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The early afternoon glows in golden stripes through the closed blinds. There’s silence around them, and the vaguely lemony scent of cheap complimentary body wash.
Dean moves through the small room, a repetitive pattern from his bed to the wooden table, picking up what’s left of their scarce belongings. There’s a bounce in his every step, his body pleasantly relaxed. Well, he got to make the most of their brief stay there.
He senses Sam’s presence behind him, the quiet warmth of his proximity, in the span of a breath, before Sam’s palm comes to rest on his shoulder blade.
Dean keeps packing without looking up. He folds his clothes quickly and efficiently, with more care than he would usually reserve for something like that. He already took his time making the beds, tucking in the corners and straightening up the pillows against which, just a few hours ago, he got majestically sucked off.
“Dean.” Sam’s voice is hoarse. Dean’s mouth curves upward and he pointedly doesn’t look, biting the inside of his cheek, while he continues what he’s doing as if it’s the most important thing in the world.
The tips of Sam’s fingers glide up Dean’s nape, then down the curve of his shoulder, along his bicep.
“Dean. Before we leave.” A shaky inhale. “Can we…?”
Dean’s neck heats up. His hands cling to the last t-shirt laid out on the ugly aquamarine comforter. A moment stretches between the two of them, just enough for Sam to get his hopes up, just a little. And for Dean to catch his breath, for that matter.
“Nope,” Dean says after a beat, cheerfully, zipping up the duffle bag. “We gotta go. Come on.”
Sam’s hands drop. Dean can sense the way Sam crumbles, he can envision how he dejectedly curves in on himself.
“Dean.” More urgent, this time. “Please. I can’t…”
“’course you can.” Dean licks his lips. He relaxes his shoulders. “You’ve been holdin’ on so far. You can make it till the next stop.”
He almost thinks it worked. Then Sam’s hands work their way down Dean’s sides and Sam moves closer, pressing himself with his chest flush to Dean’s back.
“Sam.” It’s a warning, now. The ride up to this point has already seen its share of warnings, even after Dean had to stop the car in the middle of nowhere earlier, and he put his knee between Sam’s thighs and his hands around Sam’s throat, and he told him to stop trying to touch himself.
It was Sam who wanted this, who asked him. Dean plays along. It comes easy to him, to be anything that Sam wants him to be.
Neither of them likes to back down from a challenge, though. And Sam never knows when to fucking stop pushing.
Sam’s breath tickles his skin. “Need it.” Another shallow, throaty sigh in Dean’s ear. “Touch me. Please. I need to come.” Sam’s talking fast now, a low chant of words stringed together. A prayer spilling from his lips that Dean likes a hell of a lot more than the traditional kind. “One week. I—I didn’t come, I didn’t touch myself once, like you said, Dean, you know it…”
Dean’s entire body is taut, he feels exposed, a live wire. It gets to him so quickly, every time, the way Sam gets when he leaves the power in Dean’s hands, the exhilarating power to deny him.
“You need it?” Dean sharpens the words in his mouth, grips tight to every last shred of self-restraint not to turn around. “This is nothin’. You’re just whinin’.”
Sam nuzzles Dean’s neck, nose and mouth pressed to the shorter hair, to the spots of sensitive skin where Dean likes to be kissed. Sam breathes him in, slow and shaky and full-bodied. “I’ve been good. I did what you told me.” His palms draw circles into the expanse of Dean’s back, grazing his sides with lingering, teasing touches. He wants to do more, Dean knows, but he won’t dare, maybe.
In his head, Dean balances different possibilities against one another: how much he wants to make Sam pay for his transgressions, how much he wants Sam to continue testing him.
Sam rolls his hips against Dean’s ass. His hands turn bruising on Dean’s hips. Dean savors the suggestion of all that deadly force he knows intimately well, just barely contained. Not Sam’s place to make demands, not now; his baby brother really should know better.
“Hm.” Dean arches his back into that touch, just a little. New heat like rekindled flames travel from Sam’s fingers all the way under his clothes. “What, you think you can just be cute and that’s gonna get you what you want?”
“Yeah,” Sam rasps out, parted lips to Dean’s neck. “Think I’m pretty convincing.” The softest hint of teeth scrapes Dean’s skin. Sam could sink his teeth right in, a much more brutal bite. Or he could lick and kiss, and maybe Dean would eventually cave in and peel his shirt off and push Sam back on the bed.
Seconds later, Sam does make use of that gorgeous, infuriating strength to tighten his grasp over Dean’s shoulders and spin him around. He pushes Dean into the nearest wall, curling his fists into the front of Dean’s shirt. Dean’s back collides with the wall and he grunts, the stutter of his breath melting into Sam’s lips almost touching his.
Sam’s arms cage him, but Sam doesn’t go for a kiss. Even standing up, with all his height, he looks like he’s on his knees. His eyes are adoring and hungry.
Sam leans with his forearms against the wall and he grinds against Dean’s left leg. He ruts against him faster and rougher now, his cock heavy and searing hot against Dean’s thigh, strangled moans pouring in Dean’s ear. Oh, for this he should pull Sam’s pretty hair, he should smack his beautiful, pleading face.
Dean cups Sam’s nape, pulling him back just enough to be able to look at him. He studies the twitch of Sam’s throat; how Sam looks on the cusp of saying something, asking for something—then he seems to think better of it.
Dean smiles. “You want it that bad, huh?” He strokes Sam’s hair lightly, running his fingers through long strands without twisting and yanking. “Already getting this desperate?”
He shoves his free hand between Sam’s thighs, pressing the heel of his palm right up against the front of Sam’s jeans. “I can fucking feel it.”
He palms the curve of Sam’s cock through the denim. He massages Sam slow and soft, then squeezes him hard and mean. Sam shudders and keens, the wailing of a wounded animal.
Dean traps Sam’s jaw between thumb and index, tilting Sam’s chin up. He leaves his hand resting between his brother’s thighs, touching him with lazy flicks of his wrist.
“Y’know, Sammy, if you keep this shit up…” He runs his thumb over Sam’s bottom lip. “… Forget about the next twenty miles. I’m thinkin’ maybe I won’t let you come for the next two hundred.”
Calling him Sammy is playing dirty. Sammy is a weapon; It’s taking Sam’s self-discipline, his devotion, his unhesitant trust in Dean—and turning it all against him.
Sam shivers like he’s been shot. Dean feels Sam’s trembling in his own blood.
Sam leans against him with his whole weight, pressing both of them harder against the flaking wallpaper. He clings to Dean like he’s drowning. Digging his nails into Dean’s shoulders, Sam buries his face in the curve of Dean’s neck and growls out, “Fuck.”
Dean holds on to him. He circles Sam with his arms, and hugs him more gently, now. He’s got him, of course. Always. He allows Sam’s panting to slow down, petting his hair in repetitive motions. Sam’s heartbeat against his chest is indistinguishable from his own.
Eventually, it’s Sam who pulls back. He’s staggering slightly, but he inhales, biting his lip, and he takes a step back. He does it on his own.
Dean cups his face. “That’s a good boy.”
Sam holds on to Dean’s right hand on his face, his fingers circling Dean’s wrist. He kisses Dean’s knuckles; he upturns his hand and kisses the inside of Dean’s wrist, plants another delicate, reverent bite there. His beautiful eyes never leave Dean’s face.
Pride and love flood through Dean, a violent rush to his chest. He wants to reward Sam, he wants to worship him, he wants to give him everything he wants. Fuck, he can’t wait for their next destination.
Sam lets him go. Sam's cheeks are flushed red and Dean wants to lean closer and bite his pretty lips.
Instead, Dean asks: “Ready to go?”
Sam straightens his posture, fidgets with the collar of his shirt.
He grounds himself.
“Yes. I’m ready.” His voice is clearer, now, a little steadier. He’s still visibly hard; the final part of their ride won’t be comfortable.
Dean smiles, pointing toward the twin beds with a nod of his head.
“Get my bag, will you?”
Sam’s dark gaze lingers on him, for a moment, tense and wanting.
Then Sam nods, defenseless, beautiful, the promise of everything waiting for them later.
“Okay,” he says, ducking his head. He heads toward Dean’s bed. “I got it.”