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Life on the road is ever changing and constant. Tires eating away asphalt miles at a time, one diner after another, telephone poles flickering past dusty windows, lined with crows like little shadows guarding the twilit sky. Dusk is when Dean falls quiet, head tilted against the window, watching the land sailing past them through the ghostly reflection of his hazy face. He watches the vast nothing of Kansas glide by on the edge of his cheekbone, the passing pines in the Rocky Mountains skim his hairline, the reflection of Salt Lake in the shine of his eyes.
And this is why he falls in love. The open road, Dean Winchester's one great love. He's young, but he isn't the type to be taken in by romantic notions, so this is the deepest he ever plans to fall. Everything he needs is right here, with his Dad humming low and off-key to CCR, the rasp of Sammy turning pages behind him and the purr of the Impala's engine.
This time they stop on the Nevada-Utah border, one half of the rooms in one state and one half in the other. There's a black line down the tile of the motel lobby laid out with electrical tape, so Dean plants one sole on either side, stands in two places at once.
"Them your boys?" the clerk asks John, as he runs the card for their room. He's an amiable sort of fella, with salt 'n pepper hair and an all black beard. At John's grunt, the man continues on, "Good-looking kids. Bet they're a pain in the ass."
"You have no idea," John replies, hip leaning against the counter. Dean knows he doesn't mean anything by it, just making small talk with a civvie, so he glances over at Sam, who's reading the shot-glasses.
The lobby has all the trappings of a quick-stop tourist spot; postcards, memorabilia, snack foods and the like. The Nevada side boasts a couple of old slot machines and when Dean isn't able to capture his brother's attention, he ambles over to one and slides in a quarter.
"You old enough for that, son?" the clerk asks and Dean turns back to face him.
"Yes, sir. Nineteen last January."
The clerk grunts and waves his hand at Dean, as if to say 'carry on'. "Can never tell no more. Kids are lookin' older and older each batch that comes along."
"Ain't that the truth?" John agrees, amiable enough now because the clerk poured him a shot of black-label whiskey. Poor old guy must get lonely out here, Dean thinks. "My youngest over there is only fifteen."
"The hell you say," the clerk responds after a glance at Sam. "He's taller'n a damn tree. That right there's what I'm sayin', ain't no tellin' these days."
After losing all of his linty quarters in the slot machine, Dean ambles over to Sam and gives him a nudge with his elbow. Sam elbows back, harder and bitchy, but Dean just absorbs the blow with a smirk. "Looks like Dad's making a new besty."
Sam rolls his eyes and flicks his shaggy bangs off his forehead. Dean thinks life would be easier for Sam if he'd just get a damn haircut, but try and tell him that. "Yeah, making friends with that old guy's whiskey is more like," he says with a snotty little sneer.
Dean can remember when Sam used to smile. His face lit up, grin breaking across his face, all white teeth and dimples, shining like a star. Instead now his lips turn down, he gets this furrow in his brow, bound to leave permanent wrinkles in his pretty face if Dean can't find a way to bring back the glow. But these days that frown is just as likely to be directed at him as it is at Dad. What did I do? He used to love me.
"Dean," Dad says, and it's that stern-father voice, not the drill sergeant command. It has him turning anyway, demand/obey knee-jerk reaction so deeply ingrained that it flows through his very marrow. Nothing for it, just a rigid sir-yes-sir squaring of his shoulders, keen eyes seeking and finding immediately. "You two go on ahead and unload the car. I'll be along in a little while."
"Yes, sir," Dean replies unerringly, predictably. He snatches the room key Dad throws at him and turns to prod Sam along but the kid is way ahead of him, stomping away all huffy and pushing through the lobby door, Dean staring after him. Dean's getting used to seeing Sam from this angle.
Sam's waiting by the Impala's trunk when Dean comes out, all toe-tapping impatience and hair-shaded eyes. It's cold as fuck, wind slashing through this valley of bleak night highway and it freezes the wetness in Dean's eyes, makes him blink. Sam becomes this hazy outline and it's like Dean doesn't even know him, just the shape of a boney man juddering in the chilly air.
"Dean, come the fuck on!" Sam snaps and like magic Dean's vision clears and it's still his pain-in-the-ass kid brother, complete with bitchy turned-down lips and foxy eyes. "I'm freezing my ass off out here."
Dean strides over, the whole time shaking his head 'no' in exasperation. No, to Sam's constant bitching. No, to the ball-freezing weather. No, to his fucking lot in life. What did Dean Winchester ever do to deserve this anyway? He gives Sam an unnecessarily hard shove when he gets to the car. "Move, bitch," he grumbles while slotting his spare key into the trunk lock.
Both of them load up, dragging all three duffels and the tote full of their prime weapons cache. They keep the best stuff with them at all times and the rest stays in the trunk. When they get to the hotel room, the lock sticks and Dean curses colorfully while he struggles with it.
"Would you hurry up?" Sam mutters behind him, shifting from foot to foot, dancing to keep the blood flowing so his teeth don't chatter from the cold.
"Sam, if you don't shut your mouth I swear to Christ I'm gonna smack it," Dean snaps back, twisting his wrist hard and grunting with satisfaction when the lock finally gives.
As soon as the door swings open, Sam pushes past him, nearly slamming Dean into the door on the way. Already fed up by Sam's attitude, Dean chucks his duffel full of clothes and it thumps into Sam's hip, making him stumble. "Keep it up, you little punk. I fuckin' dare you."
In the shadow heavy grey of the room, there's just enough light for Dean to see Sam toss his head irritably, give him a nasty glare through narrowed eyes. Sam's shooting daggers in Dean's direction, those crazy-making eyes glaring like if he just stares hard enough, Dean will drop dead on the spot. It takes the fight out of Dean, being looked at like that, like he's the world's biggest annoyance and he sags in the doorway. The air from outside sneaks under his collar and chills the skin Sam heated up with his pissy attitude and suddenly Dean is so tired he could drop.
"Just get ready for bed, Sam. I'm too tired to do this right now," Dean tells him and rubs his weary eyes with the heel of his hand. He blindly finds the edge of the door with his heel and kicks it closed and by the time he flutters his eyes back open, Sam has disappeared into the bathroom.
Sam spends twenty damned minutes in the bathroom, but rather than pounding on the door, Dean gets dressed for bed and ignores the fact that he needs to pee like crazy. Right when he's on the verge of going outside to take care of business, Sam flounces out all scrub-faced and tidy. His t-shirt is too short and flannel pants too loose, which means Dean has to ignore that line of belly flashed between the two. Ignore, ignore, ignore. It's his inner motto. It wasn't until Dean seemed to be losing Sam that he realized how distantly beautiful the kid was.
By the time Dean finishes up in the bathroom, Sam is under the covers of their bed, on Dean's side. There are rules. Dad takes the bed closest to the door, Dean takes the side of the bed closest to the door, that way if anything comes raging in, it has to get through both of them before it can get to Sam. That's the rule and Sam is breaking it.
"Sam," Dean says, but it comes out like a sigh. "Move."
Sam flops onto his back, crossing his arms under the pillow and smirking up at Dean. "No way, man. There's a spring popping out on the other side."
"Well, that's just tough shit for you, princess, 'cause that's your side," Dean responds, rounding the bed and nudging Sam's side with his knee. "Now shove over."
"Nope."
Dean sighs again, it's getting to be a nasty habit now. He scrubs a callous-rough hand down his face, feeling a day's worth of hard road in every weary muscle, a week, month, lifetime. He feels itchy to the bone, road grit and car exhaust seeped into the pores of his skin until he's sweating it, or he would be if it wasn't arctic cold in the room and his bitchy little brother all cozy and smug under the blankets.
"Move over, bitch, or I won't be responsible for my actions."
Sam rolls his eyes and it's a wonder Dean can make it out in the dim gloom of the room. Must be from how they shine like a beacon, must be from Dean tracking them like a house pet for a lifetime, must be from how he's always measured his worth by the light in them. "What're you gonna whine me to death?" Sam snarks back, making a big show of snuggling himself deeper into the blankets, hugging his pillow into the messy shift of hair at the back of his head.
"Would if I could," Dean grumbles, a little pouty. "Finally be rid of my burden, a free man in a bright new world."
The haughty smirk melts right off Sam's lips, his eyes shutter up, cold and hard and maybe just a bit sad. Without a word, Sam rolls over and scoots himself to the other side of the bed, so far he's nearly dangling off the edge. The immediate urge to apologize squeezes in Dean's chest, gets lodged in his throat, but he shoves it back down. He has some pride after all, can't be begging after his brother every time the kid has a tizzy fit.
Instead of speaking, Dean just pulls down the blanket and crawls into bed where it's still warm from Sam's body. Dean twists on his side, back to Sam and it takes a little while, but they both fall asleep that way, mirror images of resentful tension.
*
Dean comes awake suddenly, blinking his sleepy eyes, and it's still sometime in the night. There's just enough light from the flickery neon sign outside to see the faint ghostly puff of his breath in the frigid air. He can hear the heater beneath the window laboring, humming and clicking, but apparently its only contribution is a burnt wire smell that clings to Dean's sinuses.
It takes Dean far too long to orient himself, half his mind still clinging to slumber, eyelids wanting desperately to slink back down, but he woke for a reason and he needs to determine what it is before he can drift back off. The right half of his body is encased in warmth, pinned down under the slight weight of Sam's body. This is not an uncommon occurrence and certainly not something worth waking for. But then Sam's hips shift against Dean's thigh, a harsh huff of hot breath blasts out against Dean's neck and he can feel the line of Sam's hard dick pressing against him.
Dean's eyes snap open and every muscle in his body tightens, he's suddenly more alert than he would be if a horde of demons came thrashing into the room. Instinctively, the arm not trapped under Sam's body slides up to grasp the hilt of the knife Dean keeps hidden beneath his pillow. Not that Dean plans to gank Sam for a little harmless rubbing off, but it makes him feel better to have the familiar weight in his palm, like a security blanket. Being armed soothes Dean, whenever panic or fear grips him, he can fill his fingers with the hilt of a knife or the grip of his favorite gun and immediately feel calmed.
Now that he's thinking more clearly, Dean's muscles loosen just as Sam thrusts jerkily against him again. A sleepy moan slips from Sam's mouth and melts right into the skin of Dean's neck, moist and hot enough it goes straight down to his bones. Dean's breath catches in his throat and he's suddenly very aware that his own dick is already at half-mast from the stimulation.
Cautiously, so as not to wake Sam with the movement, Dean twists his head over to glance at the other bed. He's relieved to find it empty and unrumpled. The only thing that could make this more awkward would be having their father in the next bed over. Dean is only allowed a second to wonder what's keeping John before Sam grinds into him again. That movement, that push of Sam's hard length into the meat of his thigh has Dean biting back a whimper, teeth sharp on his lower lip, a taste of coppery blood and a sweet splash of pain and now Dean is rock hard in his sweats.
Sam makes another one of those sleepy whines and starts really rocking against Dean, fingers opening and closing around the bunched material of Dean's shirt, fingernails scritching through the fabric to scrape at the skin of his belly. Dean makes a thrust of his own, hips rising and dick seeking friction in the empty air.
Dean wonders where the hell all this came from. He remembers having thoughts, fleeting little snatches of considering those dips of muscle developing on either side of Sam's pelvis, what it would be like to line his dick up in that hollow and rub until he splashes his brother's skin with his come. Dean doesn't look at other guys that way, but sometimes when Sam's shirtless, he wants to bite at his nipples, wants to pin him to the ground and fill his mouth. They're brief little flashes of want that Dean always shoves down and likes to pretend don't exist, but with Sam rocking into him like this, they all come back.
The jerky rhythm of Sam's hips jostles Dean against the mattress, Sam bleeding out these lost little sounds with his face snugged deep into the curve of Dean's throat. He sounds desperate, keening for something he can't quite find and it completely undoes Dean. Releasing the hilt of the knife, Dean grabs Sam's thigh and pulls him in tighter, relaxes his body into each of Sam's thrusts and thrusts back. "Come on, Sammy," Dean hears himself whispering, wet lips catching in the strands of Sam's hair. "Come on and get there, Sam. Give it up for me, baby."
Sam stills against him and Dean bites his lip again, waiting for the warmth to spread, wanting the feel of Sam's come seeping through their layers to mark his skin. A surprised huff of breath hits Dean's neck, Sam's cock twitches against him, but it doesn't jerk and unload on him the way Dean expected. Instead, Sam pulls his face out of Dean's neck and pins him completely with this what the fuck? look.
Dean's mouth falls open under the weight of Sam's stare, their glassy eyes locked through dimness and the heat of their panting breaths. There's a question in Sam's eyes that never makes it to his mouth, an explanation on Dean's tongue that doesn't slip past his lips. The two of them just staring at each other for what feels like hours, but is probably only seconds until Dean's hard cock throbs and bleats out a pulse of precome. Dean speaks with his body instead, rolling up against the hard flesh still branding him with its urgency. Don't stop, Dean thinks desperately, please, god, don't stop.
Something in Sam's gaze firms and then he's shifting his weight, throwing one leg over Dean's thighs and straddling him completely. Sam's elbows come to rest on either side of Dean's head and their eyes stay locked as Sam rolls his hips against Dean's. They both gasp a little at the sensation when their hard cocks slide against each other.
Sam starts up a slow dirty grind, hips swiveling against Dean's, mouth open and leaking shivery little breaths against Dean's lips. Nasty words of encouragement fall out of Dean, just an endless litany of yeah-babys and just-like-thats and ride-mes, but he's always been mouthy in bed. Dean's hands land on Sam's hips, grip them tight and start pulling him into it faster and harder. "So hot, Sammy. Got such a big cock, baby, want you to come on me, come on, come on, do it."
"Jesus," Sam swears and slaps a hand over Dean's mouth. "Gonna shove my cock in your mouth if you don't shut up."
Those words, filthy-wrong from the lips of his sweet baby brother have Dean's eyes rolling back in his head, a low guttural moan hummed into Sam's sweaty palm. Dean's hips buck up hard, he licks a slow stripe into Sam's hand and tastes salt and soap, mouth open and begging for it.
Sam's lids fall to half-mast, lashes heavy and dark, fox-slanted and hungry in the shadows. "Want me to?" he asks in this gritty voice that sounds like nothing Dean's ever heard. "Want me to fill your mouth with my dick, shoot my come down your throat, Dean?"
If he could speak, Dean would be begging for it about now. He has no idea where the fuck this all came from, but he wants it so hard he's close to shooting off in his sweats already. If Sam's hips hadn't stopped turning against his, he probably would. Sam drags his hand slowly over Dean's mouth until he's got two fingers just pushing into the swell of Dean's lower lip, eyes locked just there and dark with want.
"Do it," Dean demands in a broken whisper. "Give it to me, Sam, come on."
Just like that, Sam is crawling up Dean's body, knees bracketing his shoulders. Dean eats up the sight hungrily, Sam hovering over him, pushing down the waist of his pj bottoms until it's snugged up under his heavy sac. The long shaft of Sam's angry-red cock is hanging over Dean's face and his mouth is watering for it, ready and wanting.
Sam presses one hand flat to the headboard as the other wraps around the base of his dick, his eyes locked right on Dean's mouth as he paints his lips with the glistening tip. Through his fluttering lashes, Dean can just make out the whitening of Sam's knuckles, gripping himself so tightly it must hurt a little. The head slips past Dean's lips, a blurt of precome spilling across his tongue. He licks at the slit, seeking out more of that bitter taste.
A low groan punches out of Sam and then he's pushing further in, feeding his dick inch by inch into Dean's sucking mouth. He's had this done to him enough to know the basic mechanics so Dean wraps his lips around his teeth and takes some steadying breaths through his nose. When the head hits his throat, Dean swallows and works through his gag reflex. That little instinctual motion has Sam crying out in pleasure, his hand flying away from his dick to slam into the wall, hips stuttering as he fights the desire to thrust deeper.
Dean takes a moment to be grateful for Sam's surprising restraint. His arms are pinned by Sam's thighs with no way to get a grip on Sam's hips. They both breathe through the initial shocks, Sam trembling with the effort not to fuck Dean's mouth and Dean breathing through his nose, relaxing his throat. When he's ready, Dean palms Sam's ass and urges him into a slow thrusting motion.
He lets himself feel every slide, Sam's length gliding in and out of his mouth, the head deeper and deeper into his throat and cutting off his breath until his vision starts to blur. Dean's free hand slides into his sweats and wraps around his granite-hard cock, stripping fast and desperately. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," Sam starts muttering, punctuating each desperate oath with a thrust.
Dean's eyes want to drift closed, his body wanting only to savor the feel of Sam's cock in his mouth and his own hand on his dick, but he can't do it, has to watch Sam come undone. Over him, Sam is just as desperate to watch, head tilted down with his sweaty bangs tickling his furrowed brow. Sam's is staring, blissful and disbelieving, his dick disappearing further and further into the hot cavern of Dean's drooling mouth. "Fuck, Dean, I'm gonna come. Can I come in your mouth? Please."
Sudden and brutal, Dean's orgasm hits him, shot after shot of come pouring over his hand. His eyes roll back in his head and he groans around his mouthful, throat working around the thickness. Just like that, Sam is shouting and spurting down Dean's throat. Dean can feel the muscles of Sam's ass tightening under his grasping palm, he realizes too late that he's tugged Sam forward, as deep as he can get him.
Dean's dick is still shooting feeble blurts of come through the aftershocks, throat swallowing automatically to take down Sam's load, locking down the urge to gag it back up. Just when he thinks his body is going to give up the fight, Sam pulls out, hand working the last pulses out over Dean's slack, gasping mouth. His chin and lips get splattered and Sam makes this delicious whining sound as he watches his dick paint Dean's face with his come.
When there's nothing left, Sam falls against the wall, cushioning his face on his crossed arms. Dean is still gasping so desperately he's worried he might pass out from the lack of oxygen, but he can't resist the urge to lean up and nuzzle against Sam's softening flesh. "Jesus," Sam curses, voice muffled and hips stuttering feebly.
If he had any functioning brain cells, Dean would be panicking like crazy. As it is, he only has the energy to reach up and gently urge Sam off of him. Muscles still jerking and twitching, Sam lets Dean lay him back out on the mattress, eyes squeezed shut and lower lip sucked in. Dean props himself up on one elbow, his other hand smoothing the hair away from Sam's sweaty face, watching it worriedly. "Dean?" Sam asks weakly, eyes still screwed shut.
"Go back to sleep, Sammy," Dean tells him softly, reaching down to pull Sam's pants back up.
"Shouldn't we talk about this?"
"Tomorrow. Just get some sleep right now," Dean urges, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. If Dean has his way, they'll never, never talk about this. Dean rarely gets his way when it comes to Sam, but he'll hold out hope for as long as he can.
Sam bites at his lip, face tight with worry, but he relaxes after another minute of Dean stroking his fingertips over his cheek. Finally, Sam nods and turns on his side, curling himself up against the line of Dean's body. Shifting uncomfortably at the mess in his pants, Dean pulls the blankets back up over them and eases himself back to the mattress. He plans to get up and change once Sam's sleeping, but he drifts off first under the soft cadence of Sam's breath on his neck.