It doesn’t hit him until after the hunt. They were scrambling, running fast and hard after that goddamn kitsune, and after Sam caught her and Dean stabbed her in the heart, the sirens started to wail, and there wasn’t time for much else but quickly lighting the corpse, darting back into the woods at high speed, sprinting low through the dark until they tumbled back into the car–and then it was driving, sedate and quiet, back to the motel for the night, even if Dean’s heart was pounding fit to crash right out of his chest and Sam was breathing hard next to him, that stomach-curdle of burnt-meat smoke heavy in the pit of their lungs.
When they finally stumble, quiet as they can manage, into the motel room, Sam heads straight for the bed and falls onto his back on the mattress, still breathing hard. Dean flicks on the light in the bathroom and washes his face of the dirt and sweat, the blood spatter from when he’d stabbed her in the heart, right where it counted. His own heart’s still thudding in the base of his throat. The adrenaline’s not quite gone, and he strips off his shirt and pants, thinking that, maybe a shower–
He’s kicking his briefs off his ankle when he comes back into the room, and he’s jittery and overwarm, and he’s thinking of his shower kit but he’s wanting–well, he wants something, and then he sees Sam. Still spread out, on his back, arms splayed out wide over the mattress and his boots still on. The light from the bathroom cuts a sharp angle over the bed, and it lights up Sammy’s thigh and a sliver of exposed stomach and the gleaming bronze column of his throat. Sam’s still sweating, hard, sweating even long past the exertion that earned it, because that’s what Sammy does. He runs too hot, that big body pumping out sweat like it’ll help to cool it down–and Dean stops, his own body naked and cool, skin prickling a little in the air conditioning streaming from the unit under the window. He licks his lips, and he looks at Sam, at the damp center of his chest where he’s soaked through his undershirt, at the tiny shining gleam of his belly, and then he–he knees up on the bed and swings a thigh over Sam’s and Sam’s eyes fly open and he grabs at Dean’s hips, but he doesn’t flinch. He lets Dean settle his weight there, in Sam’s lap, lets Dean just look at him. His hands are lax on Dean’s skin–holding, not urging. Dean knows he’s tired. They’re both tired, but that adrenaline’s still kicking against Dean’s ribs, and–
He tucks his fingers under the damp-soft hem of Sam’s flannel, runs his thumbs up the slick skin of his belly, the damp crinkling hair of his treasure trail, and Sam frowns a little but when Dean tugs on his shirt, harder, he squirms around obligingly and tugs shirt and undershirt off, over his head, drops them to the floor beside the mattress and drops onto his back again, and there it is. Sam’s sweating, probably more now that he’s got Dean’s weight on him. It gleams, shining over the hollow of his throat, over his collarbones and his chest, curling his chest hair–and when a group of cop cars go screaming past the motel and Sam turns his head to follow the sound of the sirens, Dean can see that his hair’s soaked, the soft heavy weight of it that he grips when Sam’s blowing him or fucking him or when they’re kissing is just soaked clean through, and he leans down and buries his face in Sam’s throat and bites, not hard but enough to get some flesh between his teeth, his tongue slicking over the salt of his brother.
“Ah,” Sam says, low, and that jittery feeling in Dean’s belly goes hot and liquid. He sucks hard against his mouthful of salt and skin and straining tendon and Sam shivers, tucks a hand over the back of Dean’s neck. His hips kick up a little into Dean’s, and Dean squirms against him, his own dick hardening up, but he breaks Sam’s grip on him anyway–he slides his hands up Sammy’s bare sides and shoves his arms out of the way, and up. Sam grabs gamely onto the cheap headboard and then there’s Sam’s pits and their wet curling hair and something in Dean’s stomach curls and drops like a stone and he bites across the heaving expanse of Sam’s pec and slicks his tongue into the wet hollow, buries his nose in–in that smell, oh god, all that crazy damp heat of him, right there and waiting for Dean. Sam sucks in a breath as Dean bites against the deep muscle there–gives a little strangled laugh as Dean tongues the hair flat, as he scrapes his teeth up to the swell of Sam’s bicep, tasting the shape of him.
“Dean,” Sam says, faint, and Dean abandons his pit and buries a hand in the sopping wet hair at the back of his neck and kisses him, wide open. Sam groans against his tongue, his hips hitching up again, but he leaves his hands on the headboard. He’s just–he’s just letting Dean do this, even if Dean doesn’t even really know what he’s doing himself–and with his other hand Dean fumbles open Sam’s belt, he undoes Sam’s button and zip and tucks his hand down, past the treasure trail to the short crisp curls, and they’re wet, too, God–
He breaks away from Sam’s mouth and leans his forehead on Sam’s shoulder, pushes up onto his knees so he has room and shoves Sam’s jeans and briefs down to mid-thigh, and even in the shadow of his own body he can see the sweat slick over the v of his pelvis, sweat gleaming wetly over on the sharp cut of muscle above that big pretty dick that’s just straining, wet of its own accord as it slaps heavy against Dean’s bare thigh, and he drops his weight right back into Sam’s lap and lines their dicks up together, rears up with his knees digging hard into the mattress either side of Sam’s hips so he can see as he presses his dick flat against Sam’s, shoving forward and glancing against the wet sharp cut of his hip. Their balls drag together and Dean shivers, but he shivers harder at the image–his dick slipping over Sam’s bigger one under the cage of his hand, the long gleaming line of Sam’s torso leading up to his heaving chest, the shine of his throat, the sharp edge of his jaw and his wet parted mouth and the dark heavy-lidded eyes as he stares up at Dean, still holding onto the headboard even as his hips lurch up, grinding his dick hard up into Dean’s so that a spark lights in Dean’s belly, and then it’s on.
They’re shoving together, and Dean’s starting to leak and it’s just adding to the slick between them, and he grinds down into the sweat on Sam’s belly and leans down and buries his nose into the wet under Sam’s ear and he can smell him again, hot and heavy and almost cloying in the back of his throat, full up to his lungs with his brother. Sam’s breath is coming harsh and heavy over his neck, his shoulder, Sam’s face turned in toward Dean’s. Dean shoves his dick in hard against Sam’s hip and puts a hand on Sam’s side to balance and he slips, somehow, shoves himself forward too far, and Sam’s dick slides up, behind, slips past his balls and glances wet against Dean’s hole and just the thought of that, just the image of Sam just being able to slip into him, to glide in on sweat and precome and bury himself in Dean without any prep–oh, fuck, Dean licks at the straining tendon under Sam’s ear and bites in and with the salty taste of skin under his tongue he comes, just like that, humping against Sam’s belly, and while he’s panting Sam’s arms come down over his shoulders and his lower back like a vice, and he’s held rigidly in place as Sam fucks up into the crack of his ass, one hand clamping down to keep him in place and he’s so sensitive it almost hurts, his dick and balls crushed in against Sam’s belly, rolling in his own mess until Sam sucks in a strangled breath and fucks up one more time and comes, spurts over his own hand, splats landing up on Dean’s back, slopping against the swell of Dean’s ass. He shudders, hard, while Sam fucks up through his orgasm, and it’s only slowly that Sam’s arms unlock and release Dean’s back and shoulders, so that Dean can breathe normally again.
He licks again under Sam’s ear, makes him squirm, and then plants his hands on Sam’s shoulders and pushes himself up, with a groan. He shifts his hips up just enough that Sam’s dick slips away from his ass, flops back up big and flushed and wet against Sam’s own belly, and then he settles back down, grinding them softly together.
Sam watches him, one hand settled heavy over Dean’s thigh and one tucked behind his head. There’s come slicked up Sam’s belly, and he’s sweating even more now–it’s at his temples and throat, darkening his stubble almost to black. Dean licks his lips.
“This is kind of disgusting,” Sam says, after a minute. He doesn’t sound like he minds.
Dean trails a thumb down Sam’s chest, over his damp hair and through a smear of come, until he brushes the fat head of Sam’s dick, still not quite soft. He glances up and–yeah. Sam’s eyes are heavy, and dark, and his mouth’s parted while he watches Dean, steadily.
“I was thinking I might take a shower,” Dean says, finally. His voice is all scratched up and too-deep. “If–you know.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, and slides his hand up Dean’s thigh to the curve of his hip, where Dean’s sweaty, too. Dean shivers, a little. “I think I might join you.”
