Open Secrets

Sam is kissing him.

Sam. Is. Kissing him.

This was not part of Dean's game plan. Not that he really had one to begin with, but this? Totally out there.

For the first three seconds, Dean doesn't move, doesn't blink, doesn't breathe, doesn't even think. He doesn't kiss back, simply because whatever part of his brain controls those muscles is sitting in his head going seriously, what!? at this. He doesn't let go of the doorknob. He can't make himself do much of anything other than stare out over Sam's cheek like an idiot and wonder why he's still alive and not in lots of bloody pieces on the floor.

Then Sam lets go of the door and curls that huge hand around the back of Dean's neck instead, and that snaps him out of it. Dean makes some little keening noise he'll deny the fuck out of later into Sam's mouth, lets go of the doorknob, and grabs for--well, he just grabs, and what he ends up grabbing is the hem of Sam's T-shirt. That'll do.

Good God, Sam can kiss. Every bit as good as Dean ever imagined it. Better. All warm and wet and slow and hungry, like he's kissing with his whole body, like he wants this more than he's ever wanted anything, like this is really okay, like he doesn't see anything wrong with kissing another guy like this, like he doesn't see anything sickandwrong about kissing his brother like this oh Jesus Christ no!

Dean's eyes have barely had time to close properly before they snap open again and he tears his hands out of Sam's T-shirt and shoves, both of them wild-eyed and panting as Dean breaks them up. Sam's hand around the back of his neck keeps them closer (farther apart) than Dean is strictly comfortable with, and worse (better), it makes it easier for Sam to reel him back in. By the time Dean finds the shredded remains of his voice Sam's got him again, pulled close so all his don't's and we can't's and god Sammy I'm so fucking sorry's aren't much but shaky breath against Sam's lips. Sam breathes them in and exhales shh's and it's okay's against Dean's lips in turn.

Dean tries to wriggle free again, tries to shove Sam off him again, but he's not trying very goddamn hard; even as his hands are trying to push Sam away they're knotting into his T-shirt again. He can't stop. Even telling himself you know this is just going to make it worse if (when) he leaves you again, right? doesn't make his fingers stop crawling back into Sam's shirt. His body is simply too drunk on want and need and the heat and scent of Sam so close to him to care about what'll come later. The only way he's going to stop is if Sam... if Sam tells him to.

"Stop me," he whispers, and Sam shakes his head.

"No."

"Sam. Please. Don't let me do this," Dean pleads, and even now, even as he's begging Sam to tell him to stop, he's nuzzling at Sam's lips like he can't live without them. "Tell me to stop. Make me stop."

"No."

"Why the hell not!?" Dean tries to pull back again but it's an even weaker try than before. If Sam gives him even one good reason--

"Like you said." Sam's fingers tighten around the back of Dean's neck, just a little. Holding on to him. Keeping him from squirming away. "I'm a selfish son of a bitch."

"God, Sammy--"

"And I don't want you to stop."

That's it. One good reason.

He's done for.

Sam gives him a tiny crooked smile, just one corner of his mouth tugging upwards. Dean starts to give one last token protest but before it can come out, Sam kisses him again.

Slower and deeper, with that other arm winding around Dean's shoulders, and this time Dean lets him. Dean doesn't just let him, he opens his mouth wider, opens himself wider, invites and begs with the hands fisted into Sam's shirt. Sam does this thing with his tongue--this thing where it kind of flicks against Dean's and pulls back like it's saying hey, come here and then does it again and again, and that's an invitation Dean can't possibly decline. This time, he doesn't stop until he has to breathe. This time, he doesn't shove Sam away, he just drops his cheek to Sam's shoulder and breathes in dollar store soap and motel shampoo and Sam. Sam pets his back and murmurs something reassuring into the side of his head and hangs on.

The craziest, most ridiculous damn thing ever pops into Dean's head then, something about how Sam should have given Stanford the finger and gone to work for the CIA because he'd be like the best interrogator in the whole world, he made Dean spill this thing he'd sworn to carry to his own funeral urn just like that without even laying a finger on him--hell, Sam could give that Iraqi guy on Lost, whatsisname, a serious run for his money--

"Sayid." Sam pulls back and laughs a little, surprised, a quiet little puff against the top of Dean's head. "Dude, you're comparing me to Sayid?"

Dean can't help but snort out a little surprised laugh himself. God, this is just fucking absurd. "Uh... kind of."

"You, uh..." Sam's grinning. Dean knows that without even having to look up. "You want me to go look for some bamboo? Y'know. To stick under your fingernails."

Dean looks up. Yeah, Sam's grinning. "I think you're supposed to tie me to a tree first."

"Oh yeah. Right." Sam grins a little more and flinches a little--damn, one of them needs to see to those claw marks really soon. "And then bring in a hot chick to kiss you when the bamboo doesn't work."

"Dude, forget the hot chick. You keep kissing me like that? I'd tell you anything," Dean says without really thinking, and then he shakes his head and drops it back onto Sam's shoulder. His fingers are starting to ache, and no wonder--how he hasn't torn Sam's shirt right off him from hanging on to it so damn tight is beyond him. So he lets go and wraps his arms around Sam's waist instead. Sam seems to approve of this, judging from the contented sigh against the side of his head and the big warm hand sliding up and down his back.

"You okay?" Sam murmurs somewhere above.

"Yeah. No. I don't know. This is fucked up, Sam." Dean shakes his head again, hisses softly as he bumps the damn cut against Sam's shoulder. "You know that, right? That this is about as fucked up as it gets?"

Sam nods against the side of Dean's head. "Yeah. I know." And then he laughs again, just a little warm breath on Dean's neck. "You know what's even more fucked up?"

"What?"

"The fact that I don't really care how fucked up it is."

"That's... yeah." Dean looks up again, and Sam's giving him a crooked, sheepish little smile. "That's so fucked up it's almost--"

"--not fucked up?"

When Dean--when Sam--when they put it that way... okay, yeah, this definitely isn't going to be the end of it, and Dean isn't going to stop thinking sickandwrong just like turning off a switch, and there's a pretty good chance that they're going to argue about it someday.

But...

"...yeah."

And there was still that thing nagging at the back of Dean's mind, that thing about how much worse it's going to hurt if they keep this shit up and Sam leaves him again. They're probably going to argue about that too. A lot.

But not right now.

Sam's hand makes one more slow pass down Dean's back, stops just above the waistband of his jeans, and pats twice.

"You still want that six-pack?" Sam offers, barely above a whisper, directly into Dean's ear. "I'm okay to drive if y--" And that's as far as Sam gets, because Dean...

...well, Dean pretty much attacks him.

And after the initial surprise wears off, Sam doesn't seem to have a problem with this.

Dean knows he probably shouldn't be doing this right now, for reasons other than the ones they've already been over. For one thing, he's trying to be careful about where his hands go when they grab hold of Sam's head and drag him down for a kiss that's damn near violent, trying to keep them the hell away from those claw marks on Sam's cheek, and he knows they really need to at least get a bandage or something on there. For another, that quick neck-up rinse at the rest stop is the closest thing he's had to a shower since yesterday, since before all the climbing and running and fighting and rolling around on nasty dirty floors and, well, ew.

Sam doesn't seem to have much of a problem with any of that, either. Or maybe he does, but Dean is reasonably sure he wouldn't express that by grabbing Dean by his belt loops and nibbling on his lower lip.

For a moment, Dean actually considers gently pushing away from Sam and suggesting they deal with these issues before things get out of hand. But then Sam pulls, using Dean's damn belt loops as handles to drag him closer and ohshit. Half-hard? Not anymore.

Dean tries to say stuff like "need a shower" and "fix your face?" but it's kind of hard to talk when Sam's chewing on his lip like that. He tries sending pictures instead. Sam lets go of his lip long enough to mumble "Later," and then instead of going back to chewing he catches Dean's tongue, draws it into his mouth, and sucks on it. This little trick conjures up images that make about half of the fantasies Dean threw at him look as tame as Saturday morning cartoons.

Sam must have caught those images too and apparently he approves of them, because he moans around Dean's tongue and shivers and yanks Dean even closer. There's not much closer he can go, but that doesn't stop Sam from trying and holy shit, Sam's hard. So hard it almost hurts where he's pressed against Dean's hip, even through two pairs of underwear and one pair of jeans. And that means... oh God.

At the very least it means Sam just wants to fuck, period, and would prefer Dean to his hand. Which, for the record, Dean would be perfectly okay with right now.

But then Dean ponders the best-case scenario--in which it means Sam specifically wants to fuck him--and his knees almost buckle and his cock twitches hard against Sam's hip, hard enough for Sam to feel it through all their clothes.

Sam growls at that twitch, honest to God growls low and feral in his throat. Dean's never heard him make a noise like that before. Not in his sleep, not while fighting their Evil Thing du jour, not while fighting each other. Dean's never heard Sam growl. Never. He wants to hear it again. His hands wander over Sam's back, searching for the hem of his T-shirt; when they find it they sneak up under it to splay out over warm bare skin, pull tight to drag Sam's hips up against his own.

There's that growl again. Sam wedges a knee between Dean's thighs, and if that's not distracting enough one of those huge hands slides down and claws into a big handful of worn denim and Dean's ass. Every reason Dean might have ever had for not doing this goes right out the window for now. Especially the one that went Sam will kill me for even thinking about this, because that one's been pretty much shot to Hell in the last five minutes.

Sam being so damn willing--and so damn in control-- might not make this completely okay, but at least it seems a lot less not okay, and Dean can live with that.

Dean makes some weird groany noise against Sam's mouth and thrusts up against Sam's hip. He tries to be subtle about that. He really does, because even now, even as Sam is ducking down to lay a trail of soft wet sucking kisses down the side of Dean's neck and hitting all those exquisitely sensitive nerves that make his toes curl up like ten pink doodlebugs in his boots, he's still afraid that Sam will pull back if he gets carried away. But Sam's hip is warm and solid and right there, and his dick has a lot of ideas and not a damn one of them is anywhere near the neighborhood of "subtle."

Sam doesn't seem to mind the lack of subtlety. He doesn't stop, and he sure as hell doesn't pull back--he pushes, pinning Dean against the door with one well-placed hip. And lest Dean forget about that thigh wedged in between his, Sam presses that up and forward to rub him just right.

To hell with subtlety. Dean lets his head drop back against the door, bares his throat to Sam, and before his brain turns to goo and his mind turns to white noise, he thinks one word at Sam as hard as he can.

Please.

Sam shudders against Dean (particularly that thigh pressed up against his dick) and whimpers "oh god" against the side of Dean's throat. Any worries Dean might have had about lack of subtlety go out the window to hang out with the rest of the Issues he's already tossed out onto the street for the night. Sam bucks forward hard, shoving Dean back against the door and grinding hard against his hip, jerking that thigh just a little more up-and-forward to give Dean something solid to grind against as well.

There was this one time where Dean had almost been drunk enough to do something like this. Just come back to the motel, grab Sam by the collar, slam him up against the nearest wall, grind up against him all slow and hard and graceful, tease his ears with hot breath and whispered praise and encouragement, make him beg for more, maybe make him come in his pants a couple or three times. He hadn't done it that night or on any night since, but it had always remained one of his favorite pieces of mental porn and he had set it high in his artillery for when he needed an image that would make him come in a hurry.

There's nothing slow or graceful about this. But the "hard" part they've got covered, and so what if Dean's the one getting dry-humped through a wall and Sam's the one whispering yeah, god yeah, 's okay, c'mon, harder, don't stop in his ear instead of the other way around?

Don't stop, Sam said, and if Dean had anything left upstairs he'd laugh. He couldn't stop if he wanted to now. He's afraid he couldn't even stop if Sam wanted him to. Not that there's any real danger of that; Sam was pretty clear on that issue. The point is, no fucking way can he stop now, not with him just right there on the edge. It's frantic and rough and devastating, heat and pressure and friction in all the right places but damn it, it's not enough, not enough, just not quite fucking enough--

Dean must have been thinking that in so many words (or else groaning it against Sam's shoulder), because Sam pulls back with a hissed curse and "okay" falling from his lips. Which leaves Dean squirming and whimpering for more until he feels a yank somewhere below his navel and realizes what Sam's doing.

Sam is clawing at the fly of his jeans, fumbling with the button and the zipper. When he succeeds in wrestling them open he reassigns one hand to his own boxers, shoving them down past his hips and deeming that close enough for government work. Then he yanks at Dean's jeans a couple more times, rasps "oh, fuck it" against the hollow of Dean's throat, and just shoves his hand down the undone fly and wriggles those long fingers under the waistband of Dean's underwear.

The first touch of skin to skin, the first brush of Sam's fingertips down the underside of Dean's cock, is all it takes. Dean comes as soon as Sam's hand closes around him, hips slamming forward completely out of his control, dick jerking and pulsing and soaking Sam's hand and his own clothes, and legs shuddering and wobbling in a such a way that Dean is eternally grateful for the thigh shoved up between his because he's pretty sure that's the only thing keeping him upright. He throws his head forward and bites down hard on Sam's shoulder to muffle the snarling roaring noise welling up in his throat, and that still isn't enough to shut him up completely. Not even close. It seems to go on forever and it's not letting up, and somewhere in the back of Dean's mind he starts to seriously wonder if this could actually physically kill him, if his heart could explode, if his central nervous system could simply overload and shut down, if he could literally come his brains out because it sure as hell feels like that's what he's doing.

He could think of worse ways to die.

He doesn't die, though. He thinks he might have blacked out for a second, but Sam doesn't seem to have noticed anything alarming. Then again, Sam doesn't seem to be in much of a condition to notice anything, because the first thing that registers when Dean comes back to Earth is movement against his hip, some soft wet repetitive little sound coming from the same general area, quick hot breath against the side of his neck, and Sam's ragged voice gasping God and yeah and Dean in his ear.

Dean blinks his eyes open, looks down, and sees Sam doing the very thing Dean once imagined him doing over the course of a too-long shower. The sight is every bit as distracting in real life as it was in Dean's mind. Sam's hands are beautiful to begin with, huge and long-fingered and softer than they have any damn right to be considering what they go through in a day's work. But seeing one of them wrapped around Sam's dick, seeing the way Sam's thumb flicks over the very tip every few strokes... oh holy fuck, Sam's hands were just made for sex, weren't they? Dean's softening cock twitches faintly in Sam's other hand, and it occurs to him that it's kind of inconsiderate of him to just stand here and watch this when he could be helping.

"Sam," Dean croaks, and he pours every ounce of willpower he has left into making his arm move. "Jesus, Sammy--let me--" He pushes Sam's hand away from his dick; before Sam can protest he takes over, jerking him hard and fast. It barely takes three strokes before Sam crushes his mouth to the side of Dean's throat and makes a muffled noise that, had he left it unchecked and were the next room over occupied, would surely earn them some wall-pounding and complaints.

Sam's never done a half-ass job of anything in his whole life. Apparently, that extends to his sex life as well. Dean watches with something like awe, because Sam comes like he'll die if he doesn't. Of course he does; he's been living like a goddamn monk since November, since Jess. Dean suspects he hasn't even jerked off since then--and how anyone could go that long without even so much as his hand is beyond Dean; he starts getting pissy and twitchy if he's gone one lousy week without getting off. Whatever the case, Dean's never seen anyone come like this. He's never made anyone come like this, and he's had some serious screamers in his time.

Every muscle in Sam's body tenses to rock-solidity when his cock jumps and empties into Dean's hand, then he goes all water-loose and slumps forward against Dean to catch a couple of quick hitching breaths in the valleys between spasms. He gasps out choked little ah! noises that rise in pitch and volume at the onset of each new wave and whimpers when it fades and he can breathe again.

Later, Dean will think about this and realize that he has a lovely new addition to his mental porn stash. He might not need it as often now, but just thinking about what Sam looks and sounds like when he comes is all it'll take to give Dean an instant hard-on for a month. Maybe two.

Eventually the valleys spread out longer and lazier, and the peaks come lower and farther apart until Sam lets out one last rush of breath in a low groan and flops bonelessly forward against Dean's shoulder. One of his hands is braced against the door to keep him in some semblance of an upright state. The other is still shoved down the front of Dean's pants, fingers still twitching feebly every once in a while. He makes some tired little murbling noise that kind of sounds like "homygod" against Dean's neck and then hisses softly when he turns his head a little too far to the wrong side and scrapes his clawed-up cheek against Dean's scratchy jaw.

"Uh huh," Dean concurs. Without really thinking about it, he brings his hand to his mouth and licks it clean.

Sam picks up his head a bit, notices what Dean is doing, sputters a little, and then plops back down on Dean's shoulder again. "Homyfuckingod," he gasps, adding a little nuzzle this time.

The air between them is hot, humid, thick with sweat and sex and Dean drinks it in, savors it like the taste of Sam's come on his fingers. The rush of rage and adrenaline from just a few minutes ago has ebbed away to almost nothing, leaving Dean physically sore and exhausted but otherwise feeling better than he has in months.

And now he really, really needs that shower. Because now not only is he sweaty and grubby, he's also sticky and that's just not going to work.

Sam splatted out on his shoulder (and Sam's hand still tucked down the front of his jeans--seriously, has he just forgotten where he put it?) stands in the way of this. As much as Dean would like him to stay, Sam's gonna have to move. Dean reaches up and taps him on the bicep, grunting something like "lemme up, 'm gross" and jerking a thumb toward the bathroom.

Sam picks his head up, mumbles "huh?" in reply, and blinks a few times. "...oh," he finally says. "'Kay." He pushes off with the hand splayed out on the door, wobbles upright, and pads to the nearest bed where he plunks down and plucks dazedly at the front of his beloved--and sticky--dog T-shirt. And then he realizes he's plucking at his beloved and sticky dog T-shirt with the hand Dean just came all over. With a little pained resigned noise, Sam just gives up and wipes that hand off on his poor T-shirt. "Man," he finally says, and there might actually be a little bit of a laugh behind it, "how many times 'm I gonna have to change clothes tonight..."

Dean can't help but grin a little as he weaves off to the bathroom and shuts himself in.