Dean could drive to hell and back with only his knee steering the wheel, but there are limits Sam imposes. At the thirteenth hour of an excruciatingly long day, when Dean starts veering off onto the shoulder of the road and Sam has to catch the wheel to jerk it back in the other direction, Sam calls it quits.
Dean bitches and claims he’s fine,just needs an extra shot of five hour energy in his gas station coffee. Sam rolls his eyes and directs them to the nearest hotel he finds on Google Maps.
To say it is a shithole would be a compliment of the highest order. They may be used to shitty hotels with pockmarked ceilings and crumbling wallpaper, but this is a fresh new level of hell.
The attendant behind the desk looks like a permanent fixture of the dump – rotting teeth and skin stretched over bones. Sam doesn't really care, so long as they have somewhere horizontal to sleep, though judging by the state of things, maybe cramming into Baby would have been better. The spindly man hands over the key to what he says is the last room – and luck would have it that the last room has just one bed.
“We need two beds,” Dean cuts in before Sam can even open his mouth.
The hotel attendant smirks at him in a knowing way. Sam doesn't know what the old geezer thinks he knows, but it makes his palms sweat. “Tough shit.” He throws the keys over. “You can make the most of it,” he says with a lewd grin.
Dean huffs, well-acquainted with this line of insinuation by now. He grabs the keys, readjusts his bag on his shoulder and leads Sam to their room. It’s a mark of how tired Dean was that he said nothing.
They head up a flight of rickety stairs overrun with moss on the steps and vines wrapping around the handrail like spooky tinsel. It doesn't bode well for the room itself.
Indeed the key itself seems useless – the door is already slightly ajar with the lock apparently busted.
“Fuck, man. We should just sleep in the car,” Dean says as the door opens on its unsteady hinges with an animalistic shrill. Inside the room there's a singular light bulb, which illuminates one of the sketchiest places Sam's ever stayed in. After having a proper home at the bunker, it seems even more sketchy. But there's nothing else for miles around, and a quick survey of Dean shows that he has bruises under his eyes from exhaustion and he looks worn thin after their latest hunt. Sam's fingers itch to put his hand on his shoulder, lower. Sam itches to do a lot lately.
Sam pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket and notes the time. “It's after two. Let's just get some sleep and hit the road.”
Dean glances at the elephant in the room, the bed which is not even a queen, like Sam had been hoping.
Blind panic is a thing Sam is capable of feeling, apparently.
“I'll, um,” Sam bites his lip and stumbles through the words, “sleep on the floor.”
Dean looks from the small bed to Sam and back. He looks like he knows too much, too, staring, dark eyes tired but alert. A ghost of a smile curls his mouth. “Thanks for being gentlemanly, Sammy, but I think I can handle it.” He winks and heads into the bathroom, unbuckling his belt as he walks, and once the bathroom door clicks closed, Sam collapses back against the moldy door.
These…thoughts. They are going to be the death of him. Sam has always been able to quell this since a young age so why can't he anymore? Now as a man in his fucking thirties, he has uncontrollable boners and sweaty palms and he can't stop staring.
Sam scrubs a hand through his greasy hair. Fuck, he needs to shower. He needs to get off and get his mind together or he’s going to go insane.
Sam has been fighting the heightened intensity of this bullshit for weeks now and they'd been on the road more often than not lately. Sam hasn't had any room to breathe and everything seems to culminate in Dean, Dean, Dean.
Sam takes a few unsteady breaths and starts getting ready for bed, salting the doors and windows and barricading the broken door with a table.
When Dean is done in the bathroom, Sam slides past him, barely catching Dean’s warning that the bathroom is “grosser than Satan’s asshole.”
The bathtub’s marble barely shows through the layers of grime and mold so Sam just brushes his teeth and washes his face before steeling himself. This is ridiculous. He is ridiculous. He braces himself, like a human going into a ring with a lion, and goes into the bedroom.
Dean is already in the bed, tucked under the sheets. Sam can't see what he is wearing from the scant light coming through the window– or not wearing. “The bed is clean at least.”
Unable to stop himself, Sam laughs. “Small mercies.”
Sam pulls his t-shirt over his head and strips down to his boxers. He slides under the covers, and nearly jumps out of his skin when his leg brushes Dean’s.
“Jesus,” Dean says, putting his hand on Sam’s bicep. “Chill out, man.”
“I'm trying,” Sam says, forcing himself to relax as much as possible once he's at the very edge of the bed. As soon as it registers with Sam what he's said, he curses himself.
It only takes Dean a second to be hovering right behind him. His arm is bare and brushes Sam’s back, which is also bare. And that's how Sam feels: bare and raw and exposed.
“What's going on with you?” Dean asks, too near Sam's ear, warm breath and low timbered voice.
Sam closes his eyes and prays for an end to this torture.
“Nothing,” Sam snaps, knowing even as he does that Dean will only pester him more now.
Dean scoots even closer and the bed springs protest.
“Nothing my ass.” Dean's hand on his bicep squeezes to the point of pain and Dean flips Sam over onto his back in a show of strength that should be annoying but is merely hot. And not helping.
Dean is propped up on his elbows over Sam, hand on Sam's arm rough and his eyes dark and piercing.
Sam swallows and finds his gaze falling to Dean's mouth when Dean licks his lips, his mouth pink and lush and fuck.
By the time Sam drags his eyes away, Dean is staring at him differently. His eyes are narrowed and when he licks his lips again, slow and exaggerated, Sam knows he's walked into the trap but he's caught, ensnared, and, pressed against Dean's warmth on this lumpy old mattress, he falls apart.
He moans and presses his head back against the pillow, neck arching back and giving up. Fuck. Dean knows now. How long til he escapes, til he calls Sam gross or lets him down easy. Sam doesn’t know which would be worse. The shrill sense of panic washes over him again mixed with sharp arousal and Sam barely recognizes what's happening when Dean's fingers trail down the sensitive arch of his neck.
“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean says and his voice is rougher and his fingers are gentle and Sam must be going insane. “Look at me.”
Sam shakes his head no.
“Sam,” Deans says, imploring, his hand cupping Sam’s jaw and pushing it up so that their eyes are locked.
“Is this why you were freaking out?” Dean asks, low, and his voice is teasing, gentle. Sam doesn't say anything but seemingly now that they're eye to eye, Dean can read his face plain as day.
“Is this why you've been weird lately?” He tries again, and Sam can barely breathe, let alone speak to answer. Why isn't Dean yelling at him?
“You're not gonna talk then?” Dean asks and smirks. “Let's see if I can get you to make some noise instead.”
The promise in his eyes and his mouth has Sam’s hips jutting up. Dean’s smirk fades into something more focused and serious as he leans down and captures Sam's earlobe between his teeth without warning. He sucks it into his hot, wet, beautiful mouth and Sam keens like he's been attacked, like he's dying.
He grabs onto Dean's shoulders because he needs Dean to ground him, like he always does.
“Just like that,” Dean says into his ear before taking it back into his mouth and biting and sucking. As much as Sam likes this, he needs– he wants–
He grabs hold of the back of Dean's neck and forces his mouth away from his ear, tries to remember his to speak. “Dean. You want this?” It sounds hopeful, disbelieving.
Dean rolls his eyes and holds Sam's gaze as he leans down, their mouths an inch apart.
“Stop me now, Sammy. I ain't stopping after this.”
Sam groans and pulls Dean in by his neck until their mouths meet already open – tasting, searching. Searing. Dean’s tongue sweeps his mouth and Sam is shocked to hear Dean is making little noises in his throat. Sam's hips jerk up.
“Yeah, that's it,” Dean says, pulling away to breathe. He settles on top of Sam, pushing the sheets down. His weight is somehow steadying yet simultaneously Sam feels like he's shaking apart.
The first time Dean's hips start to rock against his, Sam loses all inhibitions. He wants skin. He wants it all. He slides a hand down, down over Dean’s abs which quiver under his touch, down under the waistband of his boxers – Dean sucks in a breath – and gets his fist around Dean’s dick. Dean curses, “Fuck, oh, fuck” over and over again while Sam strips his wet cock, fast and rough and tight.
“Come on, baby,” Sam says, and Dean groans like he's dying.
“Get it out, Sammy,” Dean gasps between kisses. “Get out that big dick.”
Pleasure curls in his stomach, flames stoking higher and higher as Sam reaches into his boxers and gets his dick next to Dean’s. He uses his hand to rub them together as best he can. Dean angles himself on his elbows and looks down so he can watch the first few strokes. He groans out, “Oh fuck. Want you in me so bad,” and Sam's mouth falls open as something cataclysmic seizes his body. He moans weakly as he comes and comes and comes, and Dean takes over the strokes, his hand faster and harder on Sam's dick where he's still coming and getting jizz all over them.
Sam’s shaking under Dean, under his hands, and he can't stop himself from saying, low and fucked out, “Then I will – gonna put it in your gorgeous mouth, in your ass. Fuck, I've been dying for it. Need you to come on me– ”
Dean moans and a few strokes later he is coming all over Sam, coating both their dicks and wringing out every last bit of pleasure.
When they're sated and warm, Sam feels increasingly, well, naked, and like he should roll away, but Dean pulls him in closer and Sam decides he can wait til tomorrow to tease him mercilessly.
When they check out the next morning, Dean makes sure to smile at the same hotel attendant and he leans in, eyes crinkling up. “Between us,” he says, You might want to wash the sheets.” Then he looks at Sam. “Actually just burn them. Burn down this whole joint.”
He throws down the keys and Sam follows him outside. The sun is gleaming off of Baby and lightening Dean's dirty blonde hair and when his brother grins at him, Sam can't stop himself from cackling like a 10-year-old, giddy and free.
He follows Dean to the car, amused at the slight limp in Dean’s gait, ready to put it there again tonight and each night thereafter.