Thinking about how Dean would probably still try though. >:]
He would try to go on like normal, as if it didn't happen even though it very much did and his brain won't let him forget it. Trying to wipe the dark, hungry look in his little brother's eyes by avoiding looking into them again even though he really wants to. Jumping at the smallest graze of Sam's fingertips across his arms that send warm chills up his spine. Standing at a somewhat reasonable two feet away from him as to not get swallowed up by the smell of Sam's freshly washes flannel, or the natural scent of sweat and work.
Another bar, another girl, and maybe it even feels good, really good in fact.
She was gorgeous with long slender legs he threw over his shoulders, and long blonde hair tangled up in the bedsheets and his own fingers, and her delicious pornographic moans filled the shitty motel room as he fucked into her rough. Satisfying her, like analysis, but never finishing. He ditches the sweet nothings of aftercare and the courtesy of staying the night, and stumbles his way back to his and Sam's room, still hard and aching for release. But he'll never admit it. Sam doesn't need to know.
But he does. Watching as Dean stumble back into their shared room, immediately noticing the tent in his pants but saying nothing, doing nothing. Just like he did nothing as the cute blonde waitress slipped Dean her number and Dean took it, almost too quickly, and throwing him a sideways glance of which Sam pretended not to notice.
He'd continue to say nothing, do nothing, each time Dean comes back from another girl from another bar, unsatisfied. Sam bites his lips at the rush he gets watching Dean stagger his way into the bathroom, listening carefully to the muffled groans coming from within, and still saying nothing, doing nothing, innocently glancing up at his brother as he exits.
Until Dean finally snaps.
One more bar, one more cute girl slipping him her number, one more quick glance. But this time Dean seems to have had enough. Dean stands, ushering Sam to follow, leaving this receipt with the waitress's number written on it with their leftovers. And Sam can't help the excitement rising in his chest as he lets his older brother lead them to the car, and eventually into their motel room after a short but tense and exhilarating drive.
There's no words, no hesitation, no room for misinterpretation. As soon as Sam crosses the threshold of the front door, Dean slams the door behind him by pinning Sam to it, crushing their lips together as the flood of pent-up tension they both had been carrying from that night come crashing down onto them in waves.
Moans swallowed up by each other, lips caught in each other's teeth and hands everywhere. Dean's on sides of Sam's face, sliding down to cup the back of his neck, further down his shoulders and then up Sam's spine pressed against the door. Sam's immediately grabbing at Dean's waist to pull him impossibly closer, fingers slipping under his shirt and sliding up his stomach and back around to the small of his back.
Sam takes the first step, pulling them both off the door, but Dean's the one dragging Sam to the bed, refusing to let his lips or hands leave Sam. That is, until Dean's calves hit the bed and he trips backwards onto it. Sam leans over to lock their lips one more time before pulling back with a shit eating grin plastered on his face.
"Took you long enough," He teases.
"Shut up," Dean bites, pulling him back down by his shirt.
No other words are exchanged that night, no other words are needed. As they slot their bodies back together, the puzzles pieces of them do as well. They can finally leave those good for nothing bars and the barrage of nameless girls behind.
