Do We Need To Talk About This?
Dean is not going back to hell… well, he’s reasonably sure that he’s not. He figures it takes something big, killing people with no good reason, fucking with someone’s car, or you know, volunteering to get there in the first place, let alone to warrant a return trip. He’s come to the conclusion that a few stolen fifths of whisky or forgetting to leave his real name and phone number when he sneaks out of the waitress’s apartment at four am are not going to land him back on the rack. He shudders and orders another shot, chases it with another beer and assures himself that he’s not going back.
He considers the non-hell related thoughts that keep creeping back into his brain and orders another beer, or five, and uses them to chase four more shots. The bartender is flirting with him and he’s flirting back, in a sort of automatic response kind of way. He pays the bill, tips her well, and shoves her number into his pocket with his change. He won’t call her. He’s still thinking, and when he’s this drunk that’s a bad fucking idea.
He walks back to the hotel and lets himself in. It’s early, only eleven or so and Sam is stretched out in bed, his hand covering the skin that’s been bared between his t-shirt and sweatpants. The sweatpants are low on his hips and barely touch his ankles. Dean realizes that they’re his, not Sam’s, and considers saying something but is way too drunk to fight and besides, he hazily remembers something about saying he was going out to do some laundry so this might be his fault.
Sam looks up at him for a moment and then looks away and Dean is very drunk and he realizes that his best bet is to simply fall face first into bed and consider his hangover in the morning a fitting punishment and way easier to deal with than say, going back to hell.
He falls face first into bed except… he seems to miss his own bed by about nine feet and lands face first, half on and half off of Sam. His face is buried in Sam's neck and Dean is doing something that is not nuzzling because he doesn’t do that in general and would never do that to Sam. He huffs out an exasperated breath that probably seems more like a moan. He inhales slowly and it might seem like he’s smelling Sam’s hair but see, Dean wouldn’t do that, so you know, that can’t be what’s happening.
Once Dean realizes exactly what is happening (that he’s nuzzling Sam’s neck and smelling his hair and possibly whispering his name), he’s glad he’s doing it. Sam may have a few demonically enhanced abilities. He may be fucking a demon. He may or may not be slated as the next anti-Christ and demon savior, and Dean may have been plucked out of perdition by an angel, but Sam is still the moral compass in this operation so he’s going to throw Dean off of him and say something along the lines of “What the fuck!” and Dean can blame being drunker than he was when he went off with the waitress in Tampa and they can put this behind them. Dean nods and sucks a little on Sam’s neck to get Sam to do the whole throwing him off thing.
Sam doesn’tthrow him off, in fact, he moves his neck to give Dean better access and Dean is pissed now. Sam is letting his brother nuzzle his neck. Sam knows better. Dean raised him better than that. This is just unacceptable. Dean presses his erection, currently chafing against the fly of his jeans, into Sam’s hip to remind Sam exactly what he’s dealing with here, and have him respond appropriately. Sam moves his body and Dean realizes his anger was unnecessary. Sam was just changing positions to get better leverage. Dean relaxes his arms and legs so it’ll hurt less when he tumbles to the floor but Sam doesn’t roll or throw him off the bed. Sam's leg is now between Dean's thighs and his hands are on Dean's face and Dean is really going to have to have a serious discussion about appropriate behavior with him because even if they’d never covered this specifically, surely somewhere between target practice and weapons maintenance Dad had mentioned something that might cover how fucking wrong this is.
Maybe Sam missed this lecture at Stanford but still, lots of kids don’t go to Stanford and know that you don’t…. KISS! Sam is kissing him, pulling his face down and tracing Dean's lips with his tongue, pressing between them for entrance. Dean’s imagined what Sam would taste like, feel like, but man, imagination leaves a lot to the imagination, and it turns out it’s the best parts. Dean breathes into Sam’s mouth and compiles the lecture for tomorrow morning in his head. They are going to need to talk about this.
Finally Dean decides to bring out the big guns, both literally and figuratively. If Sam is sooo sure he wants this, well let’s see what happens when it gets real. So Dean unbuttons his jeans, unzips his fly and presses his hard wet cock against Sam's stomach. That should, he thinks, bring Sam back to reality… except. Dean, who pays attention to everything around him and twice as much to everything around him that is Sam, failed to notice that Sam's body moving beneath him had a double purpose. The first, clearly to drive Dean to the edge of sanity, the second was to lower those overly loose, too short, sweat pants below Sam's ass and when Dean’s cock touches skin it isn’t Sam’s belly, it’s his hard leaking cock and Dean does moan then, pressing his mouth against Sam's. Sam wraps an arm around Dean's waist and flips them both.
Dean rolls with him until he’s under Sam. He’s staring up at Sam's face, his eyes dark and narrow and he wants to see anger, he really needs Sam to stop this because he knows he can’t. Sam doesn’t seem interested in stopping it. He takes one of those enormous hands with the fingers that can pick a lock in seconds, disarm an electronic security system with gloves on and presses both their cocks together, stroking them, twisting his hand just before he gets to the head. Dean leverages his body with his shoulders against the mattress and pushes up into Sam’s hand. Sam's thumb swipes across the head of his own cock and then the head of Dean’s and Dean says Sam’s name. He doesn’t, you know, moan it or anything, that’s just not his style. He also isn’t whimpering, no matter what some might call the small sounds coming from the back of his throat.
Sam keeps the rhythm steady and way too slow and Dean thinks that he might need to talk to Sam about that later, too. There’s a growing list of concerns at this point, and really, Sam better be willing to wait for breakfast because they’re not putting this conversation off until they have to have it on the side of the road. Besides, Dean thinks he’d prefer it if the Impala never knows about this.
Sam’s hand speeds up and the fingers of his free hand cup and cradle Dean’s balls, pressing at the spot behind them. Dean lets out sort of a… Oh fuck it, he yelps and comes, fast and hard and Sam’s smiling down at him, kissing him again and rutting against Dean's belly which is slick with his come. Dean pulls Sam’s head to him and kisses him, hot, wet, messy and better than he’d thought it would be.
When Sam comes all over him, Dean watches and smiles. Sam looks happy. Sam yanks off the t-shirt that’s also Dean's, wipes them both off and then crawls off of Dean and out of bed.
Dean smugly thinks that now would be when Sam finally comes back to himself but instead he realizes Sam’s taking off Dean's boots for him and tossing his jeans, now balled at his ankles, to the floor. He crawls back into bed behind Dean. Sam manhandles him until they’re totally not spooning, but Dean’s back is against Sam’s chest and Sam’s arm is draped over Dean's waist and Sam kisses the back of Dean’s neck. “I’m guessing you didn’t do the laundry then, huh?”
Dean harrumphs and falls asleep thinking that yeah, he and Sam are gonna have to talk about this.