inspired by my own post
As always, it happens spontaneously.
The wipers under his lower back are digging painfully into his skin, and the road dust on the hood is clearly staining his clean jeans that he just picked up from the laundromat yesterday, but at the moment, that's the last thing Sam cares about, because Dean's lips are hot and wet on his own, with the tart and pungent taste of whiskey and beer that Sam loves so much.
He shifts slightly, trying to lie down a little more comfortably, hissing when one of the wipers still scratches his skin, but the same hissing is replaced by a quiet moan when one of Dean's cool palms touches his back, covering the unpleasant scratch and soothing the barely perceptible pain.
"Okay?" Dean asks, breathing the question directly into Sam's swollen lips.
"Okay," Sam quickly confirms, pulling Dean closer, resuming their broken kiss.
It's Dean's first word since he dropped his empty bottle on the ground and waited for Sam to do the same before pulling him close and capturing his lips in a hungry kiss. Sam figures that their acceptable vocabulary is now a few words shorter than before.
It's funny, he thinks, really, all these rules they've made but never spoken out loud. All these stupid taboos, like how they can touch each other under their shirts but can't go any lower. Or how they can leave hickeys but only on their collarbones so they can't be seen.
And they could talk about it, they could talk about the pros and cons of it all, they could put it all aside and just enjoy the moment without thinking about the consequences, but their main rule, which Sam doesn't think is stupid or unnecessary, is no talking after, which is why they always go back to square one, erasing everything that happened between them.
In some ways, it's easier. It's easier to be vulnerable and affectionate with each other if they don't have to think about what they did afterwards. It's easier to open up and not hold back the moans and touches if they don't talk about it later.
And maybe that's why they do it the same way every time ā parking the Impala in an empty place outside the city, drinking alcohol, and waiting until the space around them is lit only by the stars. Doing something wrong in the dark makes it seem less wrong.
When Dean moves, nudging Sam's legs open and settling between them, the Impala shakes slightly, but they don't pay attention to it, breathing heavily and continuing to intertwine their lips in a deep kiss.
What they're doing is not about sex. They both know it's too dangerous and risky. But when Sam feels the hard outline of Dean's cock, which presses pleasantly against his own hard dick in his jeans, Sam knows that they need to slow down a little.
"Wait, Dean, wait," Sam asks, breaking their kiss, and gently brushes Dean's nose with his own. "Need a few minutes."
Dean understands, nodding briefly in agreement and slowly moving his lips first to Sam's cheek, then to his neck, starting to cover it with soft, light kisses while Sam catches his breath, trying to slightly reduce his arousal.
It's nice, and kind of romantic, and Sam is glad for the no-talking rule again, because if he said it out loud, Dean would probably joke about how Sam loves chick-flick moments, and the whole atmosphere of what they were doing would be disrupted.
Instead, Sam tilts his head slightly to the side, giving Dean more room on his neck, and looks up at the starry sky, which always looks brighter outside the city. A puff of steam escapes his parted lips and dissolves into the frosty night air, and Sam barely has time to follow its melting outline before Dean's lips are back on his own, leaving a smudged kiss.
"You okay?" Dean whispers, placing his free hand on the side of Sam's face and running the rough pad of his thumb over Sam's bottom lip, making his breath hitch. "We can stop if you want."
Always the big brother, even in this situation.
If they were arguing about the case or what they were having for dinner, Sam would probably roll his eyes, but instead he cups Dean's face in his hands and kisses him, shaking his head.
"I don't want to stop."
And when Dean smiles knowingly, closing the distance between them, sucking on Sam's bottom lip and coaxing another moan out of him, Sam wishes they could do this every day, because it feels too good.
They don't know how much time passes before they're jumping off the hood of the Impala, picking up their empty bottles from the ground (Sam insists on it every time), and getting into the car, heading out to find a motel.
The no-talking rule begins the minute Dean turns on his favorite radio station, turning the volume down moderately, and then pulls out onto the road, leaning back and leisurely turning the wheel with one hand.
The only evidence that they were sharing a single breath just a few minutes ago is the pleasant tingle on Sam's lips, and though neither of them says a word, when Dean silently places his hand on Sam's thigh, Sam places his own palm on top of Dean's, squeezing.
They never instituted a no-touching rule, after all.
