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Castiel enjoyed visiting Dean's past. He'd long accepted that he was too "involved" with the Righteous Man, as his superiors liked to put it, and he embraced it.
This time, he blipped in seventeen days after the gun oil incident. Dean and Sam were on a hunt with their father, tracking a rugaru. Or at least, a person they believed to be a rugaru. Sam was at the library with his nose in a book as usual, while John was out gathering information on the corpses.
Which left Dean on stakeout duty.
It was the middle of the day in the middle of summer. Dean watching the suburban house from inside the Impala, waiting for their target to come home. Sweat stuck his shirts to his back and his jeans to his ass.
He squirmed in the seat, shoving his hips up so he could peel his jeans away and let his thighs breathe, and his crotch bumped against the bottom of the steering wheel. He let out a soft grunt and did it again, lips pulling down and eyebrows going up. Not bad.
Dean sat back down, contorting to and fro, making sure no one was around--he was parked down the street, by a tall line of hedges. Any children had been called in for lunch, and working parents weren't home yet. The street was empty.
He braced his elbows on the back of the seat and raised his hips, feet planted wide, and rolled his groin against the steering wheel again, not having to go up as far this time due to his hardening cock. Dean bit his lip on a moan and almost let his head fall back, exposing that long line of throat, but seemed to remember his mission and forced himself to keep eyes on the house.
He freed his cock from his jeans and pulled it through the slit of his boxers, tugging until he was fully hard--it didn't take long, the head peeling out of his foreskin, red and shiny with precome. He touched it to the steering wheel, hissing as the sensitive glans came in contact with the sun-hot black plastic. He swirled his cock against it, clear trails of precome connecting him to the Impala--it was still he fathers but Dean still thought of her as his. His baby.
Without using his hands, Dean humped against the steering wheel, hips ragged and jerking and desperate, cock jumping against the unforgiving plastic. His stomach, soft and flat, was taut with effort, sweat beaded down his temple and neck.
When he gave a particularly high thrust the underside of his cock caught on the ridged wheel and he gasped aloud, eyes going blind, and from then on made sure to hit that spot every single time.
He bit his lip. He'd never come without using his hands before, the though caused his cheeks to flush, his heart to race. He was close. Sensitive and tense and so, so close--
"Dean, how's the stakeout--Dean!"
Dean yelped and slammed his ass down into the seat, going pale as he met his father's stunned face. It didn't stay stunned for long, quickly morphing to anger, then disgust. Dean swallowed and hurried to shove his now-flagging cock inside of his jeans. Shit, shit, shit, he was so screwed.
Then he saw Sammy, standing behind John, leaning over and staring with his mouth gaping open.
Dean was double-screwed.
Sam broke the tension first by clearing his throat, and that seemed to jerk John into motion. Their father didn't look Dean in the eyes, not once, just ordered Dean to take Sammy to the motel, he'd finish the stakeout on his own. Dean wanted to protest but new better, swallowing his words and nodded like the good soldier his dad had brought him up to be.
Sammy folded himself into the Impala's passenger side--Dean discretely wiped his precome off the bottom of the steering wheel but suspected from John's sharp inhale that he'd caught the motion just fine--and Dean sped off before the shame could crush him.
They got to the motel in record time. Dean didn't say a word, just made sure his baby was locked up tight and told Sam to stay in the motel while he ran across the street to the Gas 'N Sip and got dinner.
Sam bit into his burrito. "Uh, Dean, should we--"
"Shut up." Dean took a mouthful of his own burrito so he wouldn't have to answer any questions, finished in record time and spent the rest of the day cleaning guns and sharpening weapons with his Walkman blasting AC/DC into his ears.
It was Sam's turn on the couch, but Dean let him have one of the twin beds anyway, out of guilt perhaps. John came home around midnight, spattered in blood, and informed the boys he'd taken care of the rugaru and they were leaving tomorrow, then he fell into bed and was promptly snoring. Dean took off his dad's boots and threw a blanket over him before sprawling on the couch, his back to the room.
Half and hour went by, Dean listening to Sam toss and turn, before he heard his little brother get up with a huff and pad over to the couch, perching on the arm. "Dean," he whispered.
Dean scowled at the ugly cushions. "Go to bed, Sammy."
"So you're not gonna talk about it at all? Just pretend it didn't happen?"
Dean was thankful is was dark, because he was positive his cheeks were just about on fire. "Son of a bitch. Look, it happened, and it was dumb, but it's over now, alright? No need to talk everything over like a damn soap opera."
Sam was silent for a few moments, but he could never keep his mouth shut for long. "Why the Impala?"
"What?" Dean flopped onto his back and glared at his brother.
"I mean, was it like...a fetish thing?"
"Fetish--no, fuck, what are you, a perv?"
Sam snorted. "I'm not the one humping cars."
Dean punched his leg. "Shut up. It just...it felt good, alright? It's not like I thought about it. Now will you go the fuck to sleep?"
"C'mon," Sam said, tugging Dean up by his arm. He had a shit-eating grin on his face like he's the fucking devil, and didn't let up, relying on Dean's reluctance to risk waking up their dad in order to goad his big brother into coming along. Sam snatched the keys to the Impala and something else Dean didn't catch, and dragged him outside, closing the motel door behind them.
Dean shifted from foot to foot, little bits of gravel and cigarette butts sticking to his soles. "The hell's gotten into you?"
Sam unlocked the passenger side, slid in, and pulled up the driver's side lock. Dean rolled his eyes and went back to the motel, only to realize Sammy had locked it behind them...and guess who had the key?
Dean let his head fall against the door, gently so as not to wake John, and grit his teeth, storming to the Impala and clamboring inside the car. He wanted to slam the door shut but kept it quiet.
"What?" Dean barked, more confident now that they were out of earshot of their father. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Sam shrugged, way too casual for the gleam in his eyes. "You never got to finish." At Dean's dumbfounded expression Sam looked around. "The lot's empty. You could, y'know...pick up where you left off."
Dean swore and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He considered getting out of the car, flipping off his brother and finding a bench to sleep on, but Sammy gave him that puppy-dog look and Dean couldn't find in in himself to leave. But no way--no way--was he doing that in front of his baby brother.
"This is nuts. You're nuts," Dean insisted, crossing his arms and hunching in the seat.
"It's not like it's a big deal, Dean," Sam said, then, softer, "not like I've never seen you--y'know--before."
Dean gawked at his brother. Sammy was...was he...blushing?
"You totally wanna watch, don't you? And you're calling me the pervert?"
Sam shrugged again, helplessly and with an apologetic smile, like it was nothing he could help. Dean was struck with admiration for a moment, how unabashed Sammy was about what he wanted. It clearly didn't bother him that he not only wanted to watch a guy, but his own goddamn brother.
Dean rubbed the back of his neck, nervous, but his pulse pounded and his dick twitched in his boxers--clearly it didn't have the same concerns Dean did--and Sammy caught the movement, eyes widening.
Sam turned in his seat, one knee bent so he could face his big brother fully. "C'mon, Dean."
And God help him, but Dean's cock at his baby brother's voice, gulping audibly and shifting. "I--I can't, Sammy. This is too fucked up. Even for us, it's--"
Sam said nothing, only clenched his jaw and reached over, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Dean's boxers. Both boys were tense, Dean's stomach going in knots that weren't altogether unpleasant. He couldn't move. Son of a bitch, he could barely breathe--
With a huff through his nose, Sam yanked the waistband down, catching the edge of Dean's half-hard cock and making his brother gasp. "S-Sam!"
"There," Sam said, staring at the now-exposed cock openly. "Now I've seen it." Dean bit his lip, hips thusting up on their own with nerves. Sam pulled the boxers all the way off, leaning over to pull Dean's feet out of the leg holes--Dean was still frozen, face and chest flushed. His brain had shorted out. That was it.
Sam frowned when his brother didn't make any movement, hands in fists at his side--the only motion came from his twitching cock, the foreskin spasming occasionally around the head. "Dean?"
Dean chewed on his lip. "Y-yeah Sammy?"
"It's okay." Sam touched his brothers leg, ignoring the jump, and smoothed his hand up, under Dean's shirt and across his belly, his smooth chest. "It's okay."
The stroking seemed to bring Dean back to the present, because he blinked and let out a whoosh of breath. Now that Dean didn't have to watch anything, he could let his head fall back, and he did, squeezing his eyes shut and trying not to reconcile the touches with his Sammy.
Sam's hand ghosted over the dip in Dean's hip, making his breath hitch--Dean's cock jerked to a full erection, foreskin dragging back and bunching up beneath the swollen head, and Sam bent down, blowing cool air across it. Dean gave a throaty groan, hands clenching. "That's it," Sam assured him.
Sam didn't touch below the waist; he seemed to understand that his older brother was strung too tight, still very much insecure about what was going on, to handle anything beyond this. But that didn't stop him from rucking up Dean's shirt and whispering against his neck, "Do it."
A small whine Dean would never admit to making filled the Impala, and he brought one hand to his straining cock.
"No," Sam said. "Don't--don't use your hands. Do it like before."
Dean sucked his bottom lip between his teeth but complied, getting his elbows on the back of the seat and levering himself up. The tip of his cock brushed against the steering wheel and almost instinctively found a ridge to grind the bundle of nerves just under his cockhead into.
Sam sat back and watched his brother rut against the wheel, the way his hips flexed, his thighs tightened. He wanted Dean naked, completely naked, but there was something about the way his t-shirt stuck to his skin, the way the hem cut a line across his belly, that was strangely, arousingly innocent.
Dean felt his brother's mouth on his neck and told himself this wasn't wrong, this wasn't wrong, this wasn't wrong. Sammy was just--oh, fuck, Dean didn't know what he was doing but when he sucked on that pulse point Dean nearly saw stars.
That was when he felt a large, warm hand wrap around his cock.
Dean yelped and thrusted without thinking, immediately regretting it and forcing himself to still. "Don't stop," Sammy said, producing a bottle of--was that gun oil?--from his sweatpants pocket and squirting a messy line of it onto Dean's cock, slicking him up.
"Sammy," Dean whined, voice humiliatingly thready, "I don't think I can do this--"
Sam pumped Dean and tugged his cock, forcing Dean to lift his hips, and rubbed the tip into the steering wheel--maybe rubbed was too gentle a term. Sammy damn near ground it into the plastic, smothering Dean's yell with his other hand while Dean thrust pathetically, needily. He couldn't control it, the pressure was overwhelming.
Sam smiled to himself and drew a line of precome along the curve of the steering wheel with his brother's cock. He noticed that whenever the glans ribbed over a ridge in the wheel a high moan escaped his brother. Sam grinned and spread Dean's slit open with his index and thumb, and dragged it right into the point of a ridge.
Dean cried out and curled forward, writhing and jerking. Sam kept rubbing Dean's slit into the ridge, loving the way his brother moved for him like this. Dean was open now, wanton and hot, thrumming with pleasure.
Sam took his hand away. "Keep going."
Dean almost moved his hand to his cock to get that slit-sensation back but remembered Sam's demand at the last second and stopped himself, trying instead to desperately find a ridge without help. He whimpered with frustration, only occasionally hitting his mark but never for long enough or with as much pressure as he wanted.
Sam had one hand down his sweatpants, stroking himself in time to his brother's increasingly erratic thrusts. Dean's gasped and moaned and lolled his head to the side, finally meeting his baby brother's eyes. "Sammy," his voice was hoarse and broken, a plea.
Dean shouted when Sammy took his cock in hand again, only this time Sam didn't rub the slit into a ridge but ground the underside of the head against one. It was sharp, even painful, but it made Dean's balls pull up and his belly go tight--
Sam peeled apart Dean's slit and dug a nail into it.
Dean came with a strangled gasp, spurting all over the wheel and the seat. Sam pumped his brother soft and easy, milking every drop until Dean was shuddering from oversensitivity, sagging in the seat and drenched in sweat. The sight was enough to send Sam over the edge, and he came in his sweatpants, a wet stain on the front.
Sam searched for Dean's boxers and found them in the back seat, plucking them up and tossing them over. Dean caught them, not meeting his brother's eyes. "We can't do that again, Sammy," Dean tells him quietly.
"Why not?"
"'Cause we're fucking related, okay? It's fucked up."
Sam sighed. "Our whole life is fucked up. Maybe...maybe we get to have this."
Dean snorted, but didn't put on his boxers quiet yet. "We're going to hell for this."
"At least we'll be there together, right?"
Dean looked up, saw Sam's smirk, and punched his little brother in the arm. "Shut up, bitch."
"Jerk," Sam answered, reassured by the ritual name-calling. If Dean could still call him names he must not be feeling that guilty after all. "Put on your pants."
The boys got themselves decent, wiping the car clean of Dean's ejaculate before getting out and going back to the motel room.
They didn't see the curtain twitching as John bolted from the window and back to bed, pretending to be asleep as they stumbled in and wondering, Castiel knew, what to do about his boys.