Dean drives Sam away from the last open smoking grave down the highway. They flee like they're running from something, on a skid that lasts weeks and weeks and catapults them into the unknown future. They drive because they drive because they drive, and they hunt because they hunt and because they hunt.
They alternate chunks of time, nights where they get roaring drunk and nights where they get covered in cobwebs followed by nights digging dirt out of the crevices in their fingernails. They never stop moving. They're on a high doing what they've done best for nigh on two years now, they're hustling the world together, they're playing their cards close to their chests and they know all each other's tells, they're playing right into each other's hands.
It's one night when they slide out of the front seat after exactly zero near-misses and nobody on the road to see them swerving back to their motel, that stumbling against each other inside the motel room Dean manages to knock Sam and his hilariously high center of gravity facedown onto the bed - his bed.
"Hey, get off, fucker," Dean growls, pushing Sam's legs towards the edge while Sam curses with a face full of nasty hotel comforter, having been unarmed and unable to catch himself.
They end up on the floor with legs tangled up and pressing, rolling around to get the better hand, then wrestling for the better grip with their legs. They're drunk and neither of them has brought anyone back to the motel with them, or anywhere else. Not all this week, though they'd had only this chance to after they finished the hunt last night and bummed around, keeping an eye on their work to make sure it didn't get un-done. Not this whole time, even, before this speed-away started, Dean's resolution to outrun time and the road as they kept driving.
So it's been a while, in that way, and now the grave-digging soreness of their bodies has worn off, leaving the smell of old, worn-in sweat and deodorant in their shirts. Drunk and full of victory, it's very easy not to notice pain and to go for pleasure. The excuses Dean makes to himself are those, and: this seems the easiest way to do it.
They don't get off. They grind against each other while grappling, rubbing and pressing together nearly till it hurts because it feels so good. The animal reflex in it, the succumbing to sensation, is not so far from all the nonstop hunting they've been doing. Pursuing the pleasurable routines of life to suck the marrow out.
Dean's back arches and his head falls into the corner of Sam's neck and shoulder and the hair at his nape tickles him, soaked wet with sweat. The tang there stirs Dean and thrums in his blood, makes his skin and muscles tingle, and he sticks his tongue there to get the salt of it. He hones in on the other familiar good thing in this room, his favorite thing in life, Sam, his brother, Sam.
Fuck, he's got his mouth on his little brother.
Yet it takes him a few seconds to stop grinding and Sam hasn't even noticed, still moaning and making these little intent grunts, the kind he makes that Dean doesn't even think Sam notices, while intent on a task like shoveling dirt out of a grave, cleaning their guns and hauling their gear. He can hear it as up close as he ever has now, and there's a breathiness to it that makes him shiver, something unusual, Sam's voice slipping in to put it on edge.
They seem to realize at the same moment that though they're going slowly, whisky dick and all at the end of a long day, they're headed nowhere good. Dean's head is spinning and he pulls back, straddles Sam's hips with his knees. It's shockingly hard to stop himself rubbing against Sam and responding in kind to the writhe and thrust of his brother's hips. He closes his eyes, blinks hard, holds a hand to his head.
Sam groans under him.
"Shit," Dean says, wincing, and Sam's wriggling leads him to squirm out from under Dean, knock Dean's leg away, draw his own knees up and plant his feet on the floor. "Fucking drunk," Dean says, or something like that, he barely remembers in the morning. They pulled away and quit before things get bad - before they get sick and drunk, or worse, increasingly sober only to realize what exactly just happened.
Deans stupid drunk brain doesn't know not to think about the grunts and small whimpering moans that came out of Sam's mouth, or the way his body felt close and hot and right there underneath Dean. They were wrestling each other, going at it not running away. He could manage to convince himself barely that it was just wrestling with some unexpected hard-ons, but the next day, nursing a decent hangover, he also realized that it just meant their wrestling was suspicious all along.
It's not how a man gets turned-on, but what he wants when he's turned on, right? And Dean didn't want that for him and Sam. He wanted to mess his brother's hair up and shove him around a little and then go to sleep. He wanted the greasy hangover breakfast while Sam ate eggs and pancakes, he wanted to argue about coffee, to start and end the day with his brother in the shotgun seat, if he wasn't giving Dean's eyes a rest and driving for a couple hundred miles. Dean wanted someone he could tease and lord it over and not fucking worry about more than he already did, which you'd think wasn't possible with Sam (don't tell him that) but it was, apparently it goddamn was.
After driving his head crazy through the reasonable course of the next day's hangover, Dean puts it behind him as a one-time thing. It's not going to happen again that night, and it doesn't, doesn't even come close. Same goes for the next night and the next and all the nights for three weeks.
There still aren't any girls though.
Sam isn't normally one to make a loud deal about jerking off in their motel room but he is - must not have gotten enough time to wring it out in the shower, dean thinks, and remembers banging on the bathroom door yelling at Sam that they've got a creature sighting on the scanner and better move now. No, no time for that earlier, but day after day and Dean'd be getting annoyed that Sam feels the need to jerk off in the bed next to him almost every night. Hell, maybe it is every night, but Dean sometimes passes out real soon like a log, or maybe Sam finishes while Dean is in the shower. Seems often enough. Dean doesn't mind though. It's a weird thing. It's curious, he's curious about it. The rustle of the sheets, yeah, and the quiet slick wet sound of Sam's hand on his dick. Sam's breath coming faster, determined, not wild and let-loose but tight and efficient.
The routine and ignorable nature of it all falls apart at the end though, and Dean turns over onto his stomach as he hears the slick slide of Sam's hand go faster and louder, and he pushes his hips against the mattress as he hears Sam's mouth fall open wet and hears Sam gasp once, then choke it off.
Dean lets the twinge in his groin pass, hopes for sleep. The twinge isn't his, it's not for him, it's just the contagion of Sam's arousal trying to keep him from sleep. He cups a hand around his dick, lies on it, holds himself twitching interested. But Dean and sleep have got it beat, and he falls asleep before he's truly hard.
When Dean asks two days later if Sam wants to go to a bar, have some drinks, meet some girls, Sam brushes it off without an excuse. Not a "you go, I've got research," or "you can meet the girls, I'll bring some research", not a "we have to stay in and do some research" - his standard excuses. No, just, "nah." Just not interested.
Dean frowns. "How about we just go to the bar and have some drinks, no chicks? Play a game of pool?"
Sam shrugs again, and Dean says, "I'll take that as a yes. C'mon, I'm not gonna let you research all night too." He's restless from all the time they spent in the library earlier, interviewed everyone he could think to interview, was ready to go shoot some ghosts with rock salt first, ask questions about how they came to be restless later. But first, a night on the town.
They do live it up, at Dean's insistence, and Dean works Sam up from a game of cards to a game of pool, just playing each other, then back to the game of cards. The place is warm and the booths are close, and their legs are long while Sam's legs are stupid long, knocking his knees between Dean's necessarily, Dean letting it buzz up good through him. He watches Sam relax and open up and even laugh some, god, what a vanity play. He's just trying to get the kid to relax, enjoy himself.
Dean had kind of hoped to try to set his brother up, catch his eye on a pretty girl, but there's no one either of their type there tonight, and really, Dean thinks, it's best for Sam to just relax.
Sam's hand brushes his grabbing for some new cards, and the touch is like an electric shock, lingering even.
Sam meets his eyes and Dean realizes that of all the places he thought his plan could have taken them tonight, they were really only going one place, and he wanted to get back there to the motel real soon.
They finished the game and finished their beers, Dean's foot jiggling the whole way, buzzing with energy. Sam was fidgeting too, more restless than excited but Dean kept up his little touches - almost something he'd use on a girl but quicker, more subtle, interspersed with more back-pounding - everything he'd given Sam in the past now coming to be deployed again, his set of tools, his ways with Sam. Dean kept up his touches and kept Sam in smiles and gleaming eyes, and Dean doesn't know how he convinced Sam he wanted to head back together now when Dean was so obviously wired but it was the same chemistry that kept them rolling at breakneck speeds down these roads, running from everything else but still together, still pulling towards each other.
Dean lets Sam reach the door first so Dean can shut the door behind them. He reaches in to the mini-fridge where they've still got a couple of beers, always on hand, always, opens them both, hands one to Sam.
Sam quirks a brow and his lips at Dean like Yeah, so what're you going to do now? It's after midnight. Dean sets his beer down, only one large gulp taken. He takes Sam's beer back, which Sam only mildly protests, considering he hadn't even asked.
Dean backs Sam up against his bed, the one closest to the door, feels the push and pull of coming close to Sam as Sam moves away in response, only to drop down on Dean's bed. They're both still pleasantly buzzed, nowhere near as drunk as they've been. Sam pushes at Dean's legs, trying to push his brother aside, but Dean comes closer and stands one leg between Sam's spread knees, one leg bracketing Sam's right.
"Come on, Dean," Sam says, pushing Dean's knees away. Dean pushes Sam's arms away, and then they grip each other, Sam struggling to stand, Dean struggling to stay near, till Sam manages to twist Dean's arms up and away and Dean lands on the bed, and Sam rolls over him to try to knock him off.
They push at each other till they do roll off, Sam pinning Dean and then Dean pinning Sam, play-fighting and grinning and grunting. Dean would like to imagine but he can't, because he knows, he's cognizant of his own intentions now - he'd like to imagine Sam's breathing speeds, up, his grinning grows stronger, his voice warmer, his hands more everywhere, because Sam remembers how this goes, because he wants it too.
Dean manages to flip them and hold his place on top briefly, briefly enough to pin Sam's shoulders and say, "You gonna need a little help getting to sleep tonight, Sam?"
"What?" Sam says, still grunting brotherly, trying to buck Dean but not trying his hardest.
Dean's hand tightens on Sam's bicep and he rolls his hips. Sam's hands stop grasping, and they're breathing heavy and Dean moves his hand down to cup Sam's dick. It's half hard, still trapped in his jeans.
Sam gasps and Dean see his chest heave in his t-shirt, his mouth opening, gleaming wet. "What the hell?"
"Sam, you gotta know you're driving me crazy with all that noise at night."
"You coulda said -"
"Mm, I am saying. Now, you need a little help?"
Sam doesn't say anything, goes from wide-eyed and protesting to closed eyes and gasping as Dean puts pressure on his dick, the heel of his hand, the fingers pressing further down between his legs, gentle but firm.
"Just say no, Sam, and I'll -" Dean gulps.
Nnngh, Sam moans, and Dean shudders. Sam moves under him, rising up against him, and Dean sits back to open the fly on Sam's jeans and gets his hand around Sam's cock.
Sam cries out and clutches the carpet, eyes still squeezing tight. Dean leans down and forward, his face closer to Sam's face, his body lined up with Sam's. His own dick is hard, filling so fast as soon as he got his hand on Sam's.
Dean bows his head over Sam, looks down at his own hand and sees it around his brother's red wet cock, and it shakes him up but shakes him up good. This isn't a thing he's ever done before yet he feels brought back to that night, when they had no clue what they were doing, too drunk to figure it out maybe, or too drunk to admit it, or too drunk to finish.
The smell of Sam and that salty sweat and the something else, fuck, Sam's sour pre-come leaking out onto his hand and the scent of it in the air - that's the one he's been sniffing for, every night Sam wrings one out in the bed next to his and dean thrusts his hips against the mattress.
Fuck, does he love this. Fuck, he wants it.
Sam's neck is long and straining, his head tipped back, his teeth gritted like he's in pain. His eyes are squeezed near shut and he looks in agony.
"Shhh," Dean says without thinking, like calming an animal. He drops his mouth to Sam's shoulder and the joint of it with his neck, to the sweat there, latches on with his lips, licks like he did the first time he realized he was getting in too deep with his brother.
Sam lets out a sound like he's been punched in the gut. Surprised by lust, not gritting-out-groaning but downright moaning "Dean," and then Sam's hands are all over him, unfrozen from clutching at the carpet, grabbing Dean's shoulder and across his back. "Yes, Dean, fuck, yes okay," and Dean doesn't hush him anymore.
"Yeah, god, Sam, come on." He pulls and squeezes and Sam's hot wet mouth moves against his ear, and a full-body shudder goes through him. Sam's arms are wrapped around him and they're bucking and rolling together, Dean's hand on Sam's dick nearly trapped by their hips. He swipes a thumb over the head, feeling a gush of wet pre-come as his pad passes over Sam's slit, and the noises - "The noises you make, fuck," he tells Sam, who whines and then lets Dean go.
Before Dean can second-guess he feels Sam scrabbling at the button on his jeans, drawing the zip down and reaching in at the same time, rushing to get his hands on Dean, and Dean really feels the rush of heat that'd pooled in his belly and filled his cock. Sam's hand on his dick, skin to skin, bare - "Fuck," he swore and bucked, nearly hitting his forehead against Sam's.
Sam grabs Dean's hips and grinds up against him and fuck, this is what they were searching for, the heat of their cocks bare against each other, the skin down there softer than hands , hipbones bumping painful but the intense goodness of the grind coming through - Dean can hardly take it and Sam can't either.
Sam is the first to come, shooting up his belly, and Dean watches to see it – his mouth dropping open, his gasp half-swallowed. Dean knows that sound from the weeks past. He would hoard that glimpse of Sam's face, mouth open, lips pink. He'd touch himself as he thought about that mouth on him - Sam's mouth - and Dean thrusts into the mess of wet come Sam has left to pool on his stomach.
Sam's caught his breath now but Dean's still grunting. He's paused his rutting, but can still feel the wetness he's moving his cock through, and Sam's hard hot muscles -
Suddenly Sam's flipped them over and he's on top now, Dean still pushing his hips, thrusting against his brother's stomach. "You been holding out on me?" Sam says.
"No, I - shut up," says Dean, who sees the wicked and fond smile on Sam's face. "You've been holding out on me. Every night you -"
Sam slides down Dean's body till he reaches Dean's cock and then licks up it, long broad licks of his tongue, and Dean's the one reduced to speechlessness now. He cranes his neck up, the sight of Sam's tongue lapping up his own white come smeared all over Dean's cock and belly - then Sam's mouth opening around Dean's dick and sucking him down, so deep but not swallowing, till Dean can see the head of his dick bulging in Sam's cheek.
Dean can barely stand the wet heat of it till Sam sucks his cheeks in, cups Dean's balls with a hand, and Dean feels them tighten. "Ah, ah - Sam -" he warns as he comes, waves of warmth pulsing through him, and Sam sucks him all the way through it, swallowing around him as Dean comes. Dean finds himself with a hand in Sam's hair, tousling it, and when he pulls it a little Sam growls.
Dean feels compelled to clean some of the mess on his stomach up, but he's downright boneless there on the rug. Sam yanks his own jeans up and crawls on his hands and knees up to Dean's head.
"Every night, huh? You perv." He looks down at Dean sappily till Dean can summon the strength to thwack his shoulder.
"Something like that. Since that night." Dean says. He sees Sam shiver. Dean grabs at his brother's shoulder, drags him down till he can lurch up and plant his mouth on Sam's neck. Sam turns his head and kisses him there on the floor, till he breaks Dean's hold, and goes down to lick the traces of his own come off Dean's stomach.