prodded into his thigh spurred him, hungered him.

Sam was sprawled on top of him, breath ragged an almost snore, sweet in his ear. Dean wriggled, spanned his hands over Sam, kissed as they tumbled. Sam smacked, hummed small sounds of assent, fell willing rolled over without waking up.

Dean levered onto his hands and drank in Sam, asleep and unaware, ruddy and beautiful. He pushed onto his heels, fingers and palms down down from slip-soft mop of hair over nipples, down down from coarse darker hair over cock, down down from golden-fine hairs on thighs over knees.

Sam's cheek burrowed into the pillow and his legs spread wider while Dean tickled the delicate span of stretched skin behind his knees. Sam's eyes fluttered open and he smiled, tilted and sighed, gazed down at Dean.

Dean smiled back, lowered, was caught and pulled the rest of the distance for a deep kiss.

Sam was into it now, more awake than not, quiet encouragement and soft moans, legs up so they framed Dean's hips. They rocked together, hands everywhere, mouths lost to smiles and sleepy-smile kisses. Thumbs flicked cocks, nipples, the puckers hidden between them, this secret.

Rhythm was easily found, easily maintained. Sam moved just enough left and Dean moved just enough right - now they could kiss, explore, hip-cant in and rub cocks, hip-cant out and find that sweetspot muscle groove.

It all was just right, this. The slip-fit of his cock back and forth, the slick-wet of Sam's cock branding his tummy, the world reduced to their breath and skin, kisses and heartbeats, their headlong sleepy rush up and over the brink.

Dean teethed the thin skin of Sam's neck, kissed behind Sam's ear, pushed his cheek to Sam's and stayed there, breath hot and thick trapped in pillow and the slope of Sam's skull. Sam's hands were at his hips, thumb deep kneads up and down along his exposed furrow-line while Dean fucked Sam's.

"Dean-" Sam whined, almost without sound, then he shook head to toe and stilled.

They turned to each other, broke-open kisses mostly tongue between breaths, and Dean grunted when he felt the twitch of Sam's cock then that first delicious lick of come hot on his belly.

He worked his hips and widened his shoulders back and pushed, pounded, came as Sam finished.

They rolled onto their sides, hands restless, sweaty beneath the blankets and they pressed closer. Dean kicked his feet free at the end, lifted in a sharp tug to create draw. He grinned at the swift of cool air that swept up their bodies that made Sam shiver into him, kisses on his neck broken and breathy made sweeter by a quick-pant gasp.

He hummed and murmured and had no idea what he was saying, never truly awake, riding sensation and instinct and knowing this - knowing Sam and them - so very well.

Sam tasted his sweat caught in the dimple of his collarbone, hummed and murmured back.

They drifted, staved off the full reclamation of sleep, lazed instead in a wallow of each other, blankets and a lumpy oversoft but comfortable mattress, and two whole pillows to share. The window let in cold morning air and the bright pale intrusion of dawn, no colors, only light.

Dean shifted and Sam tucked. Dean pushed his leg and Sam's spread to let it between. Dean breathed and Sam breathed in matched cadence.

Long stretches warm skin against skin and long stretches of endless minutes without time. They kissed and kissed and kissed, hands feeling without end.

"Boys?" and knuckle raps on their almost-closed door.

Dean muttered, lifted his head and Sam protested. He pressed his thumb over Sam's mouth, twisted to face the door.

"Yeah," he answered, voice thick and rough. He sounded like he'd just been woken up, not like he'd come twice and bliss-dozed in the hours of afterglow.

"Okay," was said, quiet but firm. Dad knew that's all it'd take to get Dean going, knew Dean would see to Sammy.

He fell back into the pillow, back against Sam's warmth. Their arms twined, held tight and Dean counted away a minute, then two. The brink of the fourth he kissed Sam's temple, jostled with his knee.

"C'mon, Sammy," he whispered, moved so he could look into Sam's face.

Sam scowled, eyes swim-thick with the lifting of sleep and the settling of petulance.

Dean smiled. "C'mon," he urged again, gentle, scootched backwards from the bed, leg crooked around so his toe could find the floor, roll-down onto his sole. He tugged Sam with him, loosening of blankets and loss of this moment. Their arms unraveled, let go, then Dean was standing, hand wrapped around Sam's bicep.

Sam followed him, fist rubbed in the corners of his eyes, pink lips soft pout, pink cheeks flushed with sleep and after-sex.

So vulnerable - perfect - so trusting. Dean's.

He groaned and his hand found its way up to its hold at Sam's nape, thumb to the jut of Sam's jaw beneath an ear, other arm around, hand down and splayed, tongue out to trace those bitten-sweet kiss-swollen lips.

Dean felt Sam's grin, felt Sam from the itch of his toes in the carpet to the itch of his scalp telling him good so good, warning him not to linger.

Arms to hands to fingers all over each other, skid of dried sweat and the whisper of dried come. Sam opened to his kiss, swipes and licks and tastes swapped, shared. Dean let his hand drift into Sam's hair, silky-soft ends that curled around his fingers, and he angled Sam with a swirled pull, took more, gave, took the kiss deeper.

Sam's hips rocked back and forth, bony-hard in the dent of Dean's thigh joint, cock hardening to rise, tease and meet Dean's.

"Boys? You up?"

Dean tore himself away with a curse. "Yeah- we're up," he managed through the labor of finding his breath.

"I want to be out of here and on the road by seven."

"Okay- we're going!" Dean yelled, more assertive but neutral, didn't sound annoyed or rushed.

Sam snickered. "Yup, definitely up." His smile heated and his eyes slanted, sloe-sultry, bite of his lower lip.

This was their last day here - this small apartment, Sam and Dean's room, one bed, Dad far away in the living room at the end of the hall on the sofa, tv blaring all night. It's why Dean had been so adamant to wake early, have Sam and here and them one last time before they moved on, before Dad hustled them up and into the car and on down the road to somewhere- nowhere- else.

He clenched his teeth, bit down until his ears crackled.

"God, Sammy-" He caught Sam's lips in a desperate kiss, leaned in so he could lift with his arm cradled under Sam's ass.

Sam knew just what to do, hands cupped Dean's shoulders, arms flex strong, feet push-away from the floor.

Dean spun around and control-crashed them into the door, shut it the rest of the way; one of Sam's legs hooked around him, heel dug into the small of his back, the other down to catch the bend of Dean's knee. They kissed sloppy and hurried, breath harsh in their lungs, hot, rough through their noses. Their hands found their cocks, each other, and they fisted and jerked. Hips up-slam stutter of nerves, and after this long morning and two rounds already it wouldn't take long.

They thrust in circle-grinds and Sam bit Dean's tongue, fingernails vibrant scratches down his chest. Dean slammed harder, leaked tear wet down his cheek, salty trail to meet sweat and mingle with their almost - now strain of need.

Dean's head fell back as he came - it hurt, nearly dry, tense pulse from somewhere so far within he couldn't name it - and he sucked in air and choked down a cry of completion. Sam's mouth was hot and slippery around his nose, his brow, tongue-trace across his cheek then it all closed over Dean's earlobe. He shuddered, tightened his hand.

"C'mon Sammy," he whispered, bent in, nipped Sam's neck.

Sam's knees bowed open and his toes clenched while his hips popped, head a dull thud on the door, throat bared in a tense arch. Dean watched, eyes hooded lids low, savored when Sam's face screwed up in a potent pleasure mix of abandon and exertion that Dean alone had seen. Sam came like Dean had - painful, so good, bare slick of bluish-white wet heat on Dean's thumb-swipe over the slit.

They kissed and Sam slid down the door, squeak of sweaty flesh against the cheap fuse-board.

Dean slowed them, kissed one corner of Sam's mouth, then the other. He closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to Sam's. They swayed, a moment, found their breath and tamed the deafening thunder of their hearts.

Dean's nose nudged behind Sam's ear. "Think you can make it to the shower without running into walls?" His voice was soft, teasing, and what he meant was without Dad catching you.

Sam laughed and nodded and pushed Dean, stole a kiss, then ducked under an arm still outstretched, hand braced against the door. Dean circled under, let it fall, rested against the door.

They stared for a moment, naked and filthy covered with each other, Dad out there and this good place - another good one in the long line mix of good, okay, terrible - almost behind them. Then Sam smiled, reached out to feel a finger down the curve of Dean's flank.

"Thanks, Dean," he said, eyes twinkling with much more than satisfaction.

Dean flushed over, didn't mind the blush that made Sam's smile widen, scrubbed through his hair nape forward then back down. "Yeah." He shrugged, twinkled in reply. Then he knocked Sam's hand and winked. "Now get, before Dad thinks we fell back to sleep."

Sam stretched and yawned, arms over his head, body lithe ripples in the sunlight now dusky with early yellow-orange, turned on the ball of his foot. Dean shook his head and tried not to think about it. He opened the door, landed a kiss in Sam's hair, pushed with the thick of his hand against the small of Sam's back and didn't slide down to pinch one of those perfect asscheeks.

He waited next to the door until he heard the shower, knew that Sam had crept safe and undetected. Dean stepped into yesterday's boxers, thought about their sheets nasty and crinkle-dry by the time the landlord got around to laundering them for the next tenant. He stripped the bed, gave the linens a good shake-snap, then folded everything and left it in a pile on the mattress. Wouldn't be the first time someone left treats in the bedding and they'd be long gone before anything could be said, anyway.

Dean packed the rest of their stuff, his and Sam's dirty clothes from the past few days in the small duffel, the big one already out in the trunk stuffed with three hours' effort at the nearby laundromat. Their clothes for today were on the dresser, shoes next to the wall, ready to go.

When the drone of water and clank of pipes cut Dean poked his head out the door, looked up and down the hall. He could hear Sam in the bathroom, could hear Dad in the kitchen. He hustled to the bathroom, slipped inside and past Sam, dew-drops all over towel to face, hiding them from each other.

The water ran hard and hot and Dean showered fast, last of the soap a splinter molded to his palm. There was a draft of cold when Sam left, nothing said nothing needed, and Dean closed his eyes and let the shower massage his shoulders. He thought he could talk Dad into letting Sam have driving practice once gone from this town whose name he hadn't bothered to learn and there was nothing ahead or around them but open road.