(no subject)
Title: Radial
Pairing: Dean/Sam, Impala
Rating: NC-17
Summary: She’s his ride home.
Spoilers: No major spoilers past 5.02.
Word Count: 5,585
Warning: underage masturbation.
Disclaimer: I claim nothing for my own.
Notes: Thank you to zelda_zee for betaing.
Summary text stolen from Blue October.
Sometimes, after a long day of driving, Dean still feels her thrumming through him. It's like when you've spent the day in the ocean-when you lie down at night, you feel the phantom motion of waves still carrying your body, lapping at the edges of your skin. It's as soothing as the slide of pie on his tongue, reassuring like one of Sam's smiles-the rare kind that still reaches Sam's eyes, preferably the kind that follows a volley of "bitch" and "jerk."
Nights like that, Dean closes his eyes, lets the motion wash over him, evens his breathing to meet it. His hands curl instinctively on the pillows, beside his head. The memory of heated vinyl overtakes the musty smell of the motel room. The memory of gasoline makes his head swim like it's right there.
Truth be told, this is why Dean likes the Magic Fingers so much. It reminds him of his baby.
It reminds him, if he's being truer to himself than he usually is, of falling asleep in the backseat. Sharing a threadbare blanket with Sam while Dad drove through the night. Dean could really sleep like that. Back then-when he was young enough to believe that Dad would keep them safe, that once the doors were shut, nothing was getting in-Dean slept well. A leg or a hand always resting against Sammy to let him know he was okay. To let himself know that Sammy was okay.
That was all he needed.
Now, he wakes up every hour. Sometimes he opens his eyes, sometimes he doesn't-just listens for the sound of Sam sawing wood and, if he can't hear it (and, really, he thinks the motel desk clerks probably hear it), he'll open his eyes and look. Big lump of ginormousness in the other bed? Check. Go back to sleep.
Sometimes he feels guilty, sleeping in motel room beds. He wishes the Impala's bench seats were still big enough to fit him, long enough to stretch his legs straight, deep enough to still have room for Sam to curl up against him. Sam would squirm around for hours, it seemed, until he could get comfortable. Even now, he rustles around under the covers like he's making a nest out of them-and don't think Dean hasn't pointed that out every opportunity he gets. "Biggest fucking bird ever, Sammy. What are you doing, trying to lay eggs in there? Hmm, I think I know what I'm having for breakfast." Those nights, Dean goes to sleep smiling at the "fuck you" he gets chucked at him. Sometimes he even goes to sleep with an extra pillow, also chucked at him.
These days, he wakes up alone. Sam gets up before him. Sometimes Dean hears him in the shower. Other times, the room is completely empty, a note left on the bedside stand to tell Dean that Sam went for coffee, went for breakfast, went for a run, went to the library, went to get a bikini wax, went-who the fuck knows.
Dean lets it slide. Really he does. He gets to take his time in the shower, meaning he can jerk off a little longer, let himself get noisy if he wants. In the morning isn't as good as at night, making him sleepy when he's supposed to be getting awake. But you take what you can get.
It's the little things these days. He feels them more now-now that he's back.
He waits impatiently for Sam to return, waiting for the soft, braided rind of the steering wheel beneath his callused fingers. Waiting for the way the dip in the seat fits him like his favorite boots, holding him in. Waiting for the way the locks click in place, Sam's first, then his. Then the engine turns over and she's on the road: everyone where they should be.
It never gets old-seeing her in the sunlight, shining metal and grille-toothed grin. Seeing her in the rain, too-beaded like some jeweled thing, drops careening down the slope of her, cutting through old red-brown dust. After all this time, she still makes him catch his breath, same as the day Dad handed him the keys. Same as the time before that: the first time Dad popped the hood and told Dean everything he needed to know about the car. It was too much to remember, too much to process all at once. But Dean looked at the Impala differently after that, no longer referring to it as "the car," but mimicking his dad, saying "her," fingers brushing reverently over the handle every time he opened the door, like he was asking permission.
Dean still does it.
"Do you need some alone time?" Sam asks, eyebrow quirking at Dean's stroking fingers on the wheel, at the moan he lets out when he sinks into the bench seat. "You two wanna get a room? Or, you know, a storage garage?"
Yeah, it never gets old. The prissy jokes. Dean wouldn't know what to do if Sam didn't make them.
He just smiles through it though, calls Sam jealous sometimes. Not this time. He already has ... And Justice For All cranked way up on the stereo and he loves this part that's coming up, so he's not going to talk over it. Glancing over, Sam's face is pinched tight, lips thin and that carat-like furrow between his knitted eyebrows. Exactly as it should be. Dean shifts into gear in time with a downbeat, eases his foot onto the pedal on the upbeat, stretches his arm against the top of the seat as he backs out and flicks Sam in the shoulder as the drums pick up. He drums his fingers on the vinyl, sloppily trying to keep up with the rhythm. Sam glares at him for a few seconds, but doesn't move. Dean can feel the worn cotton of Sam's shirt against his fingertip every third beat.
* * *
Sometimes you have to be safe and practical, especially with a conspicuous car like theirs. Dean doesn't like it, parking her around the block, in the dense foliage off interstate exits, in abandoned barns. He prefers keeping her in sight. Even when he knows she's probably safe, he likes to be able to see, just a glimpse out the window every hour or so for reassurance. Because you never know. He lost two hubcaps once on a swanky suburban street, so he's not exactly going to trust the patrons of the Silver Bell Motor Lodge either.
If he doesn't always know where Sam is, at least he knows where she is. And that's one part of the family taken care of.
It's better if they're both there. Better if Dean knows where everyone, everything important is located. Car just outside the door. Knife in his boot, under his pillow later. Gun in his jacket pocket, another on the table beside the keys, another in his duffel under his clothes, clacking against his toothbrush case, crinkling the condom wrappers. Sam at the table typing away. Later, on his bed, snoring away.
When everything's in its right place, Dean can relax. For a little while.
If he can't sleep, he knows what to do. After a long day of driving, it's easiest.
In bed, Dean lies on his back, because that's when the sensation really hits him. Ghost vibrations hum up the backs of his thighs, across his shoulders. He breathes in, holds his breath to feel the swimming feeling in his head, arches up from the small of his back, and relaxes as he exhales. The headboard is vinyl-cheap, not like his baby's, but it'll do. He reaches back and runs his knuckles over the dimpled material. He drags his thumb down and smiles as it squeaks.
"What are you doing, Dean?" Sam's voice is muffled like he's talking into the pillow. Dean looks over at him, sees the silhouette of his head first, then the dark crook of his elbow jutting out over the white, starchy sheets. Light from the neon sign outside catches in Sam's eyes, as he peers out over his arm, nose tucked and bent against the sleeve of his undershirt.
"Nothing," Dean says, still idly stroking the headboard. "Go back to sleep, Sammy." He turns his head back, facing the ceiling, and closes his eyes. He sucks in a breath, holds it a little too long, then sighs it out, his head spinning with the release. Turning his head, he releases another long breath, imagines the air tickling the hairs on his arm is wind coming in through the open window as he drives along. He tenses his thigh muscles until they tremble, the tiny shuddering only a faint imitation of the way the road stutters up through the car, translating gravel and uneven paving into a purring hum against the backs of his legs. It does the trick. A moan slips past his lips as the sense memory overtakes him. He's inside of her and they're driving down the road and everything's all right.
Everything's not all right. There's a creak and a groan, quickly followed by a cough. And another creak. Bedsprings, then the dull pop of bones cracking.
Dean pushes his head sideways into the pillow, facing Sam, his eyes still closed. "Sammy?"
There's nothing but another creak, so Dean opens one eye in time to see Sam roll over, back toward Dean. He watches him for a minute, fighting the heaviness of his eyelid, blinking to keep it open. Then Sam says, "Go to sleep, Dean."
Dean lets his eye slip shut, listens to the sound of Sam breathing, then listens to the sound of his own. It's white noise and wind in his ears and fields rushing past on either side and Sam curled up like a Great Dane on the passenger side, head hanging half out the window, hair half covering his eyes as the wind flattens it against his face. Dean's toes are curling against an invisible accelerator, his ass wiggling down as he stretches his back against the mattress that is almost as hard as the car's seat. He feels warm and tingly with sleep washing up over him when he hears another creak. Another soft groan. He holds his breath to hear better. The sound of skin on skin is faint, but unmistakable.
He smirks and thinks, Okay, Sammy. Okay. And he turns over, face pressed into the cool pillow, not quite as cool as glass, letting the heat pool and idle in his belly.
* * *
Sam's in the shower when Dean wakes. He lies there, listening to the water beating against the tiles. After a minute, the water still going, he sneaks a hand down into his boxers, stroking lightly at his morning erection. After another minute, he tightens his grip, his strokes growing more determined. He listens to the low rumble of the water, listens over the crescendo of his heartbeat as the blood rushes through him. He doesn't know how much time he has. But now that he's started this, he wants to get off before Sam comes ambling out of the bathroom.
That would be just great. Sam emerging from a cloud of steam, towel wrapped around his middle, dripping all over the carpet as he walked in on Dean jerking off, not five feet away from the bathroom door. Dean hears the shower shut off, and imagines Sam getting out of the stall, skin hot and gleaming, clear droplets careening over the slope of his chest, clinging to the hairs below his navel, down between his legs. Dean comes so hard he almost forgets to pull his hand away when the bathroom door opens.
He has the decency to roll over, smacking his lips loudly after an elaborate yawn.
"Good morning, Sammy."
Sam sniffs the air. Dean can hear it. "Yeah, was it good for you?"
* * *
It's not a big deal. Neither of them likes to get caught in the act. But it's not like it's a secret. They're guys, right? They've jerked off around each other ever since Sam started going through puberty. Honestly, Dean deserves a fucking medal for confining his to the bathroom up until that point. There were some rough nights when he'd toss and turn, and the sheets and his boxers and, hell, even the breeze through the open window all seemed to conspire against him, making him harder. Nine times out of ten, a mad dash to the bathroom resulted in taking care of the problem. But there was always the tenth time, when Dean, so damn close to coming, heard a little voice on the other side of the door. "Dean?" It didn't always stop Dean from coming though. Almost never, in fact.
But, that first night, when Dean heard the springs squeaking on Sammy's bed, heard the panting, heard the rustling of sheets, he smiled. Not because he was a perv or anything. Not necessarily because his baby brother was finally growing up either, though he was kind of proud of Sam for that. But Dean was relieved to be able to let go, stay in bed and take care of business, now that Sam was finally old enough too.
Dean kept quiet. They both did. Dean could hear Sam. Surely Sam could hear him. But it wasn't out in the open, it wasn't right in front of each other. They never talked about it. Why should they? It's just a guy thing.
Not that it kept Dean from mocking Sam mercilessly, checking his palm in the morning for calluses. Sam never retaliated. Not directly. There was the one time Dean woke up to find coarse hairs-that he hoped to God were from the animal pelt Dad had gotten from some shaman-krazy glued to his palm. But he and Sam were in the midst of a prank war at the time, so it didn't technically count.
But maybe it counted to Sam. Dean wonders. Sam always did get back at him in slow, methodical ways. Latent retaliation. Some instances bigger than others. Like, Dean remembers how there were fewer sleepless nights once Sam finally found out what his dick was for. And then when Sam went away to Stanford, Dean's sleepless nights came back on him double and triple. Rationally, Dean knows that Sam wasn't punishing him for anything. He knows it.
But it doesn't change the fact that Sam left him alone.
Dean slept in the car a lot after that. Dad never said anything about it. When he was around.
When Sam came back, Dean swears she knew. The car? She rode so smoothly, better than ever. Even after Sam smashed her into that old Welch shack in Jericho. It was like she didn't mind the broken headlight and scratches and dents. The door creaked brightly like a greeting, the seat bowed just right under Sam's weight so that Dean could feel it over on his side.
Dean didn't say it, bit back the smile because it was wrong in light of everything Sam had gone through. But the thought was there, as he smoothed a hand over the dash: "Our boy came home."
The kid gets on Dean's nerves plenty, don't get him wrong. But having him back by his side never gets old. After all they've been through-Hell and back, not the cliché but the real McCoy-there's not much reassurance to be found. But Sam's presence is a touchstone, a solid weight that keeps Dean here when his mind threatens to go. There's no safe place in this world. Not now, not really ever. But if things get too heavy, he and Sam can always hop in the car and get away, keep danger at bay for a while.
If he's being really honest, Dean looked at Sam differently after he came back from Hell. It happened before he discovered what Sam was up to, before the lying and the betrayal and that demon bitch feeding him her filth.
It wasn't the stiffness of Sam's shoulders, the hardened lines on his face. Dean accepted that change, Sam growing older.
No, it was so much smaller. No bigger than a word.
It was late at night, coming up on last call at another shitty dive bar where the locals were stupid enough to play pool with Dean despite his shark-toothed grin. He still had it. Pockets a little fuller, bar empty of Sam, Dean had shuffled out the back to find Sam pressed up against the car. And someone kneeling in front of him, obscured by the shadows cast by the trees, the dumpster, Sam. This indistinguishable mop of short, brown curls bobbing up and down. Sam didn't make any noise, just bit down on his lip and then opened his mouth into a perfect O and then it stopped. There was murmuring and strange hands touching his car, and Dean nearly gave himself away right then, protectively moving forward before catching himself. And that's when he heard it.
"Do you like her?" Sam had said.
Her. Dean had never heard Sam talk about the car like that before. Not that word, not that tone.
He supposed it made sense. After all, she'd been Sam's all those years, months Dean had been gone.
Dean usually thinks of her as his car. But he knows she belongs to both of them. They belong together. That time, hearing Sam say that-that's when Dean knew Sam felt the same way. It's one of the reasons he offered her to him when Sam left again, the time it was Dean’s fault.
It's not a regular thing, but sometimes Dean thinks back on that time in the parking lot while he's jerking off. He pictures Sam getting sucked off, imagines the smell of sex and the obscene sounds of slurping and suction, even though he couldn't hear or smell either at the time. He imagines the car rocking with the movement of Sam's hips, even though that didn't happen either. Sometimes he thinks about the taste, stops to lick the precome off his own hand. It makes him come faster, imagining this. And that's important when you have precious little personal time or space. He doesn't need to think about what this means. It's an issue of practicality. Like the way masturbation is just maintenance. You brush your teeth, you change the oil, you clean your pipes; it's what you do.
You take what you can.
* * *
Sometimes, this life, it takes so much out of you, you could drown in it.
It’s not just the spirits and the demons and the angels and the batshit crazy people who choose long pig over pork chops. It’s the little things as well: the roadblocks and detours and potholes that come along, right when you’re making good time, getting in the way of what you’re used to doing.
Tonight, for instance. They sleep in the car when she stalls somewhere so smack in the middle of nowhere that they don't even bother pushing her past the tree line. No other headlights on the flat stretch of highway, no porch lights, no light but the stars blinking in and out around clouds. Parking her in the tall grasses off the shoulder will suffice.
Still, Dean walks two miles south just in case, leaving Sam with the car, telling him to watch over her.
Two miles back and nothing to show for it but new blisters on his feet, Dean opens the driver's side door and slumps in, bones creaking in unison with her hinges. He makes a face. The car smells. He turns around.
Sam's in the backseat, hand curled around a flashlight under his cheek, elbow crooked over the top of the vinyl, hair falling against his wrist. There's not the slightest flush to his skin to betray him. Not one bit of his clothing disheveled either. But Dean knows what he did. Sam's right leg, bent up onto the seat, holds Dad's journal. Dean reaches over the seat and snatches it out of Sam's lap.
"I hope you weren't jerking off to this. 'Cause that's a whole new level of sad, Sam." He snatches the flashlight and makes a show of examining the journal, back to front, letting it fall closed in his own lap.
"What?" Sam runs a hand through his hair.
Dean arches an eyebrow at him. It's that easy.
Sam’s lips draw downward in a perfect arc. "Oh, fine, like you never. Like you’re such a monk."
Dean snorts.
"And I'm guessing you didn't find anything," Sam continues. "But I did." He leans over the front seat, hand stretching toward the journal in Dean's lap. His fingers curl around the leather binding, right over Dean's fly.
He's hard. He's been hard since he got in the car, smelling of Sam.
As if that's not embarrassing enough, Dean lets out a low, stuttering breath as Sam's knuckles brush over him.
Sam has the journal in his grasp, but he doesn't move, just hovers over Dean's crotch. The first touch must have been accidental. But then one of Sam's knuckles presses down into Dean, slowly, so slowly it can't be a mistake. Dean bats Sam's hand away, pushing the journal back toward him. "We'll deal with it tomorrow, Sammy. I'm tired."
Dean hears his name as he clicks off the flashlight, but he just hunches down onto the seat, sideways, drawing his knees up. Tucking one arm under his head, he silently counts out each breath, trying to steady himself. He's facing the steering wheel, and his fingers stumble over the notches on the bottom, like notches in a spine. Onetwothreefour, he traces the crests and troughs of the steering wheel. Onetwothreefour, back again.
He finally starts to feel himself softening a little when there's a low creaking of vinyl. And then Sam's hand is on his hip, feather light at first, then skimming over denim to cup Dean firmly. Sam's whole hand covers Dean's dick, fingers tucked under Dean's ball's. His palm moves up and down, heel pressing in, and Dean's harder than he was before.
Dean growls in frustration. "Sammy. Don't."
"Tell me to stop," Sam says, thumbing open the button, lowering the zipper and slipping his hand inside.
"Stop," Dean says. But he arches up into Sam's touch.
"Shut up, Dean."
Sam starts off slow, traces a forefinger straight up the length and around the crown. His thumb strokes under the head, pushes up into Dean's slit, teasing out a bead of precome. Dean's balls are tight up against him already, and Sam tugs on them lightly, making Dean whimper. Then suddenly his hand grips Dean's dick and he's jacking him hard and fast, squeezing every other stroke. It's relentless, and Dean tilts his head up, panting for air. His throat clicks, his lips shape around unsaid words, but all he can do is punch out a moan with each harsh breath. When he comes, his whole body shakes. Sam draws it out, slowing down only slightly until the last trickle of come is squeezed out.
Dean's shirt is soaked, sticky, clinging to him. With a sigh, he peels it over his head, arms feeling almost too heavy to move, and mops at the seat first then wipes his stomach. When he looks up, Sam is licking at his own fingers, watching him.
"Here." Dean thrusts the shirt at him, but it falls over the seat into a foot well. Sam sucks at the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. Even in the low light, his eyes appear glazed.
"Fine," Dean says, tucking himself back in and zipping up. "Throw me another shirt then." He adds, "With your other hand."
Sam does, laying a soft flannel over the seat. Without looking back, Dean shrugs it on. He curls up against the window, the cool glass numbing his overheated cheek, and closes his eyes. A few minutes later, the car dips and shifts. Sam's boots thud against the door as he stretches as far as he can go.
There's a muttered, "Night, Dean." And Dean waits for sleep.
Eventually, he stops waiting.
* * *
Big girl that he is, Sam likes to talk about everything. So Dean expects it the next morning, braces himself as soon as Sam wakes up.
But this time? This one time there's something to talk about, Sam doesn't. Dean's pretty sure he's relieved.
That day, there's a lot of walking, more walking, and when they're sick of walking, there's possibly a minor instance of auto theft. Dean considers it borrowing. It gets them back to the car. The car gets a new fuel pump and an apology from Dean for not replacing the pump 300 miles back like he should have. They get into town late that night-technically, early the next morning. Dean's so tired, he only eats three slices of pizza and passes out on the bed with his boots still on.
He wakes to find his boots on the floor and Sam's bed empty.
In the shower, he doesn't even jerk off, because every time he touches himself, he imagines Sam's hand.
It's an old bathroom, and the pipes rattle, the water ratcheting through them. Dean leans against the fiberglass wall, letting the vibrations ease some of the tension from him. It doesn't last long.
Sam's coming in as Dean's coming out of the bathroom. Sweaty from his run, Sam collapses onto the bed, toeing off his sneakers. His legs splay wide, knees bent, and Dean can see the darkish round of Sam's sac up the leg opening of his running shorts. Dean just stands there in his scratchy towel, skin suddenly tight and hot. His hands fidget, uselessly pulling the towel tighter around him so that his erection stands out even more.
He's about to turn on his heel when Sam's head lolls toward him.
Sam looks Dean up and down, but his expression doesn't change. He reaches out a hand.
Dean feels like he's moving, but he's still standing there. The tug of what he wants roped in by what he thinks he shouldn't.
Sam raises his hand and lowers it, an insistent gesture. It pulls at Dean harder than any of the thoughts that cross and tangle in his mind. He walks slowly though, heel to toe, heel to toe until he stubs his toe on the metal leg of the bed.
"Come on," Sam says, egging him on with a jerk of his chin.
Dean kneels up on the bed beside Sam’s legs, close but not touching him.
"Is this...?" Dean starts to ask. But Sam leans up, untucks Dean's towel and tosses it aside, pulls his own shirt up over his head.
"Trust me," Sam says, cupping himself through his shorts, pulling taut around his erection. "It is." He’s not smiling, but his eyes are glinting in that smug, little gleeful way that says, Duh, Dean.
Yeah, sometimes you get so close to things that you can’t see them. Until someone shows you what’s right there in front of you.
Sam is right in front of him. Waiting. Dean hooks his fingers under the elastic of Sam's shorts and pulls them down. Sam's dick lays heavy against his belly, flushed red, flared head thick and wet already. Dean pulls the shorts off all the way, Sam's big toe catching the hem for a moment before they fall to the floor. A little gracelessly on the lumpy bed, Dean moves to kneel between Sam's legs, staring down at him. Sam staring back up.
There's nothing but breath between them. Dean could say a hundred words, but his mouth is too dry. He licks his lips, and leans forward.
He strokes himself once, then guides the head of his dick up over Sam's balls, tracing up Sam's dick, rubbing the heads against each other. Their breath harshens at the same time. Dean says Sam's name, and Sam's reaching for him, drawing Dean up over him. Their shafts slot together, a faint friction, and Dean moans. Sam's tongue slides against his open lips. Dean swallows around him, opening again for more.
They kiss like this, messy and open and too wet, dragging their bodies against each other. It's an awkward rhythm, starting and stopping as Dean slides his hands up Sam's chest and Sam scratches down Dean's shoulder blades, thumbs digging into his ribs. Dean's leg slips over Sam's. Sam's fingers slide up Dean's neck, grabbing hold of the short scruff of hair. They bite and rut and thrust, and it's not enough. Dean needs more of Sam's mouth, more of his hands, more skin against skin, closer, so much closer.
Dean’s hands are all over Sam, not sure where to go, so going everywhere.
He reaches down to feel between their legs, slips a finger between their dicks where they slide together. Sam throws back his head, his neck a long, thick arch. Sweat pools at the base of it, and Dean laps at it, reaching down further to rub his fingertips into that smooth space behind Sam’s balls.
Then Sam's muscles tighten and he's coming. Dean can feel it. The tremble and the low groan like thunder right under his skin. Dean feels Sam twitch against him, pulsing wet against his own dick still rubbing against Sam's, smearing come and sweat.
Sam's mouth is a perfect pink circle and Dean brackets Sam's face with his hands and kisses all the breath out of him.
Dean’s name is on Sam's lips when he pulls back.
Breathing hard, he pushes up and sits back on his heels. He slides his hand around Sam's calf and bends his knee up, folds it toward his chest. There's a tight, little niche between Sam's hip and thigh, and Dean guides his dick into that crease. It's still not enough, but it's better, Sam's skin hot and slippery. The mattress creaks, dips beneath him as he pushes in and out of the crease, rocks on his knees. He thrusts wildly, balls slapping against Sam's thigh, colliding with Sam's own. Sam draws his leg closer, pinning Dean into that tight space until he can hardly move. All he can feel is Sam around him.
His head spins. Heat eddies inside him, swimming fast through his veins. He pulls back and Sam's leg falls open and he's coming, shooting all over Sam's thighs and balls, up onto his stomach, come mingling with Sam's own.
He rocks back on his heels, gasping for air. When he catches his breath, he looks down at Sam, finds him as slackjawed as he is.
Dean reaches for Sam's shirt to clean them off. The heel of Sam’s foot whacks Dean in the shoulder, hard.
"Dammit, Dean."
Dean smirks, wipes himself off, then pauses. He reaches a finger out and paints a stripe of come down Sam's sac, trailing a glistening circle around Sam's hole. Sam keens, low in his throat. Another circle follows that, then the pad of his finger presses into the puckered flesh. Sam's heel thunks Dean in the head.
"Later," Sam says, voice raspy. But there's a lazy smile on his face. "Okay?"
"Yeah?"
Sam rolls his eyes at the bare eagerness in Dean's tone. He nods, and wraps his hands around Dean's elbows, draws him down.
"Just." Dean slides up Sam's chest, kisses his sternum. He shuffles to the side, limbs tangling with Sam's. "Stop kicking me." His big toe makes contact with the back of Sam's knee. "Asshole." He nips at Sam's ear.
Sam squirms around, facing Dean. "Stop trying to spoon me." He pinches Dean's nipple. "Bossy little shit." He leans down to lick where he pinched and Dean's hand combs through his hair, nape to crown, thumb stroking the damp strands behind his ear. Sam leans into the touch, curls into Dean, squirms around a bit before tucking himself beneath his arm.
"Yeah, 'cause that's less girly than spooning."
Dean gets a kick in the shin for that. He'd retaliate but it requires too much movement.
Sam's chest moves against his own in counterpoint, rumbling softly against him as his breathing evens out. Dean falls asleep to the quiet thrum of their bodies entwined, blood and breath and bones fitting together like parts of a machine. He doesn't know what makes it work. But it works; he doesn't have to look inside to know that it does.
* * *
The next day, he doesn’t wake up alone. He doesn’t even get the shower to himself.
Then they're off again, ready to hit the road. Duffels in the back, Sam by his side, Dean clicks the key into the ignition and his baby turns over, loud and solid and familiar. He loves it, every time.
Pulling out of the lot, Dean reaches for the gear shift, misses by a mile and grabs Sam instead.
"Whoops," he says, hand lingering on Sam's thigh.
Sam adjusts himself, says, "Jerk."
Dean grins over at him. "Bitch."
"You wish." Sam's lips quirk, despite his best efforts.
"You can deny it all you want," Dean says as the tires stutter over stubbled macadam, the engine a lulling hum beneath them.
Sam sighs so hard it ruffles his bangs, and he slumps down in the seat. "Whatever. Wake me when we get there."
Dean smirks, eases a little further into the seat himself.
It’s a long drive ahead, but they’re already home.
Feedback, including concrit, always welcome.
Pairing: Dean/Sam, Impala
Rating: NC-17
Summary: She’s his ride home.
Spoilers: No major spoilers past 5.02.
Word Count: 5,585
Warning: underage masturbation.
Disclaimer: I claim nothing for my own.
Notes: Thank you to zelda_zee for betaing.
Summary text stolen from Blue October.
Sometimes, after a long day of driving, Dean still feels her thrumming through him. It's like when you've spent the day in the ocean-when you lie down at night, you feel the phantom motion of waves still carrying your body, lapping at the edges of your skin. It's as soothing as the slide of pie on his tongue, reassuring like one of Sam's smiles-the rare kind that still reaches Sam's eyes, preferably the kind that follows a volley of "bitch" and "jerk."
Nights like that, Dean closes his eyes, lets the motion wash over him, evens his breathing to meet it. His hands curl instinctively on the pillows, beside his head. The memory of heated vinyl overtakes the musty smell of the motel room. The memory of gasoline makes his head swim like it's right there.
Truth be told, this is why Dean likes the Magic Fingers so much. It reminds him of his baby.
It reminds him, if he's being truer to himself than he usually is, of falling asleep in the backseat. Sharing a threadbare blanket with Sam while Dad drove through the night. Dean could really sleep like that. Back then-when he was young enough to believe that Dad would keep them safe, that once the doors were shut, nothing was getting in-Dean slept well. A leg or a hand always resting against Sammy to let him know he was okay. To let himself know that Sammy was okay.
That was all he needed.
Now, he wakes up every hour. Sometimes he opens his eyes, sometimes he doesn't-just listens for the sound of Sam sawing wood and, if he can't hear it (and, really, he thinks the motel desk clerks probably hear it), he'll open his eyes and look. Big lump of ginormousness in the other bed? Check. Go back to sleep.
Sometimes he feels guilty, sleeping in motel room beds. He wishes the Impala's bench seats were still big enough to fit him, long enough to stretch his legs straight, deep enough to still have room for Sam to curl up against him. Sam would squirm around for hours, it seemed, until he could get comfortable. Even now, he rustles around under the covers like he's making a nest out of them-and don't think Dean hasn't pointed that out every opportunity he gets. "Biggest fucking bird ever, Sammy. What are you doing, trying to lay eggs in there? Hmm, I think I know what I'm having for breakfast." Those nights, Dean goes to sleep smiling at the "fuck you" he gets chucked at him. Sometimes he even goes to sleep with an extra pillow, also chucked at him.
These days, he wakes up alone. Sam gets up before him. Sometimes Dean hears him in the shower. Other times, the room is completely empty, a note left on the bedside stand to tell Dean that Sam went for coffee, went for breakfast, went for a run, went to the library, went to get a bikini wax, went-who the fuck knows.
Dean lets it slide. Really he does. He gets to take his time in the shower, meaning he can jerk off a little longer, let himself get noisy if he wants. In the morning isn't as good as at night, making him sleepy when he's supposed to be getting awake. But you take what you can get.
It's the little things these days. He feels them more now-now that he's back.
He waits impatiently for Sam to return, waiting for the soft, braided rind of the steering wheel beneath his callused fingers. Waiting for the way the dip in the seat fits him like his favorite boots, holding him in. Waiting for the way the locks click in place, Sam's first, then his. Then the engine turns over and she's on the road: everyone where they should be.
It never gets old-seeing her in the sunlight, shining metal and grille-toothed grin. Seeing her in the rain, too-beaded like some jeweled thing, drops careening down the slope of her, cutting through old red-brown dust. After all this time, she still makes him catch his breath, same as the day Dad handed him the keys. Same as the time before that: the first time Dad popped the hood and told Dean everything he needed to know about the car. It was too much to remember, too much to process all at once. But Dean looked at the Impala differently after that, no longer referring to it as "the car," but mimicking his dad, saying "her," fingers brushing reverently over the handle every time he opened the door, like he was asking permission.
Dean still does it.
"Do you need some alone time?" Sam asks, eyebrow quirking at Dean's stroking fingers on the wheel, at the moan he lets out when he sinks into the bench seat. "You two wanna get a room? Or, you know, a storage garage?"
Yeah, it never gets old. The prissy jokes. Dean wouldn't know what to do if Sam didn't make them.
He just smiles through it though, calls Sam jealous sometimes. Not this time. He already has ... And Justice For All cranked way up on the stereo and he loves this part that's coming up, so he's not going to talk over it. Glancing over, Sam's face is pinched tight, lips thin and that carat-like furrow between his knitted eyebrows. Exactly as it should be. Dean shifts into gear in time with a downbeat, eases his foot onto the pedal on the upbeat, stretches his arm against the top of the seat as he backs out and flicks Sam in the shoulder as the drums pick up. He drums his fingers on the vinyl, sloppily trying to keep up with the rhythm. Sam glares at him for a few seconds, but doesn't move. Dean can feel the worn cotton of Sam's shirt against his fingertip every third beat.
* * *
Sometimes you have to be safe and practical, especially with a conspicuous car like theirs. Dean doesn't like it, parking her around the block, in the dense foliage off interstate exits, in abandoned barns. He prefers keeping her in sight. Even when he knows she's probably safe, he likes to be able to see, just a glimpse out the window every hour or so for reassurance. Because you never know. He lost two hubcaps once on a swanky suburban street, so he's not exactly going to trust the patrons of the Silver Bell Motor Lodge either.
If he doesn't always know where Sam is, at least he knows where she is. And that's one part of the family taken care of.
It's better if they're both there. Better if Dean knows where everyone, everything important is located. Car just outside the door. Knife in his boot, under his pillow later. Gun in his jacket pocket, another on the table beside the keys, another in his duffel under his clothes, clacking against his toothbrush case, crinkling the condom wrappers. Sam at the table typing away. Later, on his bed, snoring away.
When everything's in its right place, Dean can relax. For a little while.
If he can't sleep, he knows what to do. After a long day of driving, it's easiest.
In bed, Dean lies on his back, because that's when the sensation really hits him. Ghost vibrations hum up the backs of his thighs, across his shoulders. He breathes in, holds his breath to feel the swimming feeling in his head, arches up from the small of his back, and relaxes as he exhales. The headboard is vinyl-cheap, not like his baby's, but it'll do. He reaches back and runs his knuckles over the dimpled material. He drags his thumb down and smiles as it squeaks.
"What are you doing, Dean?" Sam's voice is muffled like he's talking into the pillow. Dean looks over at him, sees the silhouette of his head first, then the dark crook of his elbow jutting out over the white, starchy sheets. Light from the neon sign outside catches in Sam's eyes, as he peers out over his arm, nose tucked and bent against the sleeve of his undershirt.
"Nothing," Dean says, still idly stroking the headboard. "Go back to sleep, Sammy." He turns his head back, facing the ceiling, and closes his eyes. He sucks in a breath, holds it a little too long, then sighs it out, his head spinning with the release. Turning his head, he releases another long breath, imagines the air tickling the hairs on his arm is wind coming in through the open window as he drives along. He tenses his thigh muscles until they tremble, the tiny shuddering only a faint imitation of the way the road stutters up through the car, translating gravel and uneven paving into a purring hum against the backs of his legs. It does the trick. A moan slips past his lips as the sense memory overtakes him. He's inside of her and they're driving down the road and everything's all right.
Everything's not all right. There's a creak and a groan, quickly followed by a cough. And another creak. Bedsprings, then the dull pop of bones cracking.
Dean pushes his head sideways into the pillow, facing Sam, his eyes still closed. "Sammy?"
There's nothing but another creak, so Dean opens one eye in time to see Sam roll over, back toward Dean. He watches him for a minute, fighting the heaviness of his eyelid, blinking to keep it open. Then Sam says, "Go to sleep, Dean."
Dean lets his eye slip shut, listens to the sound of Sam breathing, then listens to the sound of his own. It's white noise and wind in his ears and fields rushing past on either side and Sam curled up like a Great Dane on the passenger side, head hanging half out the window, hair half covering his eyes as the wind flattens it against his face. Dean's toes are curling against an invisible accelerator, his ass wiggling down as he stretches his back against the mattress that is almost as hard as the car's seat. He feels warm and tingly with sleep washing up over him when he hears another creak. Another soft groan. He holds his breath to hear better. The sound of skin on skin is faint, but unmistakable.
He smirks and thinks, Okay, Sammy. Okay. And he turns over, face pressed into the cool pillow, not quite as cool as glass, letting the heat pool and idle in his belly.
* * *
Sam's in the shower when Dean wakes. He lies there, listening to the water beating against the tiles. After a minute, the water still going, he sneaks a hand down into his boxers, stroking lightly at his morning erection. After another minute, he tightens his grip, his strokes growing more determined. He listens to the low rumble of the water, listens over the crescendo of his heartbeat as the blood rushes through him. He doesn't know how much time he has. But now that he's started this, he wants to get off before Sam comes ambling out of the bathroom.
That would be just great. Sam emerging from a cloud of steam, towel wrapped around his middle, dripping all over the carpet as he walked in on Dean jerking off, not five feet away from the bathroom door. Dean hears the shower shut off, and imagines Sam getting out of the stall, skin hot and gleaming, clear droplets careening over the slope of his chest, clinging to the hairs below his navel, down between his legs. Dean comes so hard he almost forgets to pull his hand away when the bathroom door opens.
He has the decency to roll over, smacking his lips loudly after an elaborate yawn.
"Good morning, Sammy."
Sam sniffs the air. Dean can hear it. "Yeah, was it good for you?"
* * *
It's not a big deal. Neither of them likes to get caught in the act. But it's not like it's a secret. They're guys, right? They've jerked off around each other ever since Sam started going through puberty. Honestly, Dean deserves a fucking medal for confining his to the bathroom up until that point. There were some rough nights when he'd toss and turn, and the sheets and his boxers and, hell, even the breeze through the open window all seemed to conspire against him, making him harder. Nine times out of ten, a mad dash to the bathroom resulted in taking care of the problem. But there was always the tenth time, when Dean, so damn close to coming, heard a little voice on the other side of the door. "Dean?" It didn't always stop Dean from coming though. Almost never, in fact.
But, that first night, when Dean heard the springs squeaking on Sammy's bed, heard the panting, heard the rustling of sheets, he smiled. Not because he was a perv or anything. Not necessarily because his baby brother was finally growing up either, though he was kind of proud of Sam for that. But Dean was relieved to be able to let go, stay in bed and take care of business, now that Sam was finally old enough too.
Dean kept quiet. They both did. Dean could hear Sam. Surely Sam could hear him. But it wasn't out in the open, it wasn't right in front of each other. They never talked about it. Why should they? It's just a guy thing.
Not that it kept Dean from mocking Sam mercilessly, checking his palm in the morning for calluses. Sam never retaliated. Not directly. There was the one time Dean woke up to find coarse hairs-that he hoped to God were from the animal pelt Dad had gotten from some shaman-krazy glued to his palm. But he and Sam were in the midst of a prank war at the time, so it didn't technically count.
But maybe it counted to Sam. Dean wonders. Sam always did get back at him in slow, methodical ways. Latent retaliation. Some instances bigger than others. Like, Dean remembers how there were fewer sleepless nights once Sam finally found out what his dick was for. And then when Sam went away to Stanford, Dean's sleepless nights came back on him double and triple. Rationally, Dean knows that Sam wasn't punishing him for anything. He knows it.
But it doesn't change the fact that Sam left him alone.
Dean slept in the car a lot after that. Dad never said anything about it. When he was around.
When Sam came back, Dean swears she knew. The car? She rode so smoothly, better than ever. Even after Sam smashed her into that old Welch shack in Jericho. It was like she didn't mind the broken headlight and scratches and dents. The door creaked brightly like a greeting, the seat bowed just right under Sam's weight so that Dean could feel it over on his side.
Dean didn't say it, bit back the smile because it was wrong in light of everything Sam had gone through. But the thought was there, as he smoothed a hand over the dash: "Our boy came home."
The kid gets on Dean's nerves plenty, don't get him wrong. But having him back by his side never gets old. After all they've been through-Hell and back, not the cliché but the real McCoy-there's not much reassurance to be found. But Sam's presence is a touchstone, a solid weight that keeps Dean here when his mind threatens to go. There's no safe place in this world. Not now, not really ever. But if things get too heavy, he and Sam can always hop in the car and get away, keep danger at bay for a while.
If he's being really honest, Dean looked at Sam differently after he came back from Hell. It happened before he discovered what Sam was up to, before the lying and the betrayal and that demon bitch feeding him her filth.
It wasn't the stiffness of Sam's shoulders, the hardened lines on his face. Dean accepted that change, Sam growing older.
No, it was so much smaller. No bigger than a word.
It was late at night, coming up on last call at another shitty dive bar where the locals were stupid enough to play pool with Dean despite his shark-toothed grin. He still had it. Pockets a little fuller, bar empty of Sam, Dean had shuffled out the back to find Sam pressed up against the car. And someone kneeling in front of him, obscured by the shadows cast by the trees, the dumpster, Sam. This indistinguishable mop of short, brown curls bobbing up and down. Sam didn't make any noise, just bit down on his lip and then opened his mouth into a perfect O and then it stopped. There was murmuring and strange hands touching his car, and Dean nearly gave himself away right then, protectively moving forward before catching himself. And that's when he heard it.
"Do you like her?" Sam had said.
Her. Dean had never heard Sam talk about the car like that before. Not that word, not that tone.
He supposed it made sense. After all, she'd been Sam's all those years, months Dean had been gone.
Dean usually thinks of her as his car. But he knows she belongs to both of them. They belong together. That time, hearing Sam say that-that's when Dean knew Sam felt the same way. It's one of the reasons he offered her to him when Sam left again, the time it was Dean’s fault.
It's not a regular thing, but sometimes Dean thinks back on that time in the parking lot while he's jerking off. He pictures Sam getting sucked off, imagines the smell of sex and the obscene sounds of slurping and suction, even though he couldn't hear or smell either at the time. He imagines the car rocking with the movement of Sam's hips, even though that didn't happen either. Sometimes he thinks about the taste, stops to lick the precome off his own hand. It makes him come faster, imagining this. And that's important when you have precious little personal time or space. He doesn't need to think about what this means. It's an issue of practicality. Like the way masturbation is just maintenance. You brush your teeth, you change the oil, you clean your pipes; it's what you do.
You take what you can.
* * *
Sometimes, this life, it takes so much out of you, you could drown in it.
It’s not just the spirits and the demons and the angels and the batshit crazy people who choose long pig over pork chops. It’s the little things as well: the roadblocks and detours and potholes that come along, right when you’re making good time, getting in the way of what you’re used to doing.
Tonight, for instance. They sleep in the car when she stalls somewhere so smack in the middle of nowhere that they don't even bother pushing her past the tree line. No other headlights on the flat stretch of highway, no porch lights, no light but the stars blinking in and out around clouds. Parking her in the tall grasses off the shoulder will suffice.
Still, Dean walks two miles south just in case, leaving Sam with the car, telling him to watch over her.
Two miles back and nothing to show for it but new blisters on his feet, Dean opens the driver's side door and slumps in, bones creaking in unison with her hinges. He makes a face. The car smells. He turns around.
Sam's in the backseat, hand curled around a flashlight under his cheek, elbow crooked over the top of the vinyl, hair falling against his wrist. There's not the slightest flush to his skin to betray him. Not one bit of his clothing disheveled either. But Dean knows what he did. Sam's right leg, bent up onto the seat, holds Dad's journal. Dean reaches over the seat and snatches it out of Sam's lap.
"I hope you weren't jerking off to this. 'Cause that's a whole new level of sad, Sam." He snatches the flashlight and makes a show of examining the journal, back to front, letting it fall closed in his own lap.
"What?" Sam runs a hand through his hair.
Dean arches an eyebrow at him. It's that easy.
Sam’s lips draw downward in a perfect arc. "Oh, fine, like you never. Like you’re such a monk."
Dean snorts.
"And I'm guessing you didn't find anything," Sam continues. "But I did." He leans over the front seat, hand stretching toward the journal in Dean's lap. His fingers curl around the leather binding, right over Dean's fly.
He's hard. He's been hard since he got in the car, smelling of Sam.
As if that's not embarrassing enough, Dean lets out a low, stuttering breath as Sam's knuckles brush over him.
Sam has the journal in his grasp, but he doesn't move, just hovers over Dean's crotch. The first touch must have been accidental. But then one of Sam's knuckles presses down into Dean, slowly, so slowly it can't be a mistake. Dean bats Sam's hand away, pushing the journal back toward him. "We'll deal with it tomorrow, Sammy. I'm tired."
Dean hears his name as he clicks off the flashlight, but he just hunches down onto the seat, sideways, drawing his knees up. Tucking one arm under his head, he silently counts out each breath, trying to steady himself. He's facing the steering wheel, and his fingers stumble over the notches on the bottom, like notches in a spine. Onetwothreefour, he traces the crests and troughs of the steering wheel. Onetwothreefour, back again.
He finally starts to feel himself softening a little when there's a low creaking of vinyl. And then Sam's hand is on his hip, feather light at first, then skimming over denim to cup Dean firmly. Sam's whole hand covers Dean's dick, fingers tucked under Dean's ball's. His palm moves up and down, heel pressing in, and Dean's harder than he was before.
Dean growls in frustration. "Sammy. Don't."
"Tell me to stop," Sam says, thumbing open the button, lowering the zipper and slipping his hand inside.
"Stop," Dean says. But he arches up into Sam's touch.
"Shut up, Dean."
Sam starts off slow, traces a forefinger straight up the length and around the crown. His thumb strokes under the head, pushes up into Dean's slit, teasing out a bead of precome. Dean's balls are tight up against him already, and Sam tugs on them lightly, making Dean whimper. Then suddenly his hand grips Dean's dick and he's jacking him hard and fast, squeezing every other stroke. It's relentless, and Dean tilts his head up, panting for air. His throat clicks, his lips shape around unsaid words, but all he can do is punch out a moan with each harsh breath. When he comes, his whole body shakes. Sam draws it out, slowing down only slightly until the last trickle of come is squeezed out.
Dean's shirt is soaked, sticky, clinging to him. With a sigh, he peels it over his head, arms feeling almost too heavy to move, and mops at the seat first then wipes his stomach. When he looks up, Sam is licking at his own fingers, watching him.
"Here." Dean thrusts the shirt at him, but it falls over the seat into a foot well. Sam sucks at the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. Even in the low light, his eyes appear glazed.
"Fine," Dean says, tucking himself back in and zipping up. "Throw me another shirt then." He adds, "With your other hand."
Sam does, laying a soft flannel over the seat. Without looking back, Dean shrugs it on. He curls up against the window, the cool glass numbing his overheated cheek, and closes his eyes. A few minutes later, the car dips and shifts. Sam's boots thud against the door as he stretches as far as he can go.
There's a muttered, "Night, Dean." And Dean waits for sleep.
Eventually, he stops waiting.
* * *
Big girl that he is, Sam likes to talk about everything. So Dean expects it the next morning, braces himself as soon as Sam wakes up.
But this time? This one time there's something to talk about, Sam doesn't. Dean's pretty sure he's relieved.
That day, there's a lot of walking, more walking, and when they're sick of walking, there's possibly a minor instance of auto theft. Dean considers it borrowing. It gets them back to the car. The car gets a new fuel pump and an apology from Dean for not replacing the pump 300 miles back like he should have. They get into town late that night-technically, early the next morning. Dean's so tired, he only eats three slices of pizza and passes out on the bed with his boots still on.
He wakes to find his boots on the floor and Sam's bed empty.
In the shower, he doesn't even jerk off, because every time he touches himself, he imagines Sam's hand.
It's an old bathroom, and the pipes rattle, the water ratcheting through them. Dean leans against the fiberglass wall, letting the vibrations ease some of the tension from him. It doesn't last long.
Sam's coming in as Dean's coming out of the bathroom. Sweaty from his run, Sam collapses onto the bed, toeing off his sneakers. His legs splay wide, knees bent, and Dean can see the darkish round of Sam's sac up the leg opening of his running shorts. Dean just stands there in his scratchy towel, skin suddenly tight and hot. His hands fidget, uselessly pulling the towel tighter around him so that his erection stands out even more.
He's about to turn on his heel when Sam's head lolls toward him.
Sam looks Dean up and down, but his expression doesn't change. He reaches out a hand.
Dean feels like he's moving, but he's still standing there. The tug of what he wants roped in by what he thinks he shouldn't.
Sam raises his hand and lowers it, an insistent gesture. It pulls at Dean harder than any of the thoughts that cross and tangle in his mind. He walks slowly though, heel to toe, heel to toe until he stubs his toe on the metal leg of the bed.
"Come on," Sam says, egging him on with a jerk of his chin.
Dean kneels up on the bed beside Sam’s legs, close but not touching him.
"Is this...?" Dean starts to ask. But Sam leans up, untucks Dean's towel and tosses it aside, pulls his own shirt up over his head.
"Trust me," Sam says, cupping himself through his shorts, pulling taut around his erection. "It is." He’s not smiling, but his eyes are glinting in that smug, little gleeful way that says, Duh, Dean.
Yeah, sometimes you get so close to things that you can’t see them. Until someone shows you what’s right there in front of you.
Sam is right in front of him. Waiting. Dean hooks his fingers under the elastic of Sam's shorts and pulls them down. Sam's dick lays heavy against his belly, flushed red, flared head thick and wet already. Dean pulls the shorts off all the way, Sam's big toe catching the hem for a moment before they fall to the floor. A little gracelessly on the lumpy bed, Dean moves to kneel between Sam's legs, staring down at him. Sam staring back up.
There's nothing but breath between them. Dean could say a hundred words, but his mouth is too dry. He licks his lips, and leans forward.
He strokes himself once, then guides the head of his dick up over Sam's balls, tracing up Sam's dick, rubbing the heads against each other. Their breath harshens at the same time. Dean says Sam's name, and Sam's reaching for him, drawing Dean up over him. Their shafts slot together, a faint friction, and Dean moans. Sam's tongue slides against his open lips. Dean swallows around him, opening again for more.
They kiss like this, messy and open and too wet, dragging their bodies against each other. It's an awkward rhythm, starting and stopping as Dean slides his hands up Sam's chest and Sam scratches down Dean's shoulder blades, thumbs digging into his ribs. Dean's leg slips over Sam's. Sam's fingers slide up Dean's neck, grabbing hold of the short scruff of hair. They bite and rut and thrust, and it's not enough. Dean needs more of Sam's mouth, more of his hands, more skin against skin, closer, so much closer.
Dean’s hands are all over Sam, not sure where to go, so going everywhere.
He reaches down to feel between their legs, slips a finger between their dicks where they slide together. Sam throws back his head, his neck a long, thick arch. Sweat pools at the base of it, and Dean laps at it, reaching down further to rub his fingertips into that smooth space behind Sam’s balls.
Then Sam's muscles tighten and he's coming. Dean can feel it. The tremble and the low groan like thunder right under his skin. Dean feels Sam twitch against him, pulsing wet against his own dick still rubbing against Sam's, smearing come and sweat.
Sam's mouth is a perfect pink circle and Dean brackets Sam's face with his hands and kisses all the breath out of him.
Dean’s name is on Sam's lips when he pulls back.
Breathing hard, he pushes up and sits back on his heels. He slides his hand around Sam's calf and bends his knee up, folds it toward his chest. There's a tight, little niche between Sam's hip and thigh, and Dean guides his dick into that crease. It's still not enough, but it's better, Sam's skin hot and slippery. The mattress creaks, dips beneath him as he pushes in and out of the crease, rocks on his knees. He thrusts wildly, balls slapping against Sam's thigh, colliding with Sam's own. Sam draws his leg closer, pinning Dean into that tight space until he can hardly move. All he can feel is Sam around him.
His head spins. Heat eddies inside him, swimming fast through his veins. He pulls back and Sam's leg falls open and he's coming, shooting all over Sam's thighs and balls, up onto his stomach, come mingling with Sam's own.
He rocks back on his heels, gasping for air. When he catches his breath, he looks down at Sam, finds him as slackjawed as he is.
Dean reaches for Sam's shirt to clean them off. The heel of Sam’s foot whacks Dean in the shoulder, hard.
"Dammit, Dean."
Dean smirks, wipes himself off, then pauses. He reaches a finger out and paints a stripe of come down Sam's sac, trailing a glistening circle around Sam's hole. Sam keens, low in his throat. Another circle follows that, then the pad of his finger presses into the puckered flesh. Sam's heel thunks Dean in the head.
"Later," Sam says, voice raspy. But there's a lazy smile on his face. "Okay?"
"Yeah?"
Sam rolls his eyes at the bare eagerness in Dean's tone. He nods, and wraps his hands around Dean's elbows, draws him down.
"Just." Dean slides up Sam's chest, kisses his sternum. He shuffles to the side, limbs tangling with Sam's. "Stop kicking me." His big toe makes contact with the back of Sam's knee. "Asshole." He nips at Sam's ear.
Sam squirms around, facing Dean. "Stop trying to spoon me." He pinches Dean's nipple. "Bossy little shit." He leans down to lick where he pinched and Dean's hand combs through his hair, nape to crown, thumb stroking the damp strands behind his ear. Sam leans into the touch, curls into Dean, squirms around a bit before tucking himself beneath his arm.
"Yeah, 'cause that's less girly than spooning."
Dean gets a kick in the shin for that. He'd retaliate but it requires too much movement.
Sam's chest moves against his own in counterpoint, rumbling softly against him as his breathing evens out. Dean falls asleep to the quiet thrum of their bodies entwined, blood and breath and bones fitting together like parts of a machine. He doesn't know what makes it work. But it works; he doesn't have to look inside to know that it does.
* * *
The next day, he doesn’t wake up alone. He doesn’t even get the shower to himself.
Then they're off again, ready to hit the road. Duffels in the back, Sam by his side, Dean clicks the key into the ignition and his baby turns over, loud and solid and familiar. He loves it, every time.
Pulling out of the lot, Dean reaches for the gear shift, misses by a mile and grabs Sam instead.
"Whoops," he says, hand lingering on Sam's thigh.
Sam adjusts himself, says, "Jerk."
Dean grins over at him. "Bitch."
"You wish." Sam's lips quirk, despite his best efforts.
"You can deny it all you want," Dean says as the tires stutter over stubbled macadam, the engine a lulling hum beneath them.
Sam sighs so hard it ruffles his bangs, and he slumps down in the seat. "Whatever. Wake me when we get there."
Dean smirks, eases a little further into the seat himself.
It’s a long drive ahead, but they’re already home.
Feedback, including concrit, always welcome.