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It wasn’t often that they got to spend time together like this. Now that they were traveling with their father again, it made it was increasingly difficult to steal a moment alone together where they wouldn’t have to risk getting caught. It wasn’t about sex, no…not this time. These moments were saved for gentle touches of calloused fingertips across scarred skin, drawn out embraces where they were content to stay locked in one another’s arms, and soft kisses that almost always wandered away from the lips. They didn’t get many moments alone like this anymore, so they cherished every one of them.
“We don’t have time for this, Sammy…” Dean’s voice was rough, strained with the effort it took not to let out a soft yet shuddering moan at the feeling of his baby brother’s lips ghosting across his collarbone. Long arms wrapped around his waist from behind, Sam’s hair tickling against the scruff of Dean’s cheek. He laid his hands across his brother’s arms, thumbs moving in slow, gentle circles—proof that his body, and his heart, weren’t matching up to the words that were coming out of his mouth.
“Dad won’t be back for another hour at least…” He countered, his lips moving in an almost sinful way against his skin as he spoke. His hands moved down, palms bracketing his hips as he pulled Dean closer, flush against his chest. “It’s been too long, De…”
It had. They’d been traveling with John for over three months now, and the only time that they’d managed to snag to be together is a few rushed moments in truck stop bathrooms, and the rare yet daring brush of skin against skin when passing by one another in the motel room on the way to the shower. Dean’s body was screaming at him to shut up and just let Sam take control, to let him have his way with him, but his mind just wouldn’t turn off. The thought of their father walking in on them in the middle of intimacy struck fear deep into the depths of his soul. He was stuck between wanting to be a good and dutiful son and wanting to be the brother and lover that Sam needed him to be. He hated disappointing him, and even worse, seeing the let down look in those puppy-dog eyes before Sam managed to steel himself from letting the emotions show.
“Please, De… I need you.” And damn it if that wasn’t just what Dean needed to hear to get his brain to shut off and for his heart to kick into gear. Above all else, those three words uttered from his little brother’s mouth would ultimately get him to do anything—even selling his own soul. He turned in Sam’s arms, his own hands sliding upward until one could fist in Sam’s luscious locks, tugging his head down the short distance it would take until their mouths met. The kiss was tender, just a tad rushed, and oh so exquisite. It had both Winchester boys moaning at the contact, Sam tightening his grip on Dean’s waist and pulling him with as he backed himself toward the ratty motel mattress.
Rusted springs creaked and groaned with the combined weight of the two as Sam’s back hit the bed, just barely bouncing back with the impact. Dean’s fingers were moving at an agonizingly slow speed, brushing over every sensitive spot that they could reach. Each brush of his hand or gentle press of his fingertips had Sam keening in pleasure; Dean knew each one of his button, having taken great pleasure in mapping out just where they were and taking the time to commit each one to memory. By the time that he’d pulled the shirt from Sam’s body, the younger Winchester was left in a breathless, quivering heap below him.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he whispered as he leaned down to trail a line of tender kisses from his collarbone down across his chest. He paid special attention to each nipple, tongue flicking out across one while his fingers rolled the other between them, giving a gentle tug every now and then. “So fucking gorgeous…” the trail continued down across his stomach, Sam’s muscles contracting underneath the teasing touch, anticipating what was to come as he watched Dean’s lips brushing across the waistband of his jeans. His belt had been lost somewhere along the way to the bed.
Just as Dean was sliding the zipper down on Sam’s jeans—with his teeth, mind you. He knew the sight alone was something that could really get Sam’s motor running—they heard the distinct sound of tires crunching against gravel, followed by the soft yellow beams of headlights swinging into the room as their father turned the impala into the motel parking lot. Dean shot a look at the clock on the nightstand and cursed under his breath as he reluctantly tore himself away from Sam’s more than welcoming body. The younger Winchester hurriedly fixed his clothing while Dean situated himself at the table, fixated on ‘cleaning’ the guns that were laid out atop it.
When John came into the room, he could have sworn he could’ve cut through the tension in the air with a knife. He surveyed each of his boys in turn, noting how tense Dean looked as he cleaned the guns, guns that John had just cleaned himself whilst Dean was in the shower earlier, and how Sam was fighting to control or steady his breathing. Both had a fine sheet of sweat glistening against their skin, but neither of them would look at him—or each other for that matter.
“Dinner,” he cleared his throat and dropped three grease-soaked bags onto the island that was meant to be a ‘kitchen’. Before either boy could ask, John supplied answers to the questions he knew were posed on the tips of their tongues. “Yes, I did bring you a salad, Sam, and yes, I remembered the pie, Dean.” That seemed to brighten both of his boy’s spirits. While they were sorting out the food, John moved over to one of the two double beds in the room. He dropped down on the end of it to unlace and toe off his boots.
“You know,” he started, noticing both boys flinch. “The next time you want alone time, hang a sock on the door or something. I’d rather not come back to a room that reeks of sex unless I’m the one that’s going to be having it.”
There was a small smile on his lips, tugging the corners of his mouth into a slight smirk as he gathered a change of clothes and headed to the bathroom to take a much-needed shower. He wished he would’ve had a camera to capture the completely gob smacked looks on his son’s faces. He’d spent enough time trying—key word there—to sneak around with Mary underneath Samuel’s nose to know every trick in the book on how to not get caught. He chuckled to himself as he closed the bathroom door, just in time to hear Sam and Dean mutter a simultaneous “son of a bitch…”