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Kissing was never really Dean’s thing. Sure, he liked it enough, and took the time to learn the tricks of it from lead baton twirler Betty Henderson at the ripe old age of fourteen. She’d gasped out you’re a natural, kid while he’d sucked hickeys into her skin and learned what his tongue could do in someone else’s mouth. When she’d put her hand down his pants, he’d bitten her bottom lip in panic, and that, in a literal burst of adolescent horniness, had pretty quickly been that.
But that was cool, because he already had all he needed to take him from hickey to home base in no time at all; as a means to an end, he knew none better. Chicks just dug his mouth, plain and simple. Right in the middle of a line and a half-smile over a beer he would catch them watching his bottom lip and not listening anymore. At which time he could pretty much slide a hand home, call for the check and stop wasting his money.
So making out was and always had been cool, something until you got turned on enough to get each other undone, unzipped, unhooked – whatever. As foreplay, it usually got Dean to any or all three in the speed it took to rip the foil off a condom and forget a first name.
But all that was before Sam.
Sam, whose first name he sometimes feels he was born remembering, written on a bone somewhere under the skin near his heart. Sam, with his whispers and his stay stills and his let mes breathed—yes, fucking breathed—onto his lips. Sam, with his thumbs on Dean’s cheekbones and a diver’s ability to buddy-breathe. And Sam, who would lie on his side, hold Dean’s face in his hands, and work his mouth until he didn’t know whether to bliss out and never open his eyes again, or cream his jeans without so much as a damn thing getting undone or unzipped.
He’d never known kissing like it, and he wasn’t sure what it meant that it took his younger brother to show him how it could be.
“Dean?”
Sam.
Of course, Sam. Who else would rummage in the duffel forever, taking shit out and throwing it back in? Who else would shower and sing, and then spit and gargle as noisily as his height allowed while he brushed his teeth without bending over the sink enough? And who else would then fucking tiptoe out the bathroom and whisper, as if he’d been thinking about the need for quiet all along?
Dean was lying on his stomach, comfortably scrunched around both pillows. “’M sleepin’, go’way.”
“Yeah, like that works. Gimme some covers. And a pillow.”
He stayed exactly where he was and held on to everything. If Sam was going to wake him up, then Dean was at least going to have some fun listening to him huff and curse for a while. And Sam obliged, whining and tugging away at a sheet Dean was giving up no how no way, while Dean fought not to laugh. He steeled himself to be jabbed or tickled, but he should have known better. Sam had never fought fair with him a day in his life, even before they’d taken each other to bed on a wing, a prayer, and a fuck-you-all to the world around them. And this was Sam fresh from the shower and wearing not much more than a towel. So the solution was never going to be jabbing or tickling. Instead he heard Sam sigh, and then felt him relax his weight slowly, muscle by damp, clean muscle against Dean’s entire length. Sam then started mouthing soft, wet kisses onto the back of his neck. Right up to his left ear and back again.
Dean shivered, from the gooseflesh raising the hairs on his neck, from the mist of clean water now warming the muscles of his back from Sam’s chest, and just from beautiful, infuriating, unfuckingbelievable Sam. Jesus—
Like a pressure point tapped, he let go; only Sam didn’t appear to be interested in covers and pillows anymore. He seemed more interested in getting Dean on his back, and in nudging and kissing him until he got there.
“Sam—”
He half turned and was gone. Again. Into that capable mouth and those warm hands, smoothing and pulling at his lips, his tongue, his skin, until it all did exactly what Sam wanted, went exactly where Sam said.
Surrender had never been his thing before Sam, either, yet here he was, arching up to try to bring Sam down. Sam let him, kissing him back into the pillow, and then pulling him up again with something more gentling, more coaxing, and twice as goddamn intoxicating.
Dean opened his eyes on an unsteady exhalation when Sam paused to kiss his way up to Dean's left temple, and then to smooth each eyebrow with his thumb.
Dean tried for some equilibrium. “Dude, morning breath.”
Sam stopped and blinked down at him. “I brushed already.”
He smiled and flicked the top of Sam’s right ear.“Me, moron. Me.”
“Oh. It’s like, 3am. It doesn’t count yet.”
It was such a dorky and earnest Sam thing to say that Dean had no choice but to shake his head, pull Sam back down, and do some breathy, lip-on-lip talking of his own.
His hand went to the back of Sam’s neck, holding him steady and close. “Windowsill,” he whispered.
Sam swallowed hard. “Windowsill?”
“Uh-huh. Win”... breathe...“dow”... nip...“sill.” He stretched the word out, brushing his mouth across Sam’s once, twice... and was gratified to see Sam’s eyebrows draw together in puzzlement while his hips twitched down in something else entirely.
He let his hand slide off Sam’s neck once Sam found composure enough to take himself up on his elbows and speak.
“Dude, I love you to death and everything. I do, I swear. But I don’t know how you got laid as much as you did if that’s the poetry you got for the person kissing you at 3am.”
Dean grinned.
“Salt lines, asshole. On the windowsill. Did you check them?”
Sam groaned theatrically and let his head thunk onto Dean’s collarbone.
“You remember we’re in Carolina, right? There is a fucking ocean outside the door, Dean. Waves and everything. Do you have any idea how much sea salt there is in the air, stripping the paint off the windows as we lie here arguing about this when I could be—” he ground his hips down, “—here already, you fucker?”
Dean bit his lip.
“Sam. Come on. You know the drill. Last one—”
“—to bed checks the salt lines. Yeah, yeah, I know. All right, I’m checking, I’m checking. Jesus.”
Sam had left the small table lamp on, his towel was gone, and he had to stretch to get the small bag of salt out of the cupboard in the kitchenette, all the while griping and bitching his way back over to the windowsill.
Dean refrained from I-told-you-so. Instead, he licked the taste of Sam from his lips and appreciated the view.
Salt on the window, Sam on his mouth.
Now that, dude, was fucking poetry.
******