I See You Better In the Dark (Sam/Dean NC-17)
Title: I See You Better In the Dark
Author: hansbekhart
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The first time is horrible, of course. Drunken fumbling. Have to be drunk for something like that, so they pick up some Wild Turkey and match shots until they stop thinking that this, this is something they can never, ever unknow. Never undo.
Notes: This is the third part of a story that started out with The Miner's Lamp and continued with Ruddy With the Light, with a pretty simple premise: Sam falls in love first, and what Dean does about it. This is what happens afterwards. The reception that the first two fics received was simply incredible, and I want to say thank you so much, and I hope that the last part compares. A special thank you to shored, as always, for keeping me in line, and moveablehistory, who was the reason these stories were written.
Sam startles awake and reaches instinctively for his brother. His hand knocks against Dean’s; his brother is curled around Sam, his forehead pressing against Sam’s bicep, his fingers curled on top of Sam’s ribs. He’s snoring and he smells absolutely awful.
The heater chuckles quietly to itself in the corner. It’s quiet in their room, a sort of airless silence that’s only magnified by the shush of car wheels on the off-ramp, skidding a little on the ice. It’s warm, hot where Dean is wrapped around him, suffocating under the blankets. He can feel his underwear, or maybe Dean’s, wrapped around one of his feet and when he turns his head he can see the rest of their clothes, scattered across the room. There’s a sock on top of the desk lamp and Sam could almost stay right where he is, until the traffic gets too loud to ignore and the sun is a knife in their eyes, but.
Damn, Dean smells horrible.
He’s sure he doesn’t smell too great himself. They got their clothes off but there’s still swamp crap in Dean’s hair and in his own and Sam can smell swamp monster on his skin. The cord on his wrist is already turning slightly gray, which pisses Sam off a lot more then it seems to piss off Dean, who shrugs and says it’s the thought that counts.
“Dean,” he says, shaking his brother. “Dean.”
“Matchstick,” Dean says clearly, which isn’t an answer.
“Dean, come on.”
He goes willingly enough when he’s up and Sam is pushing him, body warm and pliable. He parks his butt against the sink while Sam gets the water started, scrubbing his hands over his face and through his hair, looking amused by the whole situation. The bathroom light confirms the swamp crap in his hair and the mud on his cheeks and his hands. There’s a clear line of demarcation where the t-shirt covered, which ends along his upper arms. There’s a bite mark on his shoulder, edging towards bruise-purple.
It had been easier to ignore the blood and dirt when they’d been amped full of adrenaline. They’d still been in the car when Dean had reached over and bitten Sam’s neck, put a hand over his cock and rubbed him hard.
Dean is dozing on the counter, one hand braced and the other drifting across his stomach, searching for an itch to scratch. “Dean,” Sam says again. Puts a hand across Dean’s cheek, shakes him gently when he leans into Sam’s palm.
“Okay,” Dean says drowsily. He pushes away from the counter and doesn’t push away from Sam’s hands.
**
The first time is horrible, of course. Drunken fumbling. Have to be drunk for something like that, so they pick up some Wild Turkey and match shots until they stop thinking that this, this is something they can never, ever unknow. Never undo.
Afterwards Dean pulls his pants on and goes to sit out in the car, where the heat is broken and there’s there barest scrim of snow covering the hood. He doesn’t take his jacket and Sam sits and watches the ceiling spin overhead until Dean’s hands on his face wakes him up, Dean’s mouth closing over his own.
The second time is better.
Still wide open from the first, their foreheads together, still in synch the way they’ve always been and even though they fall asleep still staring at each other, not a word between them other after oh fuck I’m gonna, by the time the sun finds them they’re wrapped around each other as tightly as children.
And this is the way it goes:
They argue over road maps and cases and who’s stealing the covers and who’s stealing the underwear. Sometimes arguments turn into sex and sometimes they’re just arguments. It isn’t easy. It couldn’t be easy and sometimes they can’t look at each other, can’t even talk. Sam thought he made his peace with it before he leapt in headfirst but he leaves Dean in Denver for three days, sleeps in youth hostels until Dean tracks him down.
They don’t talk about it, could never talk about it. Dean would say they don’t need to. Sam isn’t so sure, but he’s a man and a little brother and he wouldn’t even know how to go about it, and it’s okay, he thinks. They never really talked about Dad either.
**
Dean snuggles in his sleep and when he’s half-conscious, he’s ridiculously, stupidly affectionate. As soon as he finds his feet, he latches onto Sam, water spraying off his hair and skin. One hand goes around Sam’s neck and the other wraps around Sam’s hip, slow and still heavy, and when he kisses Sam the world narrows to the slide of wet skin against his own, the shower a steady pulse against his other side, enveloping him in warmth and heat and Dean.
Who rolls his eyes when Sam snags the little bottle of hotel shampoo and empties the entire thing on his palm. “You are so gay,” he mutters as Sam works it into his hair, but he drops his chin and closes his eyes and leans his weight against Sam, two fingers idly stroking the line of Sam’s hip.
“You’re gay,” Sam says and Dean chuckles. Sam can feel the vibration of it through his chest. He thinks maybe he left half his brain back in the bed, forgotten next to boxers and socks and clothes that they’ll really have to wash soon to get the smell out. Dean breathes deep and slow and eventually stops moving at all, letting Sam tilt his head to each side, a little smile curling his mouth when Sam’s fingers scritch the sensitive skin behind his ears. The shampoo smells like nothing at all but it’s better then the last remnants of Swamp Thing.
He tips Dean’s head back into the water, rolling it this way and that, rubbing the shampoo out with his fingers. Dean’s lips part and Sam can’t help biting on the lower one, dragging his tongue over it and inside of Dean’s mouth. He’s tall enough for it, tall enough to trap Dean in the circle of his forearms without really meaning to. Kinda surprised when Dean just goes with it, sways a little but kisses Sam back, slick and open. Blinding under the steady light of the bathroom.
He goes for the soap but Dean catches his wrist, opens his eyes for what feels like the first time in hours. “I’m not your girlfriend, dude,” he says, and for a second they both freeze, stare at each other. It was on the tip of Sam’s tongue to shoot back so what are you then and he can see that Dean knows it. It’s almost a physical effort to swallow the words back and the question lies heavy in his stomach. They’re not ready to name this thing yet. Might never be. The last time Dean called it anything, he called it wrong.
Sam closes his teeth around the long column of Dean’s throat, thin skin separating teeth from the thud of Dean’s pulse. And Dean lets him, his hands coming up and settling on Sam’s face, thumbs stroking over Sam’s cheekbones. “Fuck,” he says, strangled, and Sam laughs.
“That’s kinda the idea.”
Dean’s cock twitches against his thigh. They’re pressed tight from chest to hips, feet shifting on the wet porcelain, looking for purchase. Their noses bump and it’s almost kinda funny until Sam slips for real and Dean catches him by the elbows. Then it really is funny and Dean snorts into Sam’s hair. He doesn’t wait for Sam to catch his balance before sliding his hand down the line of Sam’s belly, curling his fingers through the hair below, wrapping his fingers around Sam’s dick and stroking once, twice, teasing, his tongue hot over the sensitive skin under Sam’s jaw.
And. Closer then should be possible, the both of them too big for a crappy motel shower, the water already spitting angrily at them, resentful of the motel’s endless hot water. Sam braced against the wall, Dean’s thigh between both of his, the tile under his back cold enough that he twists away from it instinctively. His cock fitting neatly against the groove of Dean’s hip.
“Fuck,” Dean says again, low and needy, “We need -- still in the room --”
And Sam kisses him hard. Asks, “Do we really need it?”
Dean’s grin is tentative, gone almost immediately. “What, go all Bareback Mountain?”
“You really need a condom to fuck your brother?” Sam asks, and there, there it is, heavy between them, thicker then the steam that coils around Dean’s face. His eyes are huge. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look away.
“You trust me?” Sam asks, soft.
Dean’s mouth twitches, just a little, and his answer is just as soft. “You gotta ask that?”
**
Dean’s never asked Sam about who else he’s been with, whether he’s ever fucked a guy or gone down on a guy or ever had anything up his ass before. Sam told Dean when he lost his virginity, told Dean just about everything. When he got his first serious girlfriend Dean wouldn’t stop bugging him about it, whether they’d done it yet, slipping condoms into Sam’s jacket pockets. When it finally happened, Dean was happier for Sam then Sam was; he felt weird and kind of embarrassed about the whole thing, like he was gonna be punished for it somehow, but Dean was over the moon that his brother was finally a man.
Sam doesn’t ask either, not when he takes Dean’s cock into his mouth, gagging awkwardly at the heaviness on his tongue, the press against the soft place at the back of his throat that’s almost terrifying the first time it happens. Not when Dean makes Sam come with a finger up his ass. Not when - god - when he finally fucks his brother, Dean on top, knees spread wide on either side of Sam’s hips, riding him.
And it’s been so long since there’s been anything but his own hand. Not as long as Dean thinks, but close enough. Just something else they don’t talk about. He stopped telling Dean everything when he was seventeen or so, when he had more secrets then wet dreams or awkward teenage sex.
He doesn’t know if it’s possible to be in love with your brother. He loves Dean, sure, loves him because he’s family and he’s Dean and sometimes he makes Sam feel like he’s still six years old with his own personal superhero. He’s only been in love once before and just thinking about it, about Jess in his arms or on the ceiling or on top of him, knees spread wide on either side of Sam’s hips, makes him want to throw up.
He doesn’t know. He’d ask Dean if he could.
**
He can feel the tension in Dean’s shoulders as his fingers circle Dean’s hole. Kisses the freckles that span Dean’s shoulder blades, the newest scars laid over faint, old lines. Sam’s hair is in his face and sticking to Dean’s back and his finger slides in nice and easy. He can feel Dean’s legs trembling. The condoms are in the room and so’s the lube, so Sam squeezes some conditioner onto his palm, hesitant. He’s not sure if it’ll work but Dean says it’s okay and he doesn’t think Dean’s let Sam hurt him yet, so he rubs some on the tip of his dick and some around Dean’s hole, mouthing the side of Dean’s neck. Dean’s lips are drawn over his teeth and there’s something in his eyes that makes Sam want to back off, to get out of the shower and just get the condoms, but - fuck - he just - he wants it. Wants this. He’s never -
He’s not a good enough person to do it, and if he was maybe they wouldn’t be here in the first place. He wouldn’t be steadying his dick with one hand, stretching his brother’s asshole with two fingers of the other hand.
Dean hisses when Sam’s dick pushes in, just the head, his fingers wrapped around his cock to keep himself steady, keep himself from coming right there because god, it’s so much different without the condom. Like that first moment of nakedness where you press up against someone and really feel their skin against yours, how it’s so much hotter then you expect.
Sam’s panting against Dean’s shoulder by the time he’s all the way in. It’s hard to drag his hand away from where it’s trapped between them but he manages it, curling his fingers into Dean’s hip until the skin slides over the bone beneath his hand.
“Fuck,” Dean says, “Fuck, Sammy, move.” His hands curl into fists where Sam laid them flat, up over their heads where the tile stops and uneven plaster begins. They’ve been in there long enough that there are fat drops of condensation on the walls, hanging over their heads like raindrops, and Sam moves. Curls his hips forward, pushing Dean up on his toes. Dean exhales like it’s an accident, like Sam’s forced all the air out of his lungs and the sound of it hits Sam right in the gut, makes him groan and thrust again, harder.
And it’s all too much, the slide of his cock in and out of Dean’s body with nothing between them, the steam and the water that he can barely feel against them, just starting to turn cold, and Dean wraps one hand around the back of Sam’s neck and holds on. Tips his head back. Stubble on his cheek rasping against Sam’s. Nothing but this, too much. He pulls Dean back far enough from the wall that he can wrap his hand around Dean’s cock and Dean’s whole body goes instantly rigid, his fingers clenching into the short hairs at the base of Sam’s neck hard enough to hurt. When he comes it’s with his mouth pressed messily against Sam’s, too open to be called a kiss, and Sam plummets after him, hips stuttering helplessly and - fuck -
Comes back to himself slowly. His forehead pressed against the curve where Dean’s neck meets his shoulder. Not even feeling the water hitting his side. One hand wrapped around Dean’s shoulder, his own knuckles brushing his cheek. Dean, breathing slow and deep against him. And it’s a long moment before Sam can bring himself to move away.
They’re quiet, cleaning themselves up, first Sam, then Dean. Dean stands with his back to the shower and makes faces as he washes away what Sam did to him. Sam washes his hair. The water’s barely body temperature but it’s better then some of the places they’ve lived. The whole bathroom’s full of steam and it’s a little hard to breathe, but Sam’s heart is going a mile a minute and he thinks that has something to do with it. Dean watches Sam dry up but moves away when Sam glances at him, drying off and tugging on a pair of shorts, a t-shirt. Sam does the same and they watch each other from opposite ends of the room before Dean sighs, climbs into bed and lifts the covers up until Sam finally gets it and climbs in with him.
The sheets are cold and Dean tugs the blanket up both their shoulders, brushing Sam’s hair out of his face on the way back as if it’s an accident. There’s more traffic on the road now, highway noise. It’s still dark out and their legs tangle together as Sam shuffles his feet back and forth over the bed. Dean traps one of Sam’s feet between both of his own and for a moment they kick at each other, grinning.
“You’re such a loser,” Sam says, and then, in a different tone, rapidly, “Dean, I -”
“Dork,” Dean says, affectionately, as if he isn’t cutting Sam off. “Go to sleep.”
And he almost does, tired and warm and well-fucked. But. He feels like it’s gonna make him sick to keep swallowing everything, the way he puked for weeks after he kissed Dean. His hand steals down to his wrist, the one that was broken, the skin still pink and sensitive, twisting the red cord around and around his wrist. “I just,” he says, “I’ve never done that before.” He closes his eyes even though it’s dark in the room, dark enough that he can’t even see if Dean’s eyes are narrowing or going flat or whatever.
He feels Dean laugh before he hears it, the shudder of his diaphragm in the space between them, the way Dad used to laugh when he was trying to hide it, and he can't help the smile that spreads across his face. “Yeah,” Dean says, “I know.”
Author: hansbekhart
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The first time is horrible, of course. Drunken fumbling. Have to be drunk for something like that, so they pick up some Wild Turkey and match shots until they stop thinking that this, this is something they can never, ever unknow. Never undo.
Notes: This is the third part of a story that started out with The Miner's Lamp and continued with Ruddy With the Light, with a pretty simple premise: Sam falls in love first, and what Dean does about it. This is what happens afterwards. The reception that the first two fics received was simply incredible, and I want to say thank you so much, and I hope that the last part compares. A special thank you to shored, as always, for keeping me in line, and moveablehistory, who was the reason these stories were written.
Sam startles awake and reaches instinctively for his brother. His hand knocks against Dean’s; his brother is curled around Sam, his forehead pressing against Sam’s bicep, his fingers curled on top of Sam’s ribs. He’s snoring and he smells absolutely awful.
The heater chuckles quietly to itself in the corner. It’s quiet in their room, a sort of airless silence that’s only magnified by the shush of car wheels on the off-ramp, skidding a little on the ice. It’s warm, hot where Dean is wrapped around him, suffocating under the blankets. He can feel his underwear, or maybe Dean’s, wrapped around one of his feet and when he turns his head he can see the rest of their clothes, scattered across the room. There’s a sock on top of the desk lamp and Sam could almost stay right where he is, until the traffic gets too loud to ignore and the sun is a knife in their eyes, but.
Damn, Dean smells horrible.
He’s sure he doesn’t smell too great himself. They got their clothes off but there’s still swamp crap in Dean’s hair and in his own and Sam can smell swamp monster on his skin. The cord on his wrist is already turning slightly gray, which pisses Sam off a lot more then it seems to piss off Dean, who shrugs and says it’s the thought that counts.
“Dean,” he says, shaking his brother. “Dean.”
“Matchstick,” Dean says clearly, which isn’t an answer.
“Dean, come on.”
He goes willingly enough when he’s up and Sam is pushing him, body warm and pliable. He parks his butt against the sink while Sam gets the water started, scrubbing his hands over his face and through his hair, looking amused by the whole situation. The bathroom light confirms the swamp crap in his hair and the mud on his cheeks and his hands. There’s a clear line of demarcation where the t-shirt covered, which ends along his upper arms. There’s a bite mark on his shoulder, edging towards bruise-purple.
It had been easier to ignore the blood and dirt when they’d been amped full of adrenaline. They’d still been in the car when Dean had reached over and bitten Sam’s neck, put a hand over his cock and rubbed him hard.
Dean is dozing on the counter, one hand braced and the other drifting across his stomach, searching for an itch to scratch. “Dean,” Sam says again. Puts a hand across Dean’s cheek, shakes him gently when he leans into Sam’s palm.
“Okay,” Dean says drowsily. He pushes away from the counter and doesn’t push away from Sam’s hands.
**
The first time is horrible, of course. Drunken fumbling. Have to be drunk for something like that, so they pick up some Wild Turkey and match shots until they stop thinking that this, this is something they can never, ever unknow. Never undo.
Afterwards Dean pulls his pants on and goes to sit out in the car, where the heat is broken and there’s there barest scrim of snow covering the hood. He doesn’t take his jacket and Sam sits and watches the ceiling spin overhead until Dean’s hands on his face wakes him up, Dean’s mouth closing over his own.
The second time is better.
Still wide open from the first, their foreheads together, still in synch the way they’ve always been and even though they fall asleep still staring at each other, not a word between them other after oh fuck I’m gonna, by the time the sun finds them they’re wrapped around each other as tightly as children.
And this is the way it goes:
They argue over road maps and cases and who’s stealing the covers and who’s stealing the underwear. Sometimes arguments turn into sex and sometimes they’re just arguments. It isn’t easy. It couldn’t be easy and sometimes they can’t look at each other, can’t even talk. Sam thought he made his peace with it before he leapt in headfirst but he leaves Dean in Denver for three days, sleeps in youth hostels until Dean tracks him down.
They don’t talk about it, could never talk about it. Dean would say they don’t need to. Sam isn’t so sure, but he’s a man and a little brother and he wouldn’t even know how to go about it, and it’s okay, he thinks. They never really talked about Dad either.
**
Dean snuggles in his sleep and when he’s half-conscious, he’s ridiculously, stupidly affectionate. As soon as he finds his feet, he latches onto Sam, water spraying off his hair and skin. One hand goes around Sam’s neck and the other wraps around Sam’s hip, slow and still heavy, and when he kisses Sam the world narrows to the slide of wet skin against his own, the shower a steady pulse against his other side, enveloping him in warmth and heat and Dean.
Who rolls his eyes when Sam snags the little bottle of hotel shampoo and empties the entire thing on his palm. “You are so gay,” he mutters as Sam works it into his hair, but he drops his chin and closes his eyes and leans his weight against Sam, two fingers idly stroking the line of Sam’s hip.
“You’re gay,” Sam says and Dean chuckles. Sam can feel the vibration of it through his chest. He thinks maybe he left half his brain back in the bed, forgotten next to boxers and socks and clothes that they’ll really have to wash soon to get the smell out. Dean breathes deep and slow and eventually stops moving at all, letting Sam tilt his head to each side, a little smile curling his mouth when Sam’s fingers scritch the sensitive skin behind his ears. The shampoo smells like nothing at all but it’s better then the last remnants of Swamp Thing.
He tips Dean’s head back into the water, rolling it this way and that, rubbing the shampoo out with his fingers. Dean’s lips part and Sam can’t help biting on the lower one, dragging his tongue over it and inside of Dean’s mouth. He’s tall enough for it, tall enough to trap Dean in the circle of his forearms without really meaning to. Kinda surprised when Dean just goes with it, sways a little but kisses Sam back, slick and open. Blinding under the steady light of the bathroom.
He goes for the soap but Dean catches his wrist, opens his eyes for what feels like the first time in hours. “I’m not your girlfriend, dude,” he says, and for a second they both freeze, stare at each other. It was on the tip of Sam’s tongue to shoot back so what are you then and he can see that Dean knows it. It’s almost a physical effort to swallow the words back and the question lies heavy in his stomach. They’re not ready to name this thing yet. Might never be. The last time Dean called it anything, he called it wrong.
Sam closes his teeth around the long column of Dean’s throat, thin skin separating teeth from the thud of Dean’s pulse. And Dean lets him, his hands coming up and settling on Sam’s face, thumbs stroking over Sam’s cheekbones. “Fuck,” he says, strangled, and Sam laughs.
“That’s kinda the idea.”
Dean’s cock twitches against his thigh. They’re pressed tight from chest to hips, feet shifting on the wet porcelain, looking for purchase. Their noses bump and it’s almost kinda funny until Sam slips for real and Dean catches him by the elbows. Then it really is funny and Dean snorts into Sam’s hair. He doesn’t wait for Sam to catch his balance before sliding his hand down the line of Sam’s belly, curling his fingers through the hair below, wrapping his fingers around Sam’s dick and stroking once, twice, teasing, his tongue hot over the sensitive skin under Sam’s jaw.
And. Closer then should be possible, the both of them too big for a crappy motel shower, the water already spitting angrily at them, resentful of the motel’s endless hot water. Sam braced against the wall, Dean’s thigh between both of his, the tile under his back cold enough that he twists away from it instinctively. His cock fitting neatly against the groove of Dean’s hip.
“Fuck,” Dean says again, low and needy, “We need -- still in the room --”
And Sam kisses him hard. Asks, “Do we really need it?”
Dean’s grin is tentative, gone almost immediately. “What, go all Bareback Mountain?”
“You really need a condom to fuck your brother?” Sam asks, and there, there it is, heavy between them, thicker then the steam that coils around Dean’s face. His eyes are huge. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look away.
“You trust me?” Sam asks, soft.
Dean’s mouth twitches, just a little, and his answer is just as soft. “You gotta ask that?”
**
Dean’s never asked Sam about who else he’s been with, whether he’s ever fucked a guy or gone down on a guy or ever had anything up his ass before. Sam told Dean when he lost his virginity, told Dean just about everything. When he got his first serious girlfriend Dean wouldn’t stop bugging him about it, whether they’d done it yet, slipping condoms into Sam’s jacket pockets. When it finally happened, Dean was happier for Sam then Sam was; he felt weird and kind of embarrassed about the whole thing, like he was gonna be punished for it somehow, but Dean was over the moon that his brother was finally a man.
Sam doesn’t ask either, not when he takes Dean’s cock into his mouth, gagging awkwardly at the heaviness on his tongue, the press against the soft place at the back of his throat that’s almost terrifying the first time it happens. Not when Dean makes Sam come with a finger up his ass. Not when - god - when he finally fucks his brother, Dean on top, knees spread wide on either side of Sam’s hips, riding him.
And it’s been so long since there’s been anything but his own hand. Not as long as Dean thinks, but close enough. Just something else they don’t talk about. He stopped telling Dean everything when he was seventeen or so, when he had more secrets then wet dreams or awkward teenage sex.
He doesn’t know if it’s possible to be in love with your brother. He loves Dean, sure, loves him because he’s family and he’s Dean and sometimes he makes Sam feel like he’s still six years old with his own personal superhero. He’s only been in love once before and just thinking about it, about Jess in his arms or on the ceiling or on top of him, knees spread wide on either side of Sam’s hips, makes him want to throw up.
He doesn’t know. He’d ask Dean if he could.
**
He can feel the tension in Dean’s shoulders as his fingers circle Dean’s hole. Kisses the freckles that span Dean’s shoulder blades, the newest scars laid over faint, old lines. Sam’s hair is in his face and sticking to Dean’s back and his finger slides in nice and easy. He can feel Dean’s legs trembling. The condoms are in the room and so’s the lube, so Sam squeezes some conditioner onto his palm, hesitant. He’s not sure if it’ll work but Dean says it’s okay and he doesn’t think Dean’s let Sam hurt him yet, so he rubs some on the tip of his dick and some around Dean’s hole, mouthing the side of Dean’s neck. Dean’s lips are drawn over his teeth and there’s something in his eyes that makes Sam want to back off, to get out of the shower and just get the condoms, but - fuck - he just - he wants it. Wants this. He’s never -
He’s not a good enough person to do it, and if he was maybe they wouldn’t be here in the first place. He wouldn’t be steadying his dick with one hand, stretching his brother’s asshole with two fingers of the other hand.
Dean hisses when Sam’s dick pushes in, just the head, his fingers wrapped around his cock to keep himself steady, keep himself from coming right there because god, it’s so much different without the condom. Like that first moment of nakedness where you press up against someone and really feel their skin against yours, how it’s so much hotter then you expect.
Sam’s panting against Dean’s shoulder by the time he’s all the way in. It’s hard to drag his hand away from where it’s trapped between them but he manages it, curling his fingers into Dean’s hip until the skin slides over the bone beneath his hand.
“Fuck,” Dean says, “Fuck, Sammy, move.” His hands curl into fists where Sam laid them flat, up over their heads where the tile stops and uneven plaster begins. They’ve been in there long enough that there are fat drops of condensation on the walls, hanging over their heads like raindrops, and Sam moves. Curls his hips forward, pushing Dean up on his toes. Dean exhales like it’s an accident, like Sam’s forced all the air out of his lungs and the sound of it hits Sam right in the gut, makes him groan and thrust again, harder.
And it’s all too much, the slide of his cock in and out of Dean’s body with nothing between them, the steam and the water that he can barely feel against them, just starting to turn cold, and Dean wraps one hand around the back of Sam’s neck and holds on. Tips his head back. Stubble on his cheek rasping against Sam’s. Nothing but this, too much. He pulls Dean back far enough from the wall that he can wrap his hand around Dean’s cock and Dean’s whole body goes instantly rigid, his fingers clenching into the short hairs at the base of Sam’s neck hard enough to hurt. When he comes it’s with his mouth pressed messily against Sam’s, too open to be called a kiss, and Sam plummets after him, hips stuttering helplessly and - fuck -
Comes back to himself slowly. His forehead pressed against the curve where Dean’s neck meets his shoulder. Not even feeling the water hitting his side. One hand wrapped around Dean’s shoulder, his own knuckles brushing his cheek. Dean, breathing slow and deep against him. And it’s a long moment before Sam can bring himself to move away.
They’re quiet, cleaning themselves up, first Sam, then Dean. Dean stands with his back to the shower and makes faces as he washes away what Sam did to him. Sam washes his hair. The water’s barely body temperature but it’s better then some of the places they’ve lived. The whole bathroom’s full of steam and it’s a little hard to breathe, but Sam’s heart is going a mile a minute and he thinks that has something to do with it. Dean watches Sam dry up but moves away when Sam glances at him, drying off and tugging on a pair of shorts, a t-shirt. Sam does the same and they watch each other from opposite ends of the room before Dean sighs, climbs into bed and lifts the covers up until Sam finally gets it and climbs in with him.
The sheets are cold and Dean tugs the blanket up both their shoulders, brushing Sam’s hair out of his face on the way back as if it’s an accident. There’s more traffic on the road now, highway noise. It’s still dark out and their legs tangle together as Sam shuffles his feet back and forth over the bed. Dean traps one of Sam’s feet between both of his own and for a moment they kick at each other, grinning.
“You’re such a loser,” Sam says, and then, in a different tone, rapidly, “Dean, I -”
“Dork,” Dean says, affectionately, as if he isn’t cutting Sam off. “Go to sleep.”
And he almost does, tired and warm and well-fucked. But. He feels like it’s gonna make him sick to keep swallowing everything, the way he puked for weeks after he kissed Dean. His hand steals down to his wrist, the one that was broken, the skin still pink and sensitive, twisting the red cord around and around his wrist. “I just,” he says, “I’ve never done that before.” He closes his eyes even though it’s dark in the room, dark enough that he can’t even see if Dean’s eyes are narrowing or going flat or whatever.
He feels Dean laugh before he hears it, the shudder of his diaphragm in the space between them, the way Dad used to laugh when he was trying to hide it, and he can't help the smile that spreads across his face. “Yeah,” Dean says, “I know.”