Watching porn with Sam was on the distracting side. Dean knew he was supposed to be staring at the screen, eyes dead ahead, letting the choreographed, careful display of flesh work him up to aroused, but he'd always been more for doing than watching and, truth be told, the doing had been less frequent than he'd ever admit.
His daddy didn't put getting an itch scratched very high on the to-do list he lived by and it wasn't something Dean felt comfortable talking to him about, anyway. He'd been caught once or twice jerking off after a hunt, blood-hard dick, blood-wet hands, and John's mouth had twitched in an understanding kind of way without being all that approving. The times Dean had come back to wherever they'd been staying just in time to help him load the car, his clothes stinking of smoke and sex or flowery, fancy shampoo, John Winchester's mouth had thinned and his silence had taken on an edge that was pure disappointment.
His dad never had thought highly of the idea that a man hunted better when he wasn't plagued by thoughts of soft, lush curves and wet heat.
And Dean didn't want to go near his dad's reaction if he'd seen Sammy's wide eyes and licked-raw lips as the couple on screen contorted and cavorted and -- yeah, it was more amusing to watch Sammy, it really was, even if that wasn't really the point of it all.
The only room they could get had come with a queen-size bed instead of two doubles. Which sucked, sure, but not enough for Dean to care, not really. He'd shared beds with Sam before and endured the twitching and the blatant theft of the covers; they'd have a brief, silent fight over the right to claim the centre of the mattress 'round about two and settle down after that. Not a big deal.
Lying on the bed, propped up on pillows, close enough that he could hear every breath Sam took, he couldn't miss the fact that Sam was hard but that wasn't a big deal, either.
Dean wasn't. He'd seen this one before. The blonde chick got her heart broken when all three of the men she'd opened her… heart to, went off and left her to be consoled by the sweetly sympathetic and surprisingly supple lady living next door. The one with the vacuum cleaner and all the attachments.
He supposed it was a happy ending but it still hadn't done much for him.
He thought idly about making an excuse about going out for some ice or a walk to give Sam chance to bring down the swelling but, hell, it was raining hard, dark as sin, and he was sliding off into sleep here in the warm, dim room, the reflected flicker from the TV all the light there was.
He woke to the muffled, rhythmic creak of springs and Sam jerking off as the credits rolled. Seemed to him like Sam was taking his time over it if this was as far as he'd gotten, but for all he knew, this was round two. How long had he been asleep for, anyway?
He worked it out; drowsy enough that the figures kept sliding away from him, and decided it'd been about thirty, forty minutes. Sam would've waited until he was sure Dean was dead to the world -- Dean shifted his head a fraction until his chin was clear of the drooled-on patch of pillow -- oh, yeah, not faking it -- and then taken his time easing down his zip, getting out his dick, propping his elbow just right so he didn't jar the bed…
Dean knew all the tricks for silent and fast.
Sam, spoiled by a girlfriend for too long, had clearly lost the knack and, eyes closed, lips compressed, was moving to the point where he was too far gone to care if a marching band came through the room or Dean woke up and caught him, which Dean knew, smugly, would be the worst of those two options in Sammy's eyes.
He peeked down the bed, vaguely curious.
Sam's large, capable hand was a shifting, squeezing vice around his dick. Guy was being brutal with it, which was probably why Dean's own version of the leaning Tower of Pisa was aching in sympathy, pushing to life. He inhaled, suddenly needing to breathe the worst way, and got a noseful of sweat and come. Oh, yeah. Round two.
Greedy son of a bitch.
Sam's body was familiar ground. Dean had shared a bathroom with the guy for years, scrubbed slime off him, doctored him up when needed. He'd slapped Sam's hands away a few months ago and dealt with a cut high on Sam's inner thigh himself, knowing there was no freaking way Sam could see what he was doing. He'd scooped Sam's balls up out of the way and gone in there with antiseptic and a dressing, ignoring the embarrassingly high-pitched shriek from Sam because he'd tickled him -- not on purpose -- until later when Sam wasn't bleeding anymore and was fair game.
He knew this body because it was his to protect and shield.
And now he was getting hard watching it get close to coming which was one freaky ass scary place to be and he wished he could blame the movie but he couldn't.
They weren't real, those sighing, moaning pieces of skin and silicone. Dean was good at knowing the difference between what was and wasn't there and Sam was there, practically in Dean's fucking face, humping his good right hand, the wiry hair around his dick sweat-damped down, his balls, little glimpses Dean got, tight and full and ready to pop.
Dean looked the situation over and sighed to himself, adding another thing to the list of stuff he wasn't ever going to tell Sammy even if it meant he ended up suffocating under the press of them all.
It didn't really matter. He didn't want to jump Sam's bones, after all. Just would be nice if sometimes there was someone -- ah, fuck it. He'd be wanting Sam to tuck him in next.
"Want a hand with that, Sammy? 'Cause some of us are trying to sleep here."
Sam yelped, satisfyingly startled, and came in a messy, scared spurt which was even better.
Dean chuckled and rolled to his back, reaching down to get his dick out of the pretzel shape it was in. "Relax, Sam. Least you got your money's worth, right? Well, we're not paying for it, but you know what I mean."
Sam finished hissing and cursing and mopping up the mess and moved onto kicking off his jeans, stopping long enough to look over at him. "I guess." His gaze went down a bit. "Pleasant dreams?"
And he shoots, he scores. "I guess," Dean echoed, wondering if maybe they had been and that was why -- yeah, that worked…
"Don't let me stop you taking care of that," Sam said, folding his arms over his chest and nodding down.
Dean felt the heat of a blush for the first time in a long time. "You go take a shower and maybe I will."
"Don't need one." Sam's slowly spreading smirk said it all. Sticky, stinky liar. "Go on. Do it."
Sam's grin widened and he crowed triumphantly, secure on the high ground. "Dean, if you're feeling inadequate --"
"It's not the size, it's what you --"
"How about I just --"
"The moment's passed, okay? Now get your ass under the covers and go to fucking sleep, will you?"
Brothers. Kid brothers. If there was anything that could be more of a pain in his ass than Sam, he didn't want to meet it.
The moment came back around three, but Dean decided Sam's snoring was a shade too loud to be convincing and thought about rotting corpses until it passed.
And woke, hours later, Sam snuggled up close, breathing down his neck, totally on the wrong side of the bed.
Same old, same old.
Dean jabbed an elbow back, missing anything too painful, and heard Sam mutter something he couldn't make out before the big, rangy body heaved up and rolled away.
Yeah. That was better. He settled down for a few minutes more sleep.
Sam took up too much space in his life as it was.
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