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Turns out, it’s not the carburetor. Sam reveals this by throwing aside the socket wrench and loudly announcing he’s tired, plopping down on the asphalt.
“Come on, you can’t give up yet!” Dean needles, nudging Sam with his boot from his spot atop the cooler. “If it’s not the carburetor, it might be the...?”
Sam ignores his hint. “‘M not giving up. It’s called a break. Gimme another beer.” He shoves incessantly until Dean stands up just long enough for him to sneak inside and snag another bottle. Smug at his victory, he cracks open his beer and settles between Dean’s legs.
“You’re never gonna learn at this rate,” Dean complains, tapping the side of Sam’s head with his bottle. Sam was doing pretty well, actually, for all that he usually tuned out during his and Dad’s auto maintenance lectures in the past. Kid’s got a good head on his shoulders. Almost like he got into college or something.
“Maybe I don’t wanna learn,” Sam mutters darkly.
Dean takes another swig of his drink. It goes down sour. “Do you not?” he asks, somehow, managing to keep his voice steady. Relief nearly bowls him over when Sam shakes his head no.
“I want to,” he admits softly. “We never do stuff like this anymore.”
Dean’s heart clenches. No, they didn’t have a lot of these quiet moments anymore. He’s been spending most of his free time living hard and fast while he still could: good food, good booze, good women. But this... just this, a blue sky and his car and Sam is better. He’s been wasting so much goddamn time. Why has he been wasting so much time?
“Well, we’re doing it now,” Dean says. “Or we would be if someone wasn’t being a huge girl about it.”
“You have your job and I have mine,” Sam counters stubbornly, prodding at Dean’s knee through the hole in his jeans. Dean lightly slaps him away but moments later Sam’s back at it, picking at the white threads.
“Yeah? And what’s that?” Dean grumbles as he knocks away Sam’s incessant hands. They aren’t made of money, even with Bela’s cash payout giving them a decent cushion for once. “Being annoying?” The corner of Sam’s mouth quirks up. “What, so my job is to teach little brother, and it’s little brother’s job to...?”
“Make it difficult,” Sam finishes cheekily. He rips one of the threads off his jeans.
Dean snorts. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he confirms. “Five minutes, you hear me? Five minutes. Then you’re back at it.”
Five minutes pass. Then another. They drink and watch the clouds go by, making amorphous, useless shapes. Sam pokes and prods at his leisure, destroying Dean’s pants leg seemingly for no reason than his own pleasure. He hasn’t been this deliberately obnoxious in a decade and Dean didn’t realize how much he missed it, though he’d never admit it out loud. It’s a long-absent version of his little brother, one that wants attention just as much, if not more, than respect. The one that still thinks he hung the moon and wants to know how he did it. The one that wants independence, but only if Dean can come along for the ride, too.
“Hey, now,” Dean complains as Sam finds a loose thread on his flannel. “I like this shirt. You mess it up I’m making you find a new one. Don’t think I won’t.”
Sam dismisses him with a pfft and snaps off the thread. His hands wander from his flannel to his t-shirt, messing with the hem. Shoving it up, then touching his stomach.
Dean inhales sharply. “Sam.”
“Hmm?” Sam asks idly as if he’s not doing anything strange.
“... Never mind,” he murmurs. Sam, unbothered, continues his exploration. His fingers trace patternlessly across Dean’s skin, plucking at any hairs he finds there, not hard enough to burn but enough to sting. After Dean’s empty bottle knocks against the side of his skull too many times he yanks it out of Dean’s loose hold and rolls it away, the bottle clinking as it goes. He spreads his palms over Dean’s ribs and lets them move in-out with Dean’s rapidly accelerating breaths.
Fuck. Dean rolls his eyes skyward and struggles to even out his breathing. Without the bottle to occupy his hands, they wander into Sam’s hair. Sam hums his approval, nuzzling his middle like a cat. He’s drunk, Dean speculates as he caresses the soft brown locks. He’s tipsy or something. But though Sam’s a lightweight and always has been, it still takes more than two beers to get him sloppy. This is something else.
Sam’s mouth touches his bare flesh. Dean’s grip tightens, hard enough that Sam flinches, and he swiftly lets go, snapping them away from temptation. For the first time since he sat down, Sam looks up. Eyes locked with Dean’s, he guides a treacherous hand back into his hair.
“Keep going,” Sam instructs. Mind numb, Dean resumes his petting as Sam’s lips settle above his belly button. His brother’s breath is hot and wet and Dean trembles with every puff of air. Sam’s left hand sneaks further up under his shirt to pinch at Dean’s nipples as his right keeps him pinned in place at his hip. Despite the crisp November air, Dean’s hot all over. He can do nothing but stroke his brother’s hair.
The wet smacks of Sam’s mouth crack through the air like gunshots. It’s enough to drive a man mad. Gordon thought Sam was an agent of Hell, but if Sam has any wicked power it is this--effortlessly rendering Dean Winchester into a vessel existing only for the wants and desires of his brother. What Sam actually wants, if anything, is a mystery. All that matters is Dean is willing to hand it over.
The fact that Sam could have done this at any time and simply chosen not to rocks Dean to his core. He keeps Sam’s face pressed against his abs and tries to keep his hips still.
Nearby, the discarded beer bottle rattles against the hard ground. Dean frowns. A familiar warning bell sounds as a distant mechanical roar creeps closer. He twists around to look--
Sam yanks him back into place, glaring up at him. He returns his lips to their rightful place and Dean can feel them moving against his skin, shaping words, but can’t make out whatever his brother’s saying as the train rushes by. The squeal of metal against metal does little to drown out the intention of whatever gospel Sam’s mouthing against his stomach, though.
The train crossing goes on for a lifetime behind him so Dean finally allows himself to swear and curse and buck his hips a little as Sam bites a constellation into his abdomen and chest. When it’s finally over, the bells’ incessant chiming concluded, Dean is still and silent once more, simply holding his little brother close as Sam finishes his speech.
“--got it?” Sam asks. There’s only one answer.
“Got it, Sam,” Dean says. Sam pulls away, smoothing down Dean’s shirt and brushing the grit of his own jeans as he rises.
“So if it’s not the carburetor...?” Sam presses. Dean, knowing his role, shakes his head in exasperation and manhandles Sam back in front of his baby’s engine, tsking under his breath.
“Hopeless,” he scolds. Sam smiles and agrees.