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Dean had just settled down enough to go to sleep when he heard the snick of his tent being unzipped. His hand reached under his pillow and clenched the knife there until the tent flap fell away and Sam's face, miserable and somewhat-annoyed, greeted him. “What, Sammy? 'M tryin' to sleep!”
“Can I sleep in here?” Sam asked. “My tent is infested with bugs and they keep biting me.”
“There's no way your gigantic ass is going to fit in here with me,” Dean said. The look he was met with in reply was so hang-dog that he knew he couldn't say no. Fucking Sammy and his stupid puppy-dog eyes. He shifted himself over until he was right against the wall of the tent and muttered, “At least try to keep your limbs under control, Sasquatch.”
Sam let out a short huff of a laugh and said, “I'll go get my stuff.”
Sam really did try to keep himself on his side of the tent. But the cool night air made him shiver in his sleep, and the warmth of Dean's body beside him proved too tempting for his subconscious to ignore. That's why, in the morning, he woke up with his arm wrapped around Dean's waist, Dean's thigh between his legs, and his hips thrusting lightly against said thigh as his morning erection throbbed painfully and persistently. And as if that wasn't mortifying enough in and of itself, Sam's eyes darted to Dean's face and, to his growing horror, he realized Dean was awake.
“Dean, I--” Sam felt his face grow hot. “Sorry, man. I—sorry.” He tried to scoot backwards, but he was held snug in Dean's zipped sleeping bag and when the hell did that happen? “What--?” Sam asked vaguely.
“In between your teeth chattering loud enough to pull me out of my nice, deep sleep,” Dean started with a roll of his eyes. “And you shifting around in your sleeping bag every five seconds to keep warm, you were having a dream. A pretty nice one, I'm guessing, if the way you were moaning and grinding your hips into the ground was any indication. But you know what was really interesting?”
“Dean?”
“You said my name,” Dean said. “Right before you came.”
Sam's blood ran cold and he closed his eyes tightly. “Shit,” he whispered, his knuckles clutching the edge of the sleeping bag so tightly they turned white. “Dean, I never—I wouldn't. I never would have tried anything, I—”
“Look at me, Sammy.” Sam kept his eyes resolutely closed, and he felt Dean's hand grip his chin. “Look at me, Sammy.” Sam shook his head.
“I can't.” Sam's heart was pounding overtime as the fingers on his chin tightened. “Just, hit me or whatever, but I can't see it. The disgust, the disappointment... I just can't see it.”
“Look at me, Sammy,” Dean repeated, voice soft and barely above a murmur. Sam feels his eyes flutter open despite himself. There was a frown playing at the corners of Dean's mouth, but his face was still blank otherwise. “You should have told me.”
Sam snorted. “And said what? 'Hey, big brother, pass the ketchup, would you? Oh, and by the way, I'm kind of in love with you'?”
Dean cracked a small grin. “Point taken.”
“You're not going to leave, are you?” Sam asked with a bite to his lip. “Because I told you before, I'd never try any--” Dean shut him up with a kiss.
Kissing Dean was nothing like Sam imagined it would be. He expected Dean to kiss the same way he did everything else; forceful, sure, and dominating, but this. … This was slow and sweet and gentle, reassuring and caring and ever so loving. Sam absently thought he was a fool to believe it could be anything other than this, because Dean was kissing Sam, and this was a part of Dean that was Sam's alone. The protective older brother, who was willing to sacrifice everything for Sam, who kissed his forehead goodnight and placed gentle hands and band-aids on every cut and scrape Sam had ever had.
Sam felt a hand on the swell of his sweatpants, rubbing him through the material. He gasped, “oh fuck, yes,” into Dean's mouth as that hand moved to the waistband, slipped inside to wrap around Sam's cock and give a sure tug. Their mouths broke apart as Sam's head fell back, a strangled moan torn from his throat. “Dean, oh god, Dean.”
Dean worked Sam's sweatpants and boxers to mid-thigh. Sam's cock curved against his stomach, leaving a little wet spot of precome on his t-shirt. Dean pushed his own boxers out of the way, letting his dick rub against Sam's as he ground his hips down.
Sam fisted his hands in the back of Dean's t-shirt and pulled his brother in for a long, dirty kiss. Sam moved his hips to match Dean's rhythm and the friction felt so fucking good. “Dean,” he panted. “Not gonna last..”
“S'okay,” Dean breathed. He reached between them to wrap a hand around both of their cocks. “Just let go, Sammy.” And Sam did. He came in long stripes along Dean's hand, cock and t-shirt. Dean moaned above him, fist pumping four more rough strokes before he came apart.
Dean's head dropped on Sam's shoulder and his chest heaved with every breath. “Dean?” Sam asked after a moment.
“Hm?” Dean mumbled sleepily.
“How did I end up in your sleeping bag?”
Dean laughed around a yawn. “S'not my sleeping bag. S'yours.”