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Sam understood Dean’s love for the Impala, he really did. It was special and not just because of the muscle car’s classic, sleek body style, or even because of the years of father/son bonding that had gone on under the hood. The Impala was their home; he and Dean had slept, eaten, played, and learned to drive in it. The rattle of the Legos Dean had shoved into the heating duct had lulled him to sleep on many a night and when he fell asleep in the backseat, more than once he’d nearly lost an eye to the toy army man he’d shoved into the ashtray. It was also the first place Sam had thrown up on his 16th birthday, much to Dean’s horror, after a night of barhopping, and the first place he’d gone the next morning with a rag, carpet cleaner, and a hangover. Now, when they were on the road and couldn’t find or afford a room, he and Dean sometimes had sweaty, cramped sex in it. And, after so many years of riding mostly in the passenger’s seat, whenever he sat down his body fit into the cushion as though it had been made solely for him. It was because of all this why he never even thought about switching cars when hunters sometimes recognized their car parked outside various motels and then came by late at night, waking them and even sometimes interrupting sex as they banged down the door demanding help. Neither had it been discussed as an option after the FBI put out a nationwide all-points bulletin for highway patrolmen to pull over any and all ‘60s models of Chevrolet Impalas.
Sam had accepted certain idiosyncrasies of Dean’s; he never bitched when Dean would suddenly shut off the music or shush him in the middle of a sentence so he could crack a window, even in the middle of January, and listen to his baby when something didn’t sound quite right. And if they were in the middle of a long trip and Dean suddenly needed to pull over in the middle of nowhere and grab a toolkit so he could check out that rattling noise that had been bothering him for the past hundred miles, well, that was just Dean. When it came to the Impala, for the most part Sam just stayed out of his way because arguing over it wasn’t a fight he could ever hope to win. But, as Sam looked outside the window at Dean as he worked on the Impala in the driveway of their newest temporary home, he was certain his brother’s addiction to that car had finally tripped over the line from love into insanity. Okay, he was going to admit that Dean’s latest obsessive streak with the car had started for legitimate reasons. The key word, however was started; as Sam watched Dean dab at the same spot on the steering wheel with a Q-tip for the tenth time, he thought that he really should have studied psychology instead of law.
It had all started with what was supposed to be just a simple ghoul hunt Raytown, Missouri. The lore they’d found had labeled ghouls as isolated creatures and solitary hunters, so when they’d strolled into the cemetery armed with nothing more than their pistols and a couple of shotguns and instead found two identical ghouls snacking on the same burial, they were a bit surprised. They’d still had things under control, however, until a little old lady had rushed from behind like a linebacker and knocked him off balance. With her blue hair, wire glasses, and flowered dress, Sam might have laughed as he watched Dean wrestle her on the ground if it wasn’t for the fact that she was trying to take a chomp out of him in any place her mouth could reach. Sam had pulled her off Dean and had his shotgun leveled at her face when from the corner of his eye he saw a flash of pink and tulle, followed by a primal growl, and a hard thump to his chest that knocked him to the ground. He felt a sharp pain in his back, his own flesh ripping from a hard bite, and managed to shove at the creature until he was staring into its face. The middle-aged woman on top of him had a sweet-face, but it was obscured by the blood, his blood, dripping from its mouth. Nearby, a loud gunshot resounded and the creature looked up in surprise just as Dean thumped it on the head with the butt of his shotgun. Sam rolled her off of him and Dean scowled down hatefully at it as he pointed the gun at its bloody mouth and pulled the trigger.
When a quick look around yielded no more activity in the graveyard, they’d limped back to the car in relatively good spirits, laughing and shoving one another as they teased each other about the appearance of the other’s attacker. That was, of course, before they’d heard the sounds of the Impala roaring to life from a couple hundred yards away and soon afterwards saw it crash through a line of bushes, racing right at them. The figure of an angry, grizzled, middle-aged man sat behind the wheel.
Dean leaned towards him. “We forgot to check outside the front gate, didn’t we?”
Sam swallowed and stared ahead with wide eyes. “Yeah, guess so.”
“Awesome.”
They each dove in different directions right before the car had bared down on them and then, as Dean lay on the ground, he’d grabbed his .38 from the back of his waistband and shot at the car three times. The first shot hit the rearview mirror, the second had gotten the passenger side door, and the third whizzed through the passenger side window, shattering the glass and hitting the driver. The car instantly decelerated but lost control, swerving wildly to the left and then running over three gravestones before it careened into a tree. They both stood staring at the car and blinking in disbelief. When Sam had shifted his eyes over to Dean, he saw his mouth was open and his eyes were shiny, as if he was fighting back tears. Sam turned back to the Impala and let out a heavy breath.
“What the Hell was that?”
“Well, Sam…” Dean began a hurried, angry strut away from him and towards the car, “obviously son of a bitch ate somebody who knew how to hotwire a friggin car! God, Baby, what did he do to you?”
Cautiously, Sam followed his brother, who looked on the brink of a psychotic break. Dean cursed loudly as he bent down and looked inside the vehicle. Sam looked inside and, yeah, the interior looked about as bad as could be expected when you blow someone’s brains out in an enclosed space; the driver’s side was the worst, but the red spatter, white bone, and dark chunks of matter had splattered even the furthest corners of the backseat. Dean had violently shoved the body out of the driver’s seat, rapidly fired three more shots into its face, then screamed and gave the body one last kick before Sam had put a hand on his shoulder and gently suggested he burn the bodies while Dean cleaned the interior.
By the time Sam had returned from a wooded area on the other side of the graveyard, Dean was shirtless and muttering to himself as he used a bloodied and tattered rag to wipe down his seat. Upon closer examination, Sam saw the rag was actually Dean’s shirt. Beside the car laid several bloodied and glass-covered rags. Sam removed his own shirt, which, like the rest of him, was sooty, bloody, and reeked of smoke and gasoline, and wiped down the passenger seat before getting in the car. The ride back had still been sticky, smelly, and heavily silent. As Dean had tightly gripped the steering wheel and stared angrily at the windshield, Sam had decided not to mention how cold he felt without being able to roll up his shot-out window. Moments later, his discomfort only grew, of course, when a piece of brain had fallen from the ceiling and onto his eye and, although he’d tried to disguise his disgusted groan with a cough, once he’d wiped the blood from his face, he saw Dean quickly slide his eyes from him and back onto the road, shortly followed by the sound of the engine revving as he stepped harder on the gas pedal. By the time they’d finally pulled up the long, winding, secluded driveway and to the empty little summer home, Sam had practically leapt from the car, overjoyed to get away from the dripping ghoul guts and his homicidal brother. He’d hurriedly muttered something about a shower and Dean hadn’t even grunted at him in acknowledgement, choosing to instead make a beeline for the garage. maybe it was then that Sam should have noted Dean’s intense focus and seen that something was off, but he hadn’t; he’d still had a piece of brain in his eye, a throbbing bite mark on his back, and a serious need to clean up. Instead, he unbuttoned his pants as he raced to the front door.
From the looks of the abandoned summer home, the family had moved out sometime last week, but Sam thanked God that the water hadn’t been turned off yet; this wasn’t the kind of shit he wanted to wash off with a garden hose and a bar of soap in the backyard. He threw his pants off on the way to the master bedroom, then stripped naked while standing in front of a full-length mirror and turned around so he could get a better look at his back. The bite mark was red and already swelling. He cursed and then rushed to the shower and, once he was clean, changed into a fresh pair of boxers, threw some whiskey on the wound, bandaged himself up, threw on a t-shirt, and climbed into bed. Dean still hadn’t come inside, but he supposed that was understandable; if the car smelled like rotting brains in the morning, Dean would most likely charge back to the cemetery just to shoot at ghoul ashes. He briefly considered going outside to see if his brother needed a hand, but quickly decided against it; given Dean’s current mood, the best thing he could do was leave him alone. Besides, Sam had reasoned, he couldn’t be out there for too much longer without heavy-duty cleaning supplies, which he almost certainly wasn’t going to find anywhere in Raytown, Missouri at 2:30 AM. Sam laid back in bed and waited for Dean to come inside.
When the morning light had shined through the slats in the blinds and Sam had reached across the bed, he felt nothing but cold sheets. Huh. Dean must have gotten up before him. It wasn’t until he’d stumbled up to the foyer and looked out the window that he realized Dean had never slept. The Impala’s driver’s side door was open and Dean, still dressed in his soiled clothes from the night before, was bent over the steering wheel, squinting hard and moving his face in close to the steering wheel while rubbing his arm against a little nook in its upholstery in increasingly smaller circles. When he finally pulled his hand away, Sam saw he was holding a Q-tip that was now bloody on one side. Dean then held up a bottle of upholstery cleaner, dipped the other side of the Q-tip in it, and got back to work.
Sam turned away from the window with wide eyes; not only had Dean not slept, he also probably hadn’t come inside or even taken a single break from his feverish work all night. Back in the master bedroom, Sam quickly threw on a pair of blue jeans and a short-sleeved t-shirt, then ran barefoot out to the kitchen, grabbed two beers, and stepped out into the bright morning light.
Dean had already packed up the cleaning supplies and was kneeling in front of the passenger’s side door squeezing a sponge over a bucket of soapy water. Beside that were several large pieces of coarse sandpaper, a bucket full of pink goo, a trowel, and a few pieces of cardboard. Sam hadn’t bothered to put on shoes before stepping outside and sharp little pieces of gravel dug into his feet, but compared to what he’d been through the night before, it felt like just an irritant. He sat one beer on the gravel beside his brother.
“Hey.”
Dean only gave him the scantest of glances, but thankfully dropped the sponge, grabbed his beer, cupped the top under his ring to pop it off, tossed the cap onto the ground, and handed it back to him, then took the other beer and popped the top.
“Hey.” He took a long pull and made a noise of contentment. “Thanks.”
Dean set the bottle down on the gravel, then picked back up the sponge and began furiously scrubbing around the bullet mark in the door. Sam shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other as he watched.
“So, car looks good.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah, almost can’t tell I had to shoot up my own damn car.”
“Uh… can I help?”
Dean once again plunged his hand into the sudsy bucket. “Nah; think I got this.”
Sam took a big gulp of his beer. “Uh, no offense dude, but you reek.”
Dean snorted in amusement as he began scrubbing the bullet mark. “Thanks. And you always smell like a fresh, springtime shower.”
“Look, Dean, you haven’t slept all night, you’re tired, and you’ve still got ghoul guts all over you. Just…take a breather, okay? For fifteen minutes, just to clean yourself up.”
Dean shook his head. “No can do, Sammy; job’s done, which means we’re getting outta here tomorrow. And I am not driving my baby around looking like this.” Sam sighed and gave Dean that pleading look that almost always gave him his way. He was given an eye roll and a sigh in return. “Alright, I’ll take a break after the Bondo dries and I’m finished repainting the door.” He gestured with his free hand to the goopy, pink mixture in the other bucket.
Sam nodded at the compromise. It was too bad he hadn’t known at the time that there were about at least 15 steps involved in mixing and applying Bondo to a car door and Dean was determined to carry every last one of them out as slowly and deliberately as possible. Once he’d cleaned the door, sanded off the paint, cleaned it again, and gently brushed off the remaining debris as if he were wiping the cheek of some long-lost lover, Dean looked as serious and inspired as a painter as he mixed the Bondo with some foul-smelling tube of stuff, using a piece of cardboard as if it were a palette. Sam watched with growing disgust. How long did it take to slap some goop into a dent? There was no way the door needed to be wiped down again with Dean’s fingers like that. What the Hell was he even looking for, anyway? The dent had to be clean enough that he could eat off of it by now. Once his beer bottle was empty, Sam narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms.
“You know, if you two want to move to the garage for some privacy, just let me know.”
Dean sniggered and slowly ran his hand alongside the door. “Hear that, Baby? You’re so hot, you’re making him jealous.”
“What?” He scoffed. “No.”
The last word came out in a half-laugh, half-scoff and a whole pitch higher than usual. Dean’s wide, mischievous grin told Sam that it hadn’t escaped his notice. “Aww, come on, Sammy; there’s no shame in being second best.”
“Whatever. I’m gonna run inside and grab a book and a couple more beers.”
“Mm-hm.”
Dean was already back to the car, focusing his concentration on using a trowel to carefully smear the Bondo into the dent. Sam just rolled his eyes and gave him a dismissive wave as he strolled back towards the house. In the living room, Sam saw that the family had dedicated a whole wall to shelves of books, ranging from historical and classic nonfiction, to true crime, to the Harry Potter series, and even to trashy romance novels and Fifty Shades of Grey; it appeared every member of the small family was an avid reader, each with their own distinctive tastes. He picked up a dogged-eared copy of The Great Gatsby and jogged to the kitchen, where the green, digital numbers above the stove read 12:30 PM. Dean had been working on his project for ten hours straight and there was no end in sight. Alright then; if he wanted to make Dean take a break, he was going to have to switch tactics.
Back in the driveway, Dean hungrily grabbed the beer Sam offered him, immediately popped off the top, and took a gluttonous swig.
“Freaking ‘bout time. What took you so long?”
Sam smiled as he lazily set his own unopened beer beside Dean’s. “Thirsty?”
“Hell yes I’m thirsty; hot as balls out here.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” He stood beside his kneeling brother, grabbed the collar of his shirt and fanned it. “In fact, I think I’d better take this off.”
He grabbed the bottom hem of his t-shirt and stretched his lean body upward as he pulled it over his head, feeling his jeans slide a few inches down his hips as he did so. He hadn’t planned for that, but smirked at the thought of the effect it would have on Dean; it never took much. But when he looked down, Dean was still staring at the door as he used his trowel to smooth over the Bondo. Sam let the shirt drop on the ground, by Dean’s side, and rubbed his hand up and down his bare chest and stomach, then cleared his throat.
“Wow, I can’t believe it, but I think I’m already starting to sweat. Don’t you want to take off that heavy shirt?”
Dean was still using the trowel to dab at his work. “In the garage there’s a toolkit, top shelf on the left-hand side. Bring it to me, would ya?”
Sam let out a long sigh. “I thought you were taking a break when you were done with the door.”
“I am, but this stuff’s gotta dry before I can sand and paint it, so might as well fix the axle while I wait.”
“Dean –”
Dean made a sour face. “Never mind, I’ll get it.”
Dean grabbed the bucket of Bondo and headed to the garage while Sam stared on in disbelief and then sighed. Sam took a seat on the gravel with his back propped up against the side of the Impala, just mere feet away from where Dean was working, and then opened up his book and picked up his beer. The moment Dean emerged from the garage, he frowned and cocked his head as he approached.
“You’re staying out here?”
Sam shrugged. “Yeah, might as well.”
Dean was only fifteen feet away and getting closer, so he made a point of making eye contact as he slowly wrapped his lips around the mouth of the bottle, slid his lips down the neck a couple of inches, closed his eyes, threw his head back, and took a greedy gulp. Once he was done, he slid his mouth back and off the bottle in a deliberate motion and slowly licked his lips. When he opened his eyes, however, once again, Dean wasn’t looking at him anymore; he was squatting in front of his now open toolbox and sifting through it. Sam groaned and let his head fall back against the Impala door.
“After all, it’s not like there’s a lot for me to do.”
Dean eyed up a small drill, set it aside, and once again began rustling through the box. “Why don’t you go back inside and write a poem or something like you used to in high school?”
“For the last time, that was only for one semester and it was for a class.”
Dean held up two different drill bits to the light. “Yeah, right. What about that poem I found in your bag, something about ‘If you forget me, I want to know one thing,’ or whatever?”
“That’s a poem by Pablo Neruda.”
Dean put the larger of the drill bits back into the box and began connecting the smaller one to the drill. “Too bad; it was the only one I liked. Shit, I have to get a jack and a creeper, I hope they have that in the garage, too.”
Dean stood up and headed to the garage. Alright, subtlety was definitely out. Sam cautiously looked around at the dense wall of trees and foliage on every side of the home. They were all alone. He unbuttoned and pulled down his pants and then stepped out of them. Once he was completely naked, he left his clothes on the ground and carefully climbed onto to the hood of the Impala. The hot metal burned his ass and legs, but the grill wasn’t nearly as hot on his feet and the cool glass of the windshield felt good against his back. Finally once he was situated with his legs falling lazily open and his feet firmly planted on the grill, he closed his eyes, reached down and began to slowly stroke himself. The friction from his palm felt good, but it was difficult for him to focus. He felt kind of stupid and really exposed. Did he look stupid doing this? And he was still soft. What if he couldn’t get hard at all and Dean came out to see him stroking his own limp dick? Would Dean laugh at him? Or worse, would he get angry at him for leaving smudge marks on his baby? Sam slammed his eyes tighter shut and redoubled his efforts. He imagined that the hand touching him was Dean’s and pictured him looking back and forth from his face to his growing cock with that serious look he often got when he was really worked up. And, yeah, that was definitely helping, even if he missed the sensation of Dean’s ring sliding up and down the top of his shaft. But he still felt really exposed out in the open. He tried to visualize himself laying on the kitchen floor inside the house, trading the hot metal beneath him for hot, sun soaked linoleum. He then saw Dean kneeling before him on that floor and staring up at him as he took his cock into his mouth. Oh God, that smug look Dean always gave him as he took him between those plush, ruby lips was maddening. Dean knew how easy it was to push him to the edge and sometimes he liked to bring him to the brink right away, then ease off and go at a frustratingly slow pace until Sam literally begged to come. Those times hurt but led to some of the best orgasms of his life. Sam sped up his movements and then slowed them down to mimic how Dean’s mouth moved when he sucked him off that way. His palms started to sweat from a combination of the heat and his nervousness.
Off to Sam’s left, a heavy, metallic clang against gravel signaled Dean’s arrival.
“Sam?”
Sam had to fight against impulse to not instantly take his hand off himself and jump as if he’d been caught doing something private and wrong. This show was meant for Dean. He opened his eyes and turned his head to look into Dean’s shocked, slack-jawed face.
“Hey, Dean.” He internally flinched. Wow Sam, good one, real sexy, did you come up with that one on your own?
“Wow, you really do want me to take a break, don’t you?” Dean’s lips were upturned in an amused smile and Sam felt his body flush in embarrassment. He took his hand off his cock and moved to sit up so he could dismount. “Wait!” Sam stopped mid-movement. “Don’t stop, wanna see it.”
Impossibly, Sam flushed even hotter than before, but he laid back down and tentatively put his hand over his cock. He and Dean had masturbated in front of each other before, but it was never quite like this, with Dean completely clothed while he was laying on top of the car in the outdoors. He turned his head once again towards Dean and saw him staring intently. At least he finally had his attention. The desire in Dean’s eyes made Sam feel a little more confident and so he slowly wrapped his fingers around his hard shaft and tugged upward, then slid his hand back down to the base. Dean audibly inhaled and licked his lips. Sam maintained eye contact as he kept stroking himself faster and a little harder, then tilted his hips so Dean could see a clear, unhindered view of his movements.
“Pinch your left nipple.”
Still maintaining eye contact, Sam lifted his free hand to his mouth and sucked on his forefinger and thumb one at a time before doing as he was told. Dean’s lips parted, his irises grew larger, and he took half a step towards Sam, but then abruptly stopped himself from moving any closer. Sam rolled his hips forward and back against his hand, fucking his own fist. Dean’s body swayed with Sam’s movements and he stood transfixed with his mouth hanging slightly open.
“All those posters with the chicks sitting on the cars, they got it all wrong. This is the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
Sam got a feeling that Dean was perfectly content to watch him come on the car, but that was not how he wanted this show to end. “Dean, come here and make me come.”
“Fuck.” Dean’s voice was half-growl, half-whisper. His eyes strayed from Sam and down to the drying epoxy on the door, then to the jack and creeper behind him, but he wiped his hands on his shirt, turned back to Sam, once again licked his lips, and deftly unbuttoned his jeans.
Sam sat up on the hood. “Not here. Shower.”
Dean tucked his head down and held out his hands, evidently inspecting the layer of oil, grime, and blood on his body as if he was noticing it for the first time and then smirked. In one swift movement, he lifted his shirt over his head, showing off the toned, tanned, lean muscles underneath gleaming with sweat, and tossed it to the ground.
“Yeah, I think I can arrange that.”
Sam moved to dismount from the Impala, but before he could even fully sit up, Dean was pinning him back down to the windshield with powerful hands and holding his head in place with a hard kiss. He tasted like blood, day-old diner food, and beer. Sam tried forming a protest, but could only manage a muffled, “Dn!” Dean pulled away and then fastened his mouth around Sam’s hard nipple while his right hand stroked his cock. Sam closed his eyes and tilted his head back at the familiar sensation of Dean’s ring sliding up and down his shaft and his tongue flicking his nipple. He loved this; Dean was the only one whose touch never made him feel nervous or awkward, the only one who only filled him with pleasure, want, and love. After only another few seconds though, Dean pulled back from his nipple and laid frantic kisses all over his chest.
“God Sam,” he whispered in a breathy growl between kisses, “seeing you like this on my baby is going to give me a month straight of free jack-off material.”
Sam sat up, laid a kiss at the center of Dean’s chest, dismounted from the car, and let Dean pull him inside. Once inside though, Sam broke away and headed straight for the bathroom; he didn’t want to chance Dean trying to finish this on the foyer floor. From behind him Dean’s belt buckle jingled as he hurriedly fumbled with it, followed by the “vrp” of his zipper, and then the quiet rustling of fabric mixed in with soft thuds on the plush carpet. Sam stopped and turned around to find Dean hopping forward on one foot while trying to yank his jeans off the other and laughed. Dean yanked the pooled material over his foot and smiled sheepishly.
“You go ahead and get the shower warmed up; I’ll be right in.”
Still shaking with laughter, Sam shook his head but dashed to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Hot steam rose to the ceiling as the water gushed out of the showerhead. He bent over and grabbed the knobs on the wall to turn the water to a slightly less scalding temperature, but a sudden pair of firm hands digging into his sides and hot, hard rod poking him in the ass stopped him mid-turn.
“I have half a mind to just fuck you right here after what you did.”
Sam grinned, stood up and twisted his body to look behind him and, while Dean’s hands stayed on his sides, he felt the fingers loosen to let him move. There were clear lines of dirt and grime where the sleeves of Dean’s shirt had met his wrists and where the edge of the collar met his neck. The light freckles on his face were nearly hidden in the flecks of dried blood, oil, and car gunk and his gelled hair was matted in certain places. While Sam didn’t need to look down to know just how excited Dean was, he also saw the dark, tried circles under his eyes and the longing in his eyes when they quickly darted from Sam and over to the shower. Sam rubbed a fleck of blood from the side of Dean’s mouth with his thumb and gave a quick yet fierce kiss, then pulled back the shower curtain and stepped in, moving back against the tiles so his his fatigued lover could be directly under the spray.
When Dean stepped in, he threw his head back and let out a contented sigh as the water washed over his body. The water flowing down the drain went from clear to blackish brown. He tilted his head back further, opened his mouth and let the water fill it, letting some of it splash out over the sides, and then spit the water down the drain. Weak hands lazily reached up into his hair to wash the sticky gel and caked dirt from his hair and it was easy to see just how much the hunt and sleepless night had taken its toll. Sam wanted so badly to take care of Dean’s every need, to love him and leave him feeling so sated that he wouldn’t want to get out of bed for the rest of the day. He grabbed the shampoo bottle behind him and squirted a generous amount into his left hand, then stepped forward, wrapped his right arm around Dean, and pulled him in towards him. Dean leaned into his touch when Sam’s fingers began massaging his scalp, and when Sam put his mouth up to Dean’s ear and whispered, “let me,” Dean didn’t put up a fight.
“Mm, Go ahead.”
Sam lathered the shampoo through his hair, loving the way Dean’s body relaxed and the contented moans he made under his touch. Dean appeared increasingly comfortable as more and more of the grime was removed just from the shampoo and water. Sam moved one soapy hand from Dean’s scalp and made a lazy, sudsy trail down to his stomach, then buried his face in Dean’s neck, kissing the still slightly bitter tasting flesh and lightly nipping at his pulse point. His left hand traveled up to Dean’s nipple and gently pinched the bud, rolling it around in his fingers while the right traveled from Dean’s stomach and down to his groin and traced a soapy path through the dark curls of his pubic hair and over to his hot, now semi-hard cock. Before Dean, he’d never held another man’s dick in his palm but he loved the way the smooth, hard flesh, just a little thicker and shorter than his own, felt in his hands. This time when Dean moaned, his voice was much deeper and had no trace of the relief and satisfaction that it had had before. The water continually beat down on Dean, washing the shampoo from his hair and into his face and eyes. Dean closed his eyes and let the lather and water cascade down his face and neck while he made little grunts of pleasure in time with the movements of Sam’s hand.
“Mm, yeah, right there, oh fuck.”
Sam always loved how vocal Dean often was for him. When he and Dean were teenagers, he’d been stuck in the next room over from his older brother and his random hook-ups on more than one occasion. During those nights when he’d held a curious ear to the wall or the outside of Dean’s door, he’d often heard the girls’ loud cries, but Dean had never made any more noise other than a few deep grunts when he was close to his own orgasm. Since they’d begun making love to each other, hearing Dean talk, moan, and scream for him gave Sam an excited trill of pleasure. Sam took his hands off of Dean’s body grab the bar of soap sitting on the shower ledge and lather his hands, then run them slowly down Dean’s arms, back, and sides, and legs then kissing, licking, nipping, and massaging every inch of clean skin after the water washed the soap away. Dean kept his eyes half-closed in ecstasy and let Sam worship his body for what felt like hours under the water’s spray. Now that they were in a private residence for once with all the hot water and privacy they wanted, Sam lathered his hands with the quickly diminishing bar of soap, noticed that his hands had pruned and smiled.
All of this extended foreplay was becoming maddening for him. Normally if they were both at full energy, Dean would probably be fucking him good and hard against the shower wall by now. And if he asked for it, Dean would use up the last of his reserves to do just that, so long as it gave Sam the most pleasure possible. But it wasn’t what Dean needed just then; he was exhausted and full of need. Sam spun Dean around, kissed him on the mouth, then dropped to his knees so that his red, leaking cock was right under his nose and the smell of clean soap, water, and musk wafted to his nostrils. He then pushed Dean’s legs apart and dipped his head lower so he could lick back and forth along Dean’s taint. Dean stumbled for a moment and grabbed onto the shower ledge.
“Oh, fuck.”
Without hesitation, Sam’s tongue moved up Dean’s seam and up the hard shaft. He then touched his mouth to the head of Dean’s penis and parted his lips slightly as he kissed it several times, then parted them further and took the whole head into his mouth, suckling it and running his tongue back and forth across the slit. He lifted his gaze to Dean’s face and locked eyes with him; he was already looking down, face flushed, lips slightly parted, watching him, his expression a mix of lust and anticipation. Sam slid his mouth further down the shaft and began bobbing his head, using extra spit to lubricate his way. As he worked him, Dean slapped the shower wall and then slid his hand down to the ledge and gripped it and the other hand went right into Sam’s wet hair, first slicking it back with his fingers, but before long he had his hand tangled in it, pulling at the long locks. Sam reached up with one hand and rubbed Dean’s wet taint, then moved back and firmly grabbed onto the two muscled globes of Dean’s ass and massaged them in his hands before slipping a finger between his cheeks and rubbing it up and down the length of his crack. When he got down to Dean’s tight, puckered entrance, he rubbed in a circle around the outside, feeling the muscle first contract and then eventually spasm under his touch. Dean’s breath was coming out in gasps now. Dean never asked him to touch him anywhere near his ass, could never admit that he enjoyed being penetrated by anything, even just a finger to have his prostate stimulated. That was another of Dean’s idiosyncrasies that Sam had learned to accept. They still pleasured one another and explored each other’s bodies freely, but just made sure to keep this and whenever Dean bottomed out of their conversations. As soon as Sam slipped the very tip of his finger inside, Dean bent forward, jutted his hips back, and rested his hands against the shower wall, showing he was more than ready for what was coming next. Sam slipped the finger inside to the second digit and then moved it slowly to let Dean get used to the slight discomfort of the intrusion, but Dean was impatient; he made a noise that sounded halfway between a groan and the word “more” and pushed his hips back slightly. Sam pushed his finger in the rest of the way, angled it to where he knew Dean’s prostate was, and was rewarded by a particularly loud moan and his name mixed with an obscenity. Sam stroked Dean’s prostate a little faster and gave his cock an extra hard suck and reveled in the sound of his name rolling off of Dean’s tongue as his chest heaved and he made noises that only he could hear. His own cock bobbed slightly and ached between his legs. He took his free hand from Dean’s ass cheek and began stroking himself.
“Sam, oh fuck, Sam, God, if you don’t stop I’m gonna come.”
Sam moaned around the erection in his mouth as Dean’s words helped speed him even faster towards his own climax. He shot over his hand and, thirty seconds later Dean’s knees buckled and his hand shot back to the shelf to steady himself as he came into Sam’s mouth. Sam held the come in his mouth as he worked Dean through his orgasm and then spit it out into the drain, wiped his mouth, and was soon joined on the floor by a completely exhausted Dean. Dean kissed him sloppily and slid his hand up Sam’s thigh and towards his penis, clearly thinking he still had to take care of his orgasm while he was barely conscious. Sam stopped his hand.
“No man, don’t worry about it; I’m good.”
Dean rested his head against Sam’s shoulder, then feebly bumped his head up so he could lay a kiss on the warm skin there. “No, Sam, it’s okay, I can still…”
Sam sniggered, then took Dean’s hand and put it on his groin so he could feel his softness. “Seriously, I’m good.”
“Oh.”
“C’mon, let’s get you into bed.”
Dean lifted his head up and frowned as if he was about to argue, but after his orgasm they both knew he could barely stand, let alone get dressed again and fix the Impala’s axle. He leaned back, turned off the knobs to the shower, stood up, threw back the shower curtain, and unsteadily made it across the linoleum floor and over to the tall carpeting of the bedroom.
As they both laid in bed together, Dean’s hand lazily stroked Sam’s still soft penis. Sam laid his hand over Dean’s, stopping his movements.
“Dean, really, you don’t hafta, I – I’m too tired to even get hard right now,” he lied.
“Alright, but after a quick power nap, you better be ready to come at least four times.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “What about the car?”
Dean slowly rolled over halfway onto Sam and gave him a quick kiss on the mouth. “Car can wait for a few hours.”
Sam opened his mouth and widened his eyes in mock astonishment. “You’re choosing something over the car?”
Dean rolled back over to his side of the bed. “Sex, Sam. I’m choosing sex. In case you haven’t noticed, I almost always choose sex.”
“I noticed.”
Dean closed his eyes and let his head fall from his pillow and into the hollow of Sam’s neck. The comforting weight resting on his shoulder coupled with the slight tickling on the side of his neck from every time Dean exhaled made Sam realize that he was actually a little sleepier than he’d thought; he’d slept fitfully without Dean lying beside him last night. In under a minute, Sam could feel Dean’s breath even out and become deeper. He too closed his eyes and felt himself drifting off to sleep.
“Sam?”
The sleepy muffled voice brought him back to wakefulness. “Yeah?”
“Don’t think you’ve gotten out of cleaning your ass prints off my baby later.”