It starts, as so many Winchester Escapades™️ do, in a bar.
“Man, who’s in charge of this fucking juke?” Dean groans over the opening notes of Madonna’s “Like a Prayer.”
Sam swallows his mouthful of Miller. “Probably the Real Housewives of Duluth over there.”
He nods over Dean’s shoulder to a group of 40- and 50-year-old women bedecked in sequins, cowboy boots, and a variety of conspicuously-thin fabrics over dark-colored brassieres. It is, according to Sam’s observations, the midwest-suburban equivalent of formalwear.
“Tch. Of course.” Dean takes a slug of his own drink.
“Dude, you could get up and put money in for a few songs too, if you wanted,” Sam suggests. “Instead of just, I don’t know, bitching about it.”
“You’ll listen to me bitch about whatever the fuck I want and you’ll like it,” Dean says curtly. “You have to be nice to me, remember? I’m injured.”
He’s talking about the (single, clean, and very shallow) stab wound in his right shoulder blade where the witch they’d met last night got him with her knife.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” Sam reminds him. It had been Sam himself that had wrestled the knife away from her before she got the chance to stick Dean somewhere more vital.
“Stop gloating. Not an attractive quality.” Dean chugs the rest of his beer, then comes up for air with a foam mustache and a belch.
Sam scoffs at him. “And you’re the authority on the matter.”
Dean, still mustachioed, just winks back. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.”
Sam can’t really argue to the contrary. Hell, he’s still sore from getting ridden into the mattress not two hours ago. So he just rolls his eyes and shuts his mouth and suffers, like he always does.
“God, why do middle-aged moms love this song so much?” Dean, in the absence of more arguing or flirting, chooses complaining to keep himself occupied. “Do they know it’s about sucking dick? Because it’s about sucking dick. I mean, I know it’s from the eighties, but even by eighties standards it’s not subtle.”
“I’d actually bet money that’s exactly why they love it so much. Unsatisfied housewives love to be horny in public, man, you know that.” He witnesses one of the women slosh half a Cosmo down her own shirt. She laughs it off so loud that Sam can feel it in his teeth. “Especially when they’re fucked up on overpriced vodka-tinis.”
“Guess I can’t blame ‘em,” Dean admits. “If I’d never gotten or given a decent lay in my life, I’d probably buddy up to Svedka and Madonna, too.”
“Thank God you managed to avoid that,” Sam mutters over the rim of his glass. He tries to keep the smugness out of his voice. Fails, miserably.
Dean grins crooked at him, eyes twinkling. “Well, I get by with a little help from my friends, huh?”
There’s the suggestive brush of a boot against the inside of Sam’s calf. Another seamless switch back to flirting. Sam laughs airily and shakes his head, amazed at both the ease and the audacity.
“It’s been two hours, dude, leave me alone. I’m tapped-out ‘til tomorrow. And - you oughta be, too,” he adds accusingly. “What are you, seventeen? Jesus.”
“Sorry, man - I-I can't help it,” Dean laughs. “All this blowjob talk is gettin’ me riled.”
“You sure it's not Madonna that’s working you up?”
Dean laughs harder and pulls a face. “Oh, god, no. Like a…like a nightgaunt wearing thigh-high boots and a studded bra.”
“Now there’s a hell of an image,” Sam remarks, grimacing as said image manifests (without permission) in his mind.
“You know what people don’t write enough songs about?” Dean asks him.
“Kinky nightgaunts?” Sam guesses, still disgusted.
“No! Well, yeah,” Dean amends. “But no. Road head.”
“Road head,” Sam echoes. He’s still trying to force the nightgaunt thing out of his brain when Dean’s hand smacks down on the table and does the job for him.
“Yes, dude! That shit is the best.” Dean bites his lip and grunts. Dean’s eyes go all unfocused and dreamy. “Cruising down a smooth country road, music cranked up, seat leaned back, pretty little mouth on your—”
“Wouldn’t know,” Sam cuts in casually. There’s precious little beer left in his own glass. He downs it and gets up to grab them another round.
Dean’s vice-gripping the sleeve of his jacket before he gets two steps farther.
“Dude,” he asks, eyes wide. “You fuckin’ serious?”
“Wh—uh, yeah, Dean, I’m serious.” Sam chuckles, confused. “Why is that so bizarre to you?”
“Because!” Dean says. Yells, more like. He's buzzed, too enthusiastic and too loud. Sam shoots him a warning look and he politely drops his volume. “Because it’s the best! And you deserve the best.”
That’s all very flattering, and Sam will have to remember to tease him about it later. But Sam’s still not getting it, not understanding why this is apparently a National Emergency in his brother’s (already hard-to-follow) hierarchy of concerns, though.
“Just never had the chance,” Sam explains.
“‘Never had the…’” Dean’s face is pure confusion. “Sam, all you’ve done for most of your life is drive cross-country.”
“No, all you’ve done for most of my life is drive cross-country,” Sam corrects him. “I’m usually just the passenger. And when I’m not the passenger, I’m driving you around. Or I wasn’t there at all, and your passenger was apparently…someone with a—“ It’s Sam’s turn to pull a face. “—a pretty little mouth."
The grip on Sam's sleeve becomes more of a caress. Dean cocks a brow and smirks skeptically, but there’s genuine concern in his next question.
“Dude, you’re not, uh, salty that I brought that up, are you?”
Sam winces internally. Jealous. Dean means jealous, not salty. And Sam isn't jealous, or salty, or whatever Dean wants to call it, because whatever and whoever happened before the last ten months doesn’t matter to him, not anymore. This is what matters now, and the past is the past. They’ve gone over that. But Dean’s going out of his way to be kind about Sam’s perceived saltiness. Genuinely trying to be considerate, for Christ’s sake - and that kind of makes Sam feel bad because Dean feels bad. Which is just...stupid.
“No, I’m not. I’m not,” he repeats when Dean doesn’t look too sure. “Seriously.”
Relief pretties up Dean’s smile. “Alright.”
Sam pats the back of Dean’s hand reassuringly. “But I do think the term ‘pretty little mouth’ is creepy,” he adds. He heads to the bar.
“I can think of creepier things to say!” Dean calls after him, challengingly.
The Madonnagaunt thing springs back to mind and Sam wisely decides not to test him.
* * *
About two weeks later, apropos of nothing, Dean pulls over on the side of a narrow state highway in rural Wisconsin.
Sam, who’s been counting dairy farms and dozing intermittently for the last however-many miles, gradually returns to the waking world as they slow down.
“What’s goin’ on?” He doesn’t remember hearing Dean get a call or anything. Sam hadn’t noticed anything noteworthy in the surrounding scenery - except that one cow. With the weird udder. Like, really weird.
“Gotta piss. Time to switch, too,” Dean instructs him, and gets out of the car.
Sam shakes himself a little to break the lingering road-coma and follows suit without any further questions. Dean likes to drive, that’s a well-known fact, but it’s been a long stretch of nothing and Sam can’t fault him for wanting to take a break. They’ve got another few hours ‘til they get to where they’re going, anyway.
The highway is empty but Dean slips behind an oak along the side of the ditch anyway. The illusion of privacy is better than nothing, Sam guesses. There’s a rusted “No Trespassing” sign tacked to the tree trunk. Dean makes a goofy “tres-pissing ” comment as he relieves himself on the tree’s mossy roots. Sam favors the joke with a beleaguered “ugh” which, come to think of it, is probably actually more satisfying than a genuine laugh would’ve been.
Sam takes the opportunity to stretch while they’re stopped. He cranes his arms over his head, cracks his neck, bends as far back as his spine will let him and works out all the cricks he can. He does a couple of lunges, too, enjoying the long stretch in his thighs - and stops abruptly when he looks up and finds Dean leaning on the Impala’s trunk, a voyeur’s smile on his face.
“Don’t mind me,” Dean says, just as casual as can be. “Hey, what other yoga stuff do you know?”
“It’s not yoga, numbnuts, it’s a lunge. You know what a fucking lunge is.” Sam rises slowly. “Besides, I think you’ve seen all the yoga stuff I know, anyway. It’s not a lot.”
“It’s enough. You're pretty bendy for a dude your size,” Dean remarks. “Maybe I could use a refresher. We‘re gettin’ older, man - we gotta remember to limber up.”
Sam swats him on the ass as they pass each other. “Don’t tempt me,” he warns.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Dean returns, and they slide into their new seats.
Sam likes driving too. Not as much as Dean does, obviously, but he enjoys it. The Impala’s a smooth, powerful piece of American steel, all sleek black-and-chrome that gleams in the mid-morning sun. Sam basks in the sense of control and freedom that he feels behind the wheel. The rumble of the road underneath him drowns out everything but the music and his own thoughts. He rolls down the window and enjoys the way the fresh air stirs his hair gently about his face. In the corner of his eye he can see Dean relaxing in the passenger seat. His eyes are closed and his head is tipped back. The sunshine turns his hair into a shock of gold. Every freckle stands out stark against the pinkish-pale of his cheeks. The fine lines and scars on his face make a map that Sam knows as well as any highway.
Sam’s so in love that he can feel it humming through him, another vibration alongside the engine. Times like these he can pretend - at least for a little while - that he and Dean are normal, that they’re just two lovers on a nice midday drive through the quintessential American backcountry.
Times like these are good. They’re really good.
* * *
The time and the miles roll by uneventfully, and Sam pleasantly zones out again.
The press of Dean’s palm against Sam’s knee is unexpected, but not unwelcome. Sometimes he gets handsy. Affectionate. Sam never complains about it (and, in fact, does his best to encourage it). He takes one hand off of the wheel, intending to place it over Dean’s and hold it - something he often does when he’s in the passenger’s seat.
But Dean’s palm slips further up Sam’s thigh, evading him. It’s unhurried and gentle, and he squeezes and massages as he goes along. Sam lets out a pleased hum. He can hear Dean make a similar little noise in his throat.
Dean’s hand slips higher still and hey, alright, that’s intriguing.
“Uh, what’re you doin’?”
“Nothin’,” Dean replies, in a tone that says somethin'.
His fingers press in and up, catching almost in the crook of Sam’s thigh. Sam’s dick gives an interested twitch, and Sam can’t blame it. The seat creaks under him as he spreads his legs a bit, careful to keep even pressure on the gas pedal. He can feel Dean watching him move.
“There you go,” Dean mumbles appreciatively.
He moves, too, leaning further over. His hand sweeps slowly, slowly up the last few inches of Sam’s thigh to palm at him through his jeans. Dean's fingers make patient, easy work of the button fly. The heat of his palm against the covered, mostly-soft swell of Sam’s cock makes Sam suck in a little breath. Dean squeezes gently - too gently, just barely enough to get his dick to pulse and thicken under the touch.
“So. Nothin’, huh?” Sam teases. He spares a look Dean’s way.
“Nothin’ at all.” Dean looks right back at him, all forced frowns and mock-sternness. “Eyes on the road, Stretch.”
And Sam, never one to make waves in a situation where his dick’s the focus, keeps his eyes on the road. Which is actually worse, because he’s a little startled when Dean unceremoniously reaches into his boxers and wraps a hand around him. Sam’s hips twitch up involuntarily, his foot pressing harder on the pedal for a half-beat. The engine revs momentarily higher and the both of them jostle in their seats.
“Whoa, hey,” soothes Dean. His grip relents. “I can stop, if you don’t think you can be careful.
“No, no," Sam interjects quickly. "Hey. I’ll be careful. I promise.” He wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrist to stop him from moving away. Sam feels like he ought to be ashamed at how quick he is to reassure his brother for the sake of a damn handjob. He isn’t ashamed, mind - but he thinks he probably should be. Which is stupid.
“Good boy,” mutters Dean, in a tone that always knuckles through Sam like a hand on his nuts. He pulls Sam out of his boxers and strokes him lazily, teasingly.
Sam swallows. “What’s got you so horny?” As if he's not the one with a nearly-full-force boner here.
“I was just thinkin’,” Dean says easily. Very cool, very casual, like Sam’s cock isn’t twitching in his hand. "About Duluth.”
“Not...not really,” Sam admits. It’s not so much that he doesn’t remember Duluth specifically, and more that his brain doesn’t really have the ability to do much more than alternate between drive careful and have erection at the moment.
“The bar? Come on, I know you remember.” His thumb rubs tight circles at the very tip of Sam's cockhead and Sam exhales sharply. “Madonna and all those drunk chicks…”
“Uhh—” Sam’s jelly-brain struggles to get with the program. He recalls the opening chords of a stupid pop song and the words ‘pretty little mouth’ and then, like a cold splash of alcohol down the front of his shirt, recognition hits him. “Oh. Ohhh.”
“See?” Dean murmurs, and Sam can hear the familiar lilt of mischief in his voice. “You remember.”
Dean curls carefully down against the seat, one arm underneath his chest and one knee on the floor. His other hand’s still wrapped around the base of Sam’s cock, holding him in place while Dean lines up and all Sam can manage is a curse as Dean swallows him down like a no-chaser shot.
Yeah. He remembers.
It’s a testament to Sam’s damningly high-strung nature that he has the wherewithal to try and ruin this for himself: a hand-painted sign slides through his view, advertising fresh sweet corn, and Sam watches it pass with a dull thread of worry tangling in the scrambled mess that Dean makes out of his brain. He licks his lips and clears his throat. Tries to speak, and only manages a pathetic-sounding groan. Tries again, and gets somewhere.
“W-We’re gonna hit a town at some point,” he warns - doesn’t want to, feels obligated to anyway. “Stop signs, other people.”
Dean pulls off with a pop. “And?”
“And I’d…rather not have my dick out when we do?” Sam throws a glance downward.
Dean just smiles up at him, carefree and beautiful as a production still. “Chill out. We’re on this for like—“ He pauses and Sam sees him do some mental math. “—twenty more miles before we need to worry about hitting anything with lights or signs.”
”Sam, chill. Take the next twenty slow and shut up, alright? If I can’t get you off before we hit town, somethin’s wrong with one of us.”
Sam doesn’t argue, because Dean has a point. If Dean somehow manages to not get a mouthful in another ten minutes - tops - it’ll be a shocker.
“Okay,” Sam concedes finally. “I trust you.”
“Smartest thing you’ve said today,” Dean taunts him. He’s got that smug half-slant grin that he wears when he’s getting into something stupid or dangerous or illegal or just plain fun.
Every now and then Sam wonders how long it’ll be until it’s not fun for Dean anymore. Not new anymore, not exciting. Dean always seemed to get bored so easily when it came to sex. Always into some new thing, with some new chick, in some new city, and never for very long.
Sam likes to think it’ll be different with them. Sam’s different, after all. This is different. This thing. This always thing. This you-and-me-against-the-world thing. This thing that’s grown and changed and evolved so far from what it was. This thing that used to be so straightforward, so innocuous (or was it ever, really?), this thing that’s turned from brotherly protection and withheld affections into Dean wringing Sam dry in every motel between Texas and New York so far, into Dean knowing things about Sam that he hadn’t even bothered to know about himself, into Dean hollowing out all the bruised-rotten spots in Sam’s heart and filling them so full of bright, lovely things that sometimes Sam thinks he might wake up and combust one day soon.
Sam runs a hand across the back of Dean’s head, skates his fingers through the hair there. It’s always so downy right at the nape of his neck, in the fine close-cropped fuzz where he never bothers to put any gel. Dean hums at the touch and swirls his tongue ‘round the crown of Sam’s cock. Sam’s eyelids flutter and he sighs Dean’s name sweet and soft under the rush of the breeze. He gets another hum in response, gets the brief sensation of cool air on wet skin as Dean pulls off to nuzzle a cheek against his thigh. He plants open-mouthed kisses along the underside of Sam’s shaft. They’re lazy, sweet kisses, as sweet as the ones he’ll press to Sam’s mouth before bed or in the morning or sometimes in the kitchen, after dinner, when it’s quiet and they know for sure no one else is around. Sam finds it oddly comforting - loving - even as his toes curl in his boots and his cock throbs against Dean’s lips.
“My Sammy,” Dean mutters against denim and flesh, and he takes Sam back into his mouth like a gift.
It has to be different, Sam tells himself. It wouldn’t be like this if it wasn’t.
The countryside slips past, drenched in the gold-and-blue saturation of a sun-dipped early afternoon. The landscape around them barely changes but it’s beautiful nonetheless. Nothing for miles and miles except fields and trees and big open sky. A big, faded-red barn rolls by, JESUS SAVES stenciled in intimidating block letters on the road-facing side (and i spend spray-painted in a cheeky scrawl underneath). There’s Zeppelin on the radio because of course Dean had picked the fucking soundtrack to this beforehand, and Sam can’t even be bothered to laugh at the way Robert Plant wails for his lover to squeeze him, baby, ‘til the juice runs down his leg.
All the while Dean takes care of him, makes love to him with all that knowledge he’s gained and hoarded from a hundred previous blowjobs and all the other nasty, secret, beautiful things he’s done to Sam since they first came to each other in that dusty Georgetown motel.
Dean has, over the last ten months or so, developed a serious fucking talent for sucking cock. So has Sam, of course - and with an enthusiasm that surprised both of them. But right now, it’s not Sam who’s sprawled over the passenger’s seat like a redneck Renaissance painting with a face full of dick, with his lips glossy and his eyes shut and his tongue working a steady drip of precome out of his brother’s cock and a steady stream of murmurs from his brother’s throat.
No, sir - that part is all Dean.
Sam, for his part, is just trying to keep his hand steady on the wheel and his foot steady on the gas and his ass in the seat. Instead of, y’know, grabbing Dean by the back of the head and fucking his pretty little mouth until he’s crying and coughing up spunk.
So it’s safe to say Sam finally gets it, now. He gets what all the fuss was about back at the bar. And Dean was right. This shit is the best.
Except that that’s a problem too, goddammit. It really is the best. Dean is the fucking best. He’s too good. Too patient and too talented and too pretty and the whisper-quiet sounds of his breath and his spit and his throat are so distracting. For his sins, that high-strung part of Sam is fixated on the distraction part while the base, animal part of him is trying desperately to focus on the news-ticker feed of and warm and wet and good and yes yes yes closer closer closer.
How many miles left before we hit civilization?
Sam’s cock jumps and Dean moans against his shaft.
What if we pass a truck? The cab might be high enough that someone sees.
He can hear Dean slurping noisily, trying to gulp down a mouthful of saliva and precome while he moves. Sam feels the spit-damp way his boxers are clinging to his balls.
When I come I might close my eyes and I’ll run us off the road and we’ll die or I’ll jostle Dean and he’ll bite me.
Dean huffs out a breath through his nose and swallows Sam deep enough that Sam can feel the soft press of the back of his throat and and and—
“W-wait, wait,” he forces out, loathe to do it. His hand slips from the back of Dean’s head to the side of his face, patting gently but urgently. “Hang on, man, stop.”
Dean gives him one long, slow, curling suck that has Sam groaning between his teeth, then slides off with a thick breath.
“What’s up?” he asks hoarsely. His face is rosy and his eyes are shining and Sam wants him, loves him more than anything, more than everything.
“I-I gotta pull over.”
“What? Why?” Dean asks. He doesn’t sound concerned, per se, just sort of pissy. Sam thinks he’s very nearly pouting - although maybe it’s just the way his lips always look so much fuller when he’s been sucking dick.
“I can’t—“ Sam clears his throat. Laughs, awkward and stilted. “Dude, I-I’m, uh, I’m a little…I’m, uh—“
“A little too close for comfort?” Dean quips, the still-wet corners of his mouth twitching.
“Yeah,” Sam exhales, apologetic. “You mind if we do this while we’re, um, stationary?”
“Sorta defeats the road part of road head,” Dean sighs. He shifts a bit where he’s laying, rolls his hips. He gets a glossy sort of daze in his eyes for a half-second and Sam realizes he’s grinding his cock against the seats. “Although I’m not gonna lie to you, a stop might work best. I’m, uh, a little worked up here, myself.”
‘A little.’ Sam almost laughs for real. He can tell by the look on Dean’s face that he’s probably been staining his boxers for a good five minutes or more at this point.
“I’ll do you after,” Sam offers quickly, like it’s not an unspoken thing already. Of course he’s not going to leave Dean hanging. He slows down, eyeing the soft shoulder for a good spot. There’s a stand of trees ahead that offer shade and a sort of privacy fence from the field-side of the road, and that’s good enough for Sam. “I’ll blow you, whatever you want. I’m just…dude, I need to come, and I-I can’t drive while I do that. You want me to be careful and I can’t, man.”
“S’okay, baby,” Dean murmurs calmingly. He’s getting back to work almost before Sam puts the car in park. “Gonna take care of you.”
”Taste so good to me, Sammy, love to swallow you down...”
And boy, there’s a thought.
Sam’s got this...thing. A wild hare up his ass, so to speak. A notion that he gets, sometimes, one of those little things that gets stuck in your head like the hook from a song and it won’t leave you ‘til you sing it out loud. And Dean’s comment is off-handed dirty-talk, sure, but it gets that hook stuck back in his brain anyway and he’s urging Dean to hold up again before he even realizes he’s talking.
”What, Sam?” Dean asks, his tone tense, impatient. He wants to get his, too, and Sam can’t blame him, but—
“I wanna-...um, I was gonna, maybe, like…Could, uh, you…”
Sam trails off, suddenly nervous. Hard as he is, wet and ready as he is, he can’t quite get the words out. The way Dean’s eyes keep moving back and forth between his face and his cock isn’t helping, either. Very distracting.
“What? What d’you want?” Dean lets his mouth move over the sticky head of Sam’s cock in a slow, open circle while he talks, smearing precome across his lips. Another effortless switch from complaining to flirting. Sam would roll his eyes if he had even an ounce of wherewithal. “What does Sammy want, huh? Tell me, Baby Boy. Don’t be shy. Come on.”
Sam’s thighs are trembling. He can hear himself breathing, the sound enormous in the cab. His face feels like it must be beet red and the thought of saying what he wants to say just makes it feel even fucking redder. But hearing Dean coax and encourage him like that is doing all sorts of shit to Sam’s willpower.
“I wanna- I want you to, to do that…that thing, for me.” As an afterthought, “Uh- please.”
When he finally gets the nerve to open his eyes again, he finds Dean regarding him with a mixture of curiosity, surprise, and - much to Sam’s dismay - mirth.
“Which thing?” Dean asks, like he genuinely doesn’t know. Sam wants to smack him but, frankly, he’s sort of helpless like this. It’s near-impossible to fight someone effectively when your cock’s out. He’s tried. It does not work.
“The—“ He lets out a frustrated sigh. “The thing, dude. Stop being a fucking dick.”
“You like lotsa things, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is low and sugar-sweet, tooth-grindingly unbothered by Sam’s impatient insults. “And you ask for ‘em all the time.”
“Come on, man. You know. I know you know, Dean, please—“ A grunt interrupts him as Dean’s fingers squeeze around the base of Sam’s dick.
“I don’t, though. No idea,” Dean mumbles. His lips brush right under the crown of Sam’s cock on every word and it makes Sam feel like he might shake out of his skin. “You gotta communicate, Sam. Key to a healthy relationship, right?”
Sam feels himself flush another impossible shade darker. “Dude, don’t.”
“Don’t make me sp—“ Sam gasps as Dean squeezes harder, just this side of too tight. “ C’mon, Dean, please,” he practically whines. “Please, pretty please.”
“Aw. That’s cute, but, uh, no dice. Either you talk,” Dean orders him, his voice rough. “Or I stop.”
Sam breathes in and out. In again, and on the exhale, “S-s-s…”
He grits his teeth when Dean’s breathy laugh ghosts over the wet flesh of his cock.
“Spit it out, Snake-Boy.”
“Fuck you,” Sam groans. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” Dean replies lightly.
His tongue is hot and wide when he drags it up the underside of Sam’s dick. One long, torturous motion from the circle of his fingers all the way up to the tip. Sam’s so hard it hurts, and the humiliation of being forced to spell out what he wants is, alarmingly, not making it any better. And it’s not that he hates dirty talk, either. He’s just not as adept at it as Dean. Dean’ll get himself so worked up that he starts saying all types of shit. Shit that’ll make Sam sweat and go red in the face and quietly apologize to their ancestors about it later. But Sam still likes it. He’s just more of a “yes, and—” type. And he’s not shy about asking for what he wants, either. Not really. He’s not afraid he’ll scare Dean off or gross him out or something. Hell, the first time they’d done it, Dean had been the one fucking requesting it.
It’s just...God, Sam really fucking hates the word.
“Snowball me,” he mutters in a voice so small and defeated that even he can barely hear it.
And - of fucking course - Dean’s not having that.
“What’s that?” He squeezes again and twists, slick with spit and precome. It wrings a whimper from his brother. “Gotta speak up, honey.”
“Dean—“ Sam says, almost warningly. He cries out as Dean swallows him down completely for a few hot seconds. “Please!”
His brother pulls off and starts stroking him. It’s too slow, not tight enough, not anything enough. And then, because Sam just won’t - or can’t - Dean starts talking instead.
“Please what, huh? Come on, Sammy, tell me what you want. Wanna hear you. Talk to me, tell me, lemme hear you. I love it when you talk to me, Sammy, so fuckin’ sexy. Nobody but us here, baby, come on. Please. Tell me how to suck you, tell me where you wanna come—”
“Fuck! Dean, just—“ Sam swallows roughly. The muscles in his jaw work for a moment as he musters up the stones to speak. “Suck me off, lemme fucking come in your mouth…”
“There you go, baby, that’s more like it.”
Sam closes his eyes again. He’s burning with shame all the way down to his chest, he can feel it. And there’s a deep, secret part of him that loves the burn. “Kiss—... ah, kiss me, put it in my fucking mouth—“
“Yeah, Sammy, fuck,” Dean encourages him. He sounds as needy as Sam feels, and Sam can’t handle it.
“Let me taste it, I wanna- I want it, oh fuck, fuck.“ Sam’s hips thrust desperately up into the loose grip, chasing friction that just won’t come. “Love the way I taste on you, Dean, fucking please—“
Dean manages a choked sound and then he’s taking Sam in again, one slick motion that has Sam wanting to holler so loud that the farmers will be talking about it.
“So good for me, fuck, oh, God,” he stutters. It’s easier to be the right kind of filthy, the kind that Dean really likes, when he’s so far gone. “Just taking it. Takin’ my cock, fuck. You like - oh, fuck - you want me to fuck your face? Use you, baby?”
Dean makes a sticky, satisfied half-moan against the pressure of Sam’s prick at the back of his throat. Sam hears him, loud and clear: 10-4, buddy. A-fucking-ffirmative.
Sam grips Dean at the back of his neck, scruffs him like a disobedient mutt, and thrusts up deep. Dean whimpers and chokes. His tongue wriggles clumsily against the intrusion. Sam keeps rambling, keeps the filth spilling straight from his brain to his mouth, unfiltered.
“Yeah you do, I-I know you do. I know you love this, I know you love the way I taste, huh? You love the way I feel? Fuck, it’s like you were made to suck my fucking dick, Dean, God.”
He can see Dean’s hips working aimlessly, humping at nothing. Rubbing himself off against the inside of his jeans. Sam can see how tightly Dean’s thick cock fills the space behind the zipper. It’s got to hurt like hell, even with the top button undone (and when had Houdini over here managed to do that?) - but fuck if seeing him so desperate isn’t hotter than hell. The car’s rocking with Sam’s motions, they can both feel it, and it’ll be only too obvious what’s goin on if anyone passes by.
Sam is well past the point of caring.
“Fuck, Dean! Fuck, fuck, that’s it, you’re doin’ so good,” he grinds out from behind the clench of his teeth. “So pretty, you feel so good, so fucking wet.”
Dean moans again, the sound stuttering in his chest. It’s like he wants to cry. His eyes are squeezed shut and there’s tears rolling from the corners. He gags hard, once, and pushes himself down to try and get the last few inches of Sam’s cock in his throat. He can’t, the position’s all wrong and Sam’s too fucking big. His throat starts fluttering immediately and Sam lets him rear off with a wet-sounding cough.
“I love you, Baby Boy,” Dean gasps between breaths, his hand still slipping over Sam’s wet-hot cock. “Wanna make you come so bad.”
“God, Dean, I love you, I love you - fuck! Just like that. Oh, fuck, oh shit—”
Dean takes him in again, as far past his hammered-out gag reflex as the position allows. Sam’s shaking so hard he feels like he’s going to snap in two, going to crack like a glow stick and pour out onto the seats. It’s too good, all of it, the wet heat and the way Dean needs it so bad and God, Sam can’t be bothered to hold out any longer. He wants to come now, he doesn’t want to come yet, he wants to bury himself so far down Dean’s throat that Dean has no choice but to swallow, but more than anything he wants Dean’s mouth against his, sloppy and wet and full.
“Dean,” he half-sobs. “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna fucking come, please—“
The weight on Sam’s thighs is so strong, unexpected. Dean holds his hips down on the seat and pulls back ‘til he’s almost off Sam’s cock. The air is cold and everything is wet and tacky. Sam’s so fucking close that he wants to yell in frustration, but Dean works him over with a sure grip. Quick. Hard. As rough as Sam likes. He slurps and sucks at the head, cheeks hollowed. Lips red. So pretty. So fucking pretty.
Sam thinks about how much prettier he’ll look with stripes of spunk on his chin and neck.
How pretty he’ll taste.
Stomach tight, one fist white-knuckled on the wheel and the other curling at the back of Dean’s neck, Sam comes. And comes, and comes, thick and hard, into the shallow cup-catch of Dean’s mouth. Dean, his own hips still writhing uselessly, moans obscenely as each thick, bitter gob hits his tongue.
Sam wants to collapse, to just up and expire. Wants to sink into himself and float on that dizzy cloud until the world comes back into focus and everything stops shimmering like a blacktop heatwave at the edges of his vision. But not yet, not yet. Sam maintains just enough composure to bring his shaking hands to Dean’s face, petting and soothing for a long, groaning moment before Sam urges him up, eye-to-eye. He knows he’s a ruddy, sweaty mess, but it’s nothing compared to the way Dean looks. His lips and chin are wet, his eyes dilated-dark and those sharp, freckled cheeks streaked with tears. Messy. Perfect. His chin is trembling but his lips remain closed tight, holding his hard-won prize.
Their mouths crash together and there’s a bloom of salt and musk on Sam’s tastebuds immediately. Himself. If he could get hard again, he’d be halfway there on the idea alone - let alone the real, filthy feeling of it. The flavor of it, coating every inch of Dean’s mouth. Slick and sloppy, he shoves his tongue into the mess. Licks at it, licks at Dean, curling his tongue against the sharp point of his canine and the soft inside of his cheek.
They kiss hard, clumsy, sucking and slurping. Some of the mess slips from the corners of their mouths and slides, shining, down their chins. Sam ducks his head and laps at some of it before it slides further down Dean’s neck.
“God, fuckin’— oh my god, Sammy,” mumbles Dean harshly, and pulls him back into the kiss.
Sam feels the inhuman noises he’s making in his throat, can’t believe how it sounds to his ears, can’t believe it’s actually coming from him. Desperate, wet, raw. Dean echoes him with something very close to a sob. There are fingers digging into Sam’s forearm. Tugging, clawing, helpless, trying to urge him towards Dean’s fly. Sam fumbles with the rest of the buttons, cursing mentally.
They separate for air just as Sam shoves down the waistband of Dean’s underwear. He’s so hard and wet under Sam’s fingers, so close. He’ll last maybe another thirty seconds.
“Got you,” Sam mutters, his voice sticky and thick. “I got you, Dean. It’s okay. C’mere.”
He barely gets his fingers properly around Dean’s cock before his brother starts thrusting with abandon. Sam’s other hand strokes and pets Dean’s neck, his shoulders, his back - as best he can in their incredibly cramped positions.
“Love you so much, so good for me, come on Dean, come, come for me…”
He rasps it into the shell of Dean’s ear, hoarse, and hears Dean bite down around a curse. The whole time he’s writhing, thrusting, his cock slipping against the rough skin of Sam’s palm. Sam steals a glance down, watches the purpled head of Dean’s cock emerge and disappear in the circle of his fist, watches precome slide and dribble over his knuckles, hot and slick. He wants a taste. He’s already been fed but he‘s still hungry. Greedy.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, ohhh fuck Baby Boy —“
Dean’s voice skips helplessly, that constant veneer of swagger and bravado leaving him for a precious second as his hips stutter, erratic. A moan builds, cracks, escapes him and Sam can feel the orgasm moving all the way though his body like a shockwave. He buries his still-sticky face in Sam’s neck, twitches and spills over Sam’s long, skillful fingers and the bottom of Sam’s shirt.
Sam pulls him through it, rolling his knuckles over Dean’s slippery cockhead just to spread the mess around, feeling it slide between his fingers, until Dean - oversensitive to the point of pain, almost - is shaking, gasping, weakly begging him for a break.
“Fuck, fuck, Sam, ah—“
“So good for me,” Sam whispers against Dean’s sideburn. “Always give me just what I want, Dean, always take such good care of your baby brother.”
He brings his shaking hand to his mouth, drags his tongue up the center of his palm, gathering up whatever he can, letting it pool in the soft dip of his tongue as he goes. Familiar taste. Dean and himself. This is how it should be. The two of them, just as mixed up as can be. As mixed up as they’ve always been.
Dean’s pulling at his wrist again, his own hands trembling so bad he can barely manage. Sam groans and presses his first two fingers into Dean’s mouth. Dean shivers, his eyes fluttering shut, those soft lips closing around Sam’s second knuckles. Sam fucks his fingers in and out of Dean’s plush, blood-hot mouth a few leisurely times, feeling Dean’s moans in the bird-fine bones of his wrist. Dean hollows his cheeks and sucks down the still-warm gobs still clinging to each digit. Savoring it, like he's licking honey. Sam watches as he sucks them squeaky-clean, his spent cock valiantly trying to get back into the game.
If Sam’s being honest, they’re both pretty fucking greedy.
Dean pulls him back in for one last, long, salt-slick kiss, feeding one more sweet taste of himself back to Sam, until they both have to break away and finally, finally catch their fucking breath.
Silence slips in. No more road-rumble, no more Zeppelin - only summertime birdsongs and the wind weaving between early-growth cornstalks. Dean’s head rests on Sam’s shoulder, his nose in the crook of Sam’s neck and his lips petting a series of feather-light praises against Sam’s Adam’s apple. Sam holds him, clean hand gently stroking through the babyfine hairs at the back of his neck. He can feel nail-tip indents there, the shape of his own grip on Dean’s pink skin, ready to fade away by nightfall (Sam sometimes thinks he’d like to always have some mark on Dean, somewhere). The air around them is thick with the smell of spunk; Sam’s mouth is still full of the taste, his chin and neck and cock and the front of his jeans are still slick with it.
“Thank you,” he mumbles against the top of Dean’s head, against the smell of his shampoo and the damp heat of the sweat trapped in his hair.
“I love you,” Dean whispers into the line of Sam’s throat, each syllable a reverent kiss. Achingly sincere, in this private moment. Tasting and tasted, enjoying and enjoyed, adoring and adored. “God, I fucking love you.”
* * *
They stay like that - dirty, sweaty, sticky, breathless - until Dean lets out an uncomfortable-sounding grunt.
“My leg’s fallin’ asleep,” he announces.
Sam tucks his head and looks down to where Dean has one knee on the seat and the other on the floor. It’s hard to say which leg is more likely to be falling asleep at the moment. Sam releases him from their awkward half-cuddle and lets him up. Back in his seat, Dean groans and stretches out his legs. Sam hears one knee pop up and hisses sympathetically.
Dean shrugs. “Price of the ride.” He grins over at Sam with immeasurable self-satisfaction. “Worth it.”
There’s still a thin trail of spittle and come striping his chin, all slick-shiny in the afternoon sun. Sam licks his own lips at the sight of it, tastes one last swipe of himself and Dean. There’s come on his own neck, too - he can feel it - and Dean’s come has stained the lower hem of his button-down. Like, really obviously. Like…a lot.
Sam delicately pulls the damp patch away from himself and gives a low, impressed whistle. “Jesus, Dean,” he laughs, bewildered.
Dean, still loose and lazy where he rests against the passenger door, shrugs again.
“We haven’t had sex in like a week, man. And I haven’t had the chance to...” He makes a very obvious motion with his spit-covered right hand. “You were just as bad, by the way - don’t think I didn’t notice.”
“But—“ Sam feels the tips of his ears go warm. “It didn’t seem like that much, when you, uh. Y’know.”
“I swallowed like, half of it by accident. You only got what I had left.”
“Liar,” mutters Sam, but he’s secretly a little pleased.
“Dead serious. I woulda congratulated you, but, uh. I was busy,” Dean adds. He presses his tongue against the inside of one cheek and waggles his eyebrows.
“Shut up,” Sam laughs, and resists the urge to bury his face in his sticky palms.
“Make me,” Dean sighs. Sam knows it’s an empty taunt. Neither one of them are in any shape for any more rigorous activity at the moment, be it fucking or fighting.
Sam undoes his ruined flannel and shucks it off. It’s not wearable in polite company for certain, and it’ll only get worse as it dries. He uses part of it to wipe his hands and to get the remaining mess off of his own neck and face.
"Give it here,” says Dean, reaching out. "I'm startin' to feel—"
The sudden crunching of gravel has both of them whipping around, horrified, to see the police cruiser rolling up behind them.
“Fuck!” Dean swears.
“Shit!” Sam yelps, half a beat behind him.
Dean drops his hands to his pants and starts doing his best to fasten them. He mostly succeeds, at least with the lower portion. His shirt covers the top button. Sam, left holding his jizz-stained shirt and with his mostly-soft dick still very much out in the open, hesitates two seconds too long while figuring out what to deal with first.
When the officer approaches Sam’s window with a friendly tap-tap-tap, Sam’s killed two birds with one sticky stone by just bunching the shirt up in his lap and praying to no one in particular that the cop isn’t too observant.
They manage to plaster on their most charming smiles, and Sam rolls down the window the rest of the way.
“Afternoon, guys,” greets the cop - Kurtz, says his name badge.
“Afternoon,” they offer him in unison. Cheerful. Too cheerful, probably.
“Is everything alright, officer?” Dean asks, affecting an air of oblivious concern. His lips are still soft and cocksuck-swollen. Even with the windows down, the cab still reeks like sex - and the cop has to smell it, he has to, how could he not? - and Sam is simply trying not to die inside.
“Oh, no problem here, no problem,” Kurtz assures them pleasantly. “Thought you might have a little car trouble. Lots of space between rest stops and gas stations, this stretch. Sometimes we get breakdowns ‘round here, so we like to keep an eye out for stopped vehicles.”
Sam shakes his head. “No, no car trouble. Uh, we-we’re just, uh—“ Sam stutters, his brain grinding its gears to think. Too distracted by the rough cloth of the flannel hiding his sensitive bits. Which are just, like, barely hidden. In front of an officer of the law. Sam can’t manage to finish whatever lie he was struggling to string together.
“We pulled over to check the map, is all,” Dean cuts in conversationally. There is no map anywhere to be seen and GPS have been around forever and Dean could navigate his way from one end of the country to the other half-blind - but, okay. “We’re looking for, highway…thirty?” Dean tries, and sees recognition on Kurtz’s face. “Yeah, we’re on a little road trip down to Milwau- uh, no, Cedar Rapids.” He nudges Sam. “Right?”
“Right!” Sam agrees. “But, uh. We think we might be lost.”
The cop chuckles knowingly. “I’ll say. You missed the turnoff for Cedar Rapids about six miles back,” he tells them, pointing east.
Dean scoffs dramatically and throws his hands up. “I told him that!” Then, to Sam. “I told you that. You never listen.”
Sam gets that urge to smack him again. He just keeps smiling instead.
“Guess it’s pretty lucky you didn’t get too much further, eh?” Kurtz laughs.
“Yep,” agrees Sam. “Real lucky.”
“Thanks, officer. Really,” Dean says with another winning smile.
Kurtz smiles back - then, curiously, he squints, leaning down a bit further to peer at Dean.
“Not to be impolite,” he begins. “But you got a little somethin’ on ya.” He taps his own chin. “Right about there.”
Sam turns slowly, watches Dean’s forced smile go tighter and his eyes go wide when he realizes there’s still that nice thick glob of come and spit on his face. One finger touches it tentatively and Sam sees him fighting not to grimace at the cool, tacky texture.
“Oh,” Dean says, somehow managing to do so without really moving his lips at all. “That…is…” He looks at Sam helplessly.
“Sunscreen, probably,” Sam offers quickly, and he’s lucky he’s not facing Kurtz anymore because he’s only barely holding it together. “He burns real easy. Gotta be careful.”
The plasticine smile stays on Dean’s face but Sam, who’s known him all his life, can see the daggers in his eyes.
“Right,” Dean agrees, too harsh on the ending ‘t’. “Sunscreen.”
The muscles in Dean’s neck flex as he restrains himself from full-blown public fratricide - right before he proceeds to massage the sticky mess into his chin and cheek. Sam doesn’t fear his inevitable death; what a story this’ll be for the rest of the misbegotten souls.
“Never can be too careful!” Kurtz pats the door and stands up with a tip of his hat. “Alright, well, you boys have a good trip. Oh, and once you get to Cedar Rapids, there’s a joint called Yancy’s on Thistle and 45th - best subs in the city. My cousin Pat works there. Tell him I sent ya, huh?”
Sam sees him off with a happy little wave and pointedly does not turn to face Dean until the cruiser has disappeared.
That glare might have bored a hole in the side of his head if it could, Sam figures.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Dean begins evenly.
Sam, already breaking into laughter, finally tucks his dick back in his pants with a small wince. He tosses the shirt at Dean.
“Then I’m gonna hollow you out and dress you up in a tweed suit,” Dean continues. He wets a corner of the shirt with a nearby water bottle.
“Oh, relax.” Sam throws the car into drive and starts slowly out onto the road. “I’m sorry I ‘Something About Mary’-ed you, okay? At least the cop didn’t know any better!”
“And then I’m gonna shove my arm up your ass and use your corpse like a ventriloquist dummy,” Dean finishes, scrubbing angrily at his face with the damp shirt.
“You are so goddamn dramatic,” Sam nearly giggles. “I’m sorry, okay? I’ll give you some head after the next switch. How’s that?”
“If you think you’re gettin’ any dick for at least a month after that stunt, you’re batshit.” Dean grumbles. He settles down in his seat and crosses his arms. “Get bent.”
“Come on,” Sam chides him, still chuckling. “It was pretty funny."
“Yeah. Ha-fuckin'-ha. Funny,” Dean gripes flatly. Sam’s always been stunned by how much Dean can dish it out while taking almost none of it.
“Seriously. I am sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?”
Dean eyes him conspiratorially for a long, silent moment. His sour expression lets up a little, the frown lines softening. When he speaks again that murderous tone is gone, and Sam can hear warmth creeping into the edges of his voice.
“I got a few ideas,” Dean offers. “You’re gonna need to learn some more yoga stuff first, though.”