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They've been driving all day, they haven't eaten since breakfast, and they haven't fucked in nearly twenty-four hours; Sam is riding on a hair-trigger nerve and he knows his brother is as well. Dean's got both hands on the wheel, which is rare enough, but his eyes are narrowed and his brows drawn together. He has the thousand-yard stare of a trucker who's been on the road for thirty years without a break and he's not even singing along to the classic rock station Sam pulled up on his phone and hooked to the Impala's sound system before they hit the Mississippi.
Sam's not much better; he's been working in the passenger seat, trying to draw out his power long enough to tackle dismantling a witch-trap without actually touching it. It's exhausting, especially because he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing at all. He just, just feels something inside of him pushing -- or pulling, he's not sure, maybe just expanding? -- every time he focuses and tries to call back the telekinesis he took from Max. There's an ache in the back of his skull pounding out a rhythm discordant to the one coming from the speakers and his eyes feel like sandpaper every time he blinks.
Bed, Sam finally says, an hour past St. Louis. They probably should've stopped then but Sam had been intent on the witch-trap and Dean had been hypnotised by the road and the steady sound of the Impala's tyres and purring engine. I can't take it anymore, Dean. Please can we stop? Dean doesn't answer, not right away, so Sam sets the witch-trap on the floor, slides over on the bench seat to press his thigh against Dean's, rub his cheek on Dean's shoulder. Dean.
Dean blinks a couple times, shakes his head a little. Hey, Sammy, he says. You done with that trap already?
Sam lets out an amused breath of frustration. We need sleep, Dean. And food. But definitely sleep.
Oh, shit, Dean says, glancing at the clock. Have we -- you should've stopped me earlier.
'S'okay, Sam says. I was pretty caught up in what I was doing, too. But can we maybe start looking for a place to spend the night?
Dean nods, looks out into the dark all around them, the only brightness coming from the Impala's headlights and even that light's just enough to see the road in front of them. Sam thinks that if they were anyone else, this night, this utter black, might be terrifying. They're them, though, and Sam finds comfort in the dark, always has.
Or we could just find a place to pull over, Sam suggests right before he yawns.
Nah, Dean says, and he takes one hand off the wheel, drapes it over Sam's shoulders and tugs Sam tighter. We'll get us a bed. Too tired to do anything tonight but we can sleep in tomorrow and have morning sex.
Sam grins, can't help it, and says, Your morning breath is the absolute worst and I don't know how I can fuck you before you brush your teeth.
Don't lie, Dean says. You love it.
Love you, Sam murmurs.
Dean's hand tightens on Sam's shoulder for a moment; Sam can feel it as his brother's heart skips a beat. Sam will never get tired of saying it and, apparently, Dean will never get tired of hearing it. I know, Dean says. Ditto. Now shut up and keep your eyes out for anything that looks like it might be a motel. I really don't wanna have to wait until we hit a city.
--
They come across a roadside inn about ten miles outside of Effingham, one of those old-style type of places with just a couple rows of rooms, carports instead of plain parking spaces. There's no one at the front when Sam goes in to get a room but there is a bell and a sign above it that says If you can't see me or hear me, ring the bell. Otherwise, don't you dare touch it -- and that includes you, Sheriff Cabot. Sam raises an eyebrow but is careful to tap the bell only once.
"Hol' on," someone calls out from the office. A moment later, an older woman appears, rubbing sleep out of her eyes before she puts her glasses on. "Well, honey, it's a little late to be checking in, isn't it?"
Sam normally finds it amusing when people assume things about him and Dean; right now, after today, he finds it convenient more than anything else. "Sorry, ma'am," he says. "'M'brother and I are doing a little sight-seeing and he thought we could make it to Chicago tonight but we're about falling asleep in the car. Is there any chance you have rooms available?"
She laughs, says, "We have every room available. You can have your pick of 'em."
"My brother snores," Sam says, leaning forward just a little bit to give the impression of telling secrets. "And loud. So as far away from anyone who might hear it."
"End of the farthest row, then," she says. "How you wanna pay for that?"
Sam pulls out a credit card, pays for the room and gets a key and a tired smile in return. She waves him off, goes back into the office, yells, "Lemme know if you need anything!"
"Thanks," Sam calls back. He leaves, goes back to the car and gets back in his seat, could swear he feels the Impala's leather shift to accommodate him as comfortably as possible. Last room on the second row, he tells Dean. Once they're moving, he adds, There's no one else here. She's got a note calling out the police chief for ringing the bell too many times, though.
So it'd be too suspicious to kill her, Dean half-guesses, half-asks. Well, fuck. Looks like I'll have to settle for getting you all messy instead.
Yeah, Sam snorts, side-eyeing his brother. You'd settle for that, huh? And what if I don't wanna get messy?
Dean parks in front of the room, turns off the car, and looks at Sam, eyes glinting in the weak light from the lamps outside of each room. Oh, Dean says. I'm sure I could convince you. He leans over, glides the barest hint of his hand up Sam's jaw, hovering over Sam's cheek. You'd let me, wouldn't you, little brother.
Sam turns his head just enough to feel Dean's hand on his face, the cool, dry skin of Dean soaking in Sam's ever-present warmth. You can be awfully convincing, Sam admits. But so can I. He tilts his head just that little bit more, gently bites at the fleshy part of Dean's palm.
Any other day, I'd take that as a challenge, Dean says, and his grin, though tired, still sparkles manic at the edges, but I'm too fucking exhausted and I know you wanna get your hands on me just as much as I want to get my hands on you.
Sam laughs. Little confident, aren't you, he asks but it's not a question, not when he's pulling Dean closer, hand fisted in Dean's shirt, eyes fixed on Dean's mouth.
When Dean speaks, he's close enough for the breath of his words to ghost over Sam lips. Not confident, Dean says. Sure. Of myself and you. If I was only confident, I'd wait for you to kiss me right now to shut me up, would even be expecting it. But I know you, know you won't, so, instead, I'm gonna kiss you. Because that's what you want, ain't it, Sam. My mouth on yours, my tongue licking your teeth, leeching off your heat while I get my hands in your hair and tug just the way you like. That's what you want.
Yeah, Sam says, because as tired as he is, hearing Dean talk about sex will always wake him up, but hearing him talk like this gets Sam hard and aching. Dean, please.
Dean smiles and Sam can feel it, as close as they are, sharing breath. Please what, sweetheart, he asks, a husky murmur that goes right to Sam's spine and down to his balls.
Sam would move if he could remember how, but the scent of Dean -- the smell Sam had always associated with home, safety, love -- is rising up thick around him, filling his lungs and stealing his breath until he's lightheaded and dizzy with it. Kiss me, Sam says. Kiss me, Dean, please, I need it, need it so bad, need you.
Tempted to say no, Dean says, see if you'd beg, if you'd give me anything I want.
Sam leans back, meets Dean's eyes to say, I do, though. Just like you give --
Dean cuts him off, kisses him, and Sam reels with sensation. He feels like Dean's surrounding him, every inch of him, only to devour him, to take every little inch of him that Dean can, until they become one person the way they're one soul. It's Dean's hand in his hair, strands twisted in Dean's fist, head being yanked backwards. It's Dean's other hand over the crotch of Sam's jeans, kneading lightly enough to be purely, completely maddening. It's the taste of Dean as he takes Sam's mouth without mercy, taking what he wants without any thought to Sam.
And yet Sam gives in, gives every bit of himself over to his brother the way he always has, the way he always wants to, and the second his mouth is his own again, he's straining towards Dean, panting, begging. Please, Dean, please -- I don't care, get me messy, as messy as you want, anything, I'll do whatever you want, I swear, I --
Sshh, Dean says, kissing Sam light and easy, hand around the back of Sam's neck, gripping tight to settle Sam. It's not enough to take Sam's breath away but it is enough to pull Sam back from the edge of a desperate need. Sammy, sweetheart, I know. I know, okay? You don't gotta tell me. Okay?
Yeah, Sam says, his forehead pressed to Dean's, his heart finally starting to slow down to its normal rate again. When he feels like he can move without combusting, he leans back, gives Dean a wry smile. All right, he says. Maybe you're more convincing.
Dean laughs and Sam beams at the sound of his brother's amusement, at the wide smile on Dean's face and the way he's shaking his head just a little. You can be, too, Dean admits. Just not when it comes to fucking -- or not fucking, I guess. It looks like he's about to say more but Dean yawns, jaw cracking. Let's go in, he says, though he seems just as reluctant to move from Sam's easy touch as Sam feels about being away from Dean. I can't wait to get these fucking boots off.
Sam snorts, says, You love those fucking boots, don't even front, and gets out of the car, stretches and feels so many bones pop back into place.
Front? Dean asks, getting out as well, closing the door and then placing a hand on the car for a moment like a benediction, saying good night, something he does without even noticing but that Sam thinks is adorable. Dude, don't even try. You ain't one of the cool kids, never have been. You sound ridiculous.
But you knew what I meant, Sam says, bumping his hip against Dean's as they're pulling their duffels out of the trunk. Think that makes you worse. He skitters away before Dean can retaliate. The sound of their laughter mingles in the air as Sam unlocks the door and Dean follows him inside.