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omg your tags, now I can't stop picturing Sam waking Dean up with his mouth, what have you done (!!)

It’s cold—really goddamn cold. First things Sam notices whenhe wakes up, in order: how fucking incredibly cold it is; that he’s lost theblanket, sometime during the night; he’s got a morning woody crushed in againstthe mattress and it feels, ah, good; Dean’s gone.

He opens his eyes. Dean. His brain struggles to come online,fifteen rail lines speeding forward at once. In the muddle he claps himself inthe face too hard, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes—ow—and struggles toturn over, the mattress creaking under him. Dean, where—oh. There. A lump, onthe far side of the bed, a king bed, oh—right, they got a king bed, somewherein Texas—Lubbock—and Dean had grinned defiance at the hairsprayed old lady atthe front desk, and slapped Sam’s ass before they left the lobby—mortifying,but Sam had secretly enjoyed how lemon-bite-pursed her wrinkly old mouth got—andoh, damn, it is really cold, jesus. Winter in Texas shouldn’t be this cold, andhe puts together only slowly, trains struggling to leave the station, that theheater under the window must be broken, and fucking Dean stole all the covers,and Sam’s left here in his boxers with his skin goosepimpling in the frigidair, and he rubs his face again, wanting coffee, Miami, a massage. That order.How likely is he to get any of it.

He gets up and pees instead, the tiny bathroom equally coldand the seat freezing his ass when he sits down. He pushes his hard-on down,angles so he won’t piss all over the floor. Splash of water on his face, after,and a gulp of cold water from the tap, and he’s more awake, but colder, and hecrosses the thin carpet and climbs onto the bed and tugs at the blanket,unrolling Dean from his burrito. “Ngh,” Dean says, somewhere under there, butSam doesn’t give a shit. It’s cold, and the whole point of a king is to shareand they didn’t even screw last night, and Sam’s going to—get—ah, there, and hefolds himself under the unfurled sheet and beige fuzzy-fleece and crappypolyester duvet and, more importantly, a body’s worth of warm, giving skin, andDean shivers when Sam spoons up behind him but he can just deal, Sam’s the onewith the icicle toes, here.

God, it’s comfortable. He drags his chin against Dean’sshoulder, stubble scraping, smells him. Warm, unwashed body, and salt, and adistant waft of cologne there at the back of his neck. Sam touches his belly,soft, and drifts for a moment. The blanket makes everything better. Still. He’sawake, kinda. Probably won’t sleep again—that’s not how his body works anymore—andhe really ought to start the day. Find their next hunt. Get moving.

His dick’s shoved against Dean’s thigh, swelling, content.He shifts his hips, an easy press. Mm. He licks his lips, brushes his noseagainst the back of Dean’s head. There’s that, too. He slides his hand toDean’s hip, squeezes, and Dean doesn’t move, snoozing on. Sam flexes his ass,pressing forward—yeah. Okay. Maybe the day doesn’t have to start right away.The hunt’ll still be there, if he finds it an hour from now.

He dips beneath the blanket. Too cold to do anything else.Warm, warm, and he presses kisses along the pretty familiar curve of Dean’sback, his hip. Sleeping naked, the degenerate, and Sam runs his teeth along theswell of his ass, his nose brushing soft skin. A cave, down here. Smells—god,Dean, just like Dean, and he pushes at his hip and he tips, turns, sleepymurmur barely audible through the muffling blankets. Sam grips his ass in bothhands, squeezes. Mm. He’s got a completely inexplicable spatter of freckles here,and Sam can’t see them in the murky dim under the covers but he knows exactlywhere they are, and he kisses a patch of skin—salt, his tongue finding itunerring. Smooth, and Dean’s thighs mostly smooth too when Sam runs restlesshands down them, and then up, his thumbs dragging up the soft insides. He huffsout a breath, kneels up. The blankets come with him, light peeking through upnear Dean’s shoulders, but he’s not awake, at least as far as Sam can tell. It’smaking his balls throb, his dick heavy and aching. Fun to play with Dean—didn’tknow how much more fun it’d be, when he was dead to the world, and Sam’s brainwrites in yard-high letters across the inside of his eyes he’s asleep,and fuck, why is that so hot.

He reaches down and holds his dick through the muffle of hisboxers, scooches down further, on his knees at the foot of the bed. Dean’s legslazily open, and Sam slides up, kisses his asscheek, urges one thigh open—higher—anda sigh, somewhere, but then there’s the gold, his balls plump and plush againstthe mattress, his ass open. Sam’s mouth waters. He keeps one hand under Dean’sknee, keeping him open, and leans in—ah, and talk about smell, jesus, thebody-warm here, and salt and funk, and he kisses at the top of thecrack, and licks there too, the knob of bone hard under his tongue. Barely-hairyhere, too, Sam’s brother, delicate as always—just the finest layer of goldenfuzz that goes velvety so fast under Sam’s tongue, and he crouches and nuzzlesin and licks lower, lower, skin-taste thick in his jaws, saliva pumping up.Fuck—and then there, home, and finally—real hair, crinkly and matting down fast,and the rough patch of his asshole, and the sourness of Sam’s morning breath matchinga long night of sleep, and Dean’s thigh twitches then, and there’s a mumble,somewhere up above the blankets where it doesn’t matter. Sam licks again, flatand sloppy, spit flooding. Jesus, it’s good, nasty and sleepy-warm, and withhis free hand he pries Dean’s asscheek aside and then just really goes to work,licking deep and steady, mouth open, breathing trapped in all this—the wrinkleof it under his tongue, and the plush give. “What,” he hears, somewhere, and hehumps his hips into the bed and drags his thumb over Dean’s balls, spitssloppy, wet running down his taint to where Sam’s petting him, and he pushes upand gets his thumb—in—inside, fucking in where it’s so tight, that familiar ground,and Dean moans and his legs spread wide and he’s awake, yeah, fuck, he’s awakeand Sam fucks his thumb in and out, licking there and making it wet enough tomake it good, sloppy, and then Dean farts on his face.

Ripe—jesus—Sam coughs, says, “What the fuck,” shoving up onone hand, and Dean’s—laughing, the asshole, the absolute—“are you kidding,”Sam says, god, the taste is in the back of his throat, what the—

Dean’s shoulders are shaking as he clutches the pillow, his faceburied down. “Holy shit,” he gets out, shaky, “but dude, you’re the one—”

“You fucker,” Sam says, rearing back, the blankets fallingdown around his hips. Dean’s still laughing, one hand clapped over the top ofhis own head, and—even as Sam licks the back of his own wrist to get the tasteout—there’s Dean’s crack, wet, and his thighs still spread wide, and Sam’s dickisn’t—soft, at all, by any means.

Dean turns his head over his shoulder, grinning. His eyes areall bleary. “That’s what you get,” he says, and yawns, and Sam looks at himwith the corner of his mouth crusted with drool and his back freckled andsmooth and his asshole soft, and he shrugs, and spits into his hand, and wetshis dick where it’s popping out of the front of his boxers, and leans in andpresses—ah, there. There. Dean blinks, surprised, mouth gone into an o, and Samsays, “Okay?” Soft, and asking, but not really asking, because Dean nods—of courseDean nods—and Sam lets his weight drop in and Dean opens around him, reluctant,the drag not really smooth at all on just spit but ah, fuckin a, good and tightand just, just what Sam needed. Screw a massage.

He bottoms out, pubes crushed in against Dean’s wet ass.Dean pulls his thigh higher, lifts his hips. “Goddamn, early bird,” he says,thin, and Sam leans forward over his shoulder and kisses him. Sticky, his lipschapped, both of them sour-mouthed. He tilts his pelvis, feels Dean’s assholeripple. Grips his hip, slides up to his ribs. When their mouths part Dean lickshis lips, blinks at him. “You just kissed me with fart-mouth,” he says.

“And whose fault is that,” Sam says. Dean raises hiseyebrows, and Sam watches his face change when he pulls his hips back, andsinks back in again. God. Talk about warm. “Good?”

“Not saying,” Dean says, like that’s not an answer. Hiseyelids flutter, and he gathers the pillow under his head. “Mm. ‘s cold. Pull upthe blankets, bitch.”

Sam reaches down, does. “Yeah, maybe if you hadn’t hogged ‘em,”he says, and fucks in again, lazy, slow. He pulls the covers up to his own shoulders,and leans back and spits between them, where the root of his dick’s breaking Deanopen. He slides his thumb around, wetting the slide as he pulls out, back in.Dean’s ears are bright red in the dawnlight. “This is all on you, you know.”

“Yeah?” Dean says, and slips a hand back under the cover ofthe blankets to haul Sam’s hip in tighter. Fuck, fuck. Sam braces his knees outsideof Dean’s, arches his back. If he could get deeper—but Dean seems to think it’senough, by the whole-body shiver. Jesus. This body. Home, if Sam ever needed one.Dean licks his bottom lip, slants a look back at Sam. “Tell me later, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, grinning down at him, and braces a handagainst the headboard. Later.

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