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The temperature was unbearable all across America. California was on fire, wildfires sweeping down from the mountains to the towns nestled below. The asphalt was melting, the sidewalks in cities from New York to Las Vegas tacky as people walked from one air conditioned building to another in search of some respite. Heat warnings were in place in practically every state. Small creeks and ponds had dried up, first into mud, but now as cracked and dry as alligator skin, baked as solid as the scorched rocks around them.
Nowhere was hotter than this room on the outskirts of Tucson, however. Dean knew that for a fact. It wasn’t physically possible for somewhere to be hotter than this. The air conditioning unit clacked out an infuriating rhythm, every chug of its motor grinding on every one of Dean’s nerves as it spat out a paltry puff of stale air that was no cooler than what they already had. The room’s decor wasn’t helping either; with its red and orange striped walls and bedlinen and curtains to match, it was like being entombed inside the sun. Flopped out on his back in his boxers and T-shirt, Dean sweated listlessly.
The worst thing about the heat was sharing close quarters with Sam. If they had been on the road – behind the wheel of his Baby with driving to distract him, the windows rolled down, giving a blessedly cool breeze all through her cabin – this would be easier. Being stuck in this tiny room that stank of sweaty dude and stale cigarette smoke sucked. They couldn't leave yet, however. Not until they figured out what was making people flip out and beat their loved ones to death. Glancing at Sam, sprawled on his stomach on the other bed, Dean wondered if it was maybe just the goddamn heat leading to people snapping, rather than anything supernatural. Right now he kind of got it.
Partly it was the heat making them both short-tempered and on edge – Sam’s rant last night about whose turn it was to get more ice had been one for the ages – but it wasn’t just that. His gaze traveled down Sam’s body: damp curls of hair plastered to the nape of his neck, purple T-shirt turned black where the sweat had soaked in and clinging to his shoulders so neat that Dean could see every ridge and hollow of his muscles, down to the curve of his lower back and narrow waist, then his underwear that was plastered to his perfect ass, followed by long and muscular legs. Sam hadn't looked like that two years ago. The scrawny, bony boy of his memory had turned into a hot dude, and Dean didn’t know what to do with that. The wiring in his hindbrain certainly didn't; the moment he’d found himself pinned underneath firm muscle in a dark kitchen that body had switched on the ‘spank bank material, possible hookup’ part of his brain, and even after seeing him in the light and knowing it was Sam, it didn’t turn off. The worst thing was that he still saw Sam as his little brother too, with the urge to tease and protect and boss him around.
It was confusing as fuck. Seeing Sam around like this, sweaty and the few clothes he was wearing practically a second skin, raised Dean’s pulse and put him on edge. Combined with the heat, it made him irritable, sniping at Sam partly from genuine annoyance, partly to cover up the wrongness of his fucked-up brain.
Even worse, he was starting to imagine things in Sam’s glances at his own sweat-shiny body that couldn't be there. It was dangerous, thinking that way. Made it more risky that he would drop his guard, thinking his sickness was shared, and Sam would see him for what he was and leave him to rot. So he snapped at Sam, prodded with snide remarks and annoying clicks of his tongue or tuneless singing, provoking Sam into retaliating with “Dude, what the hell is your problem?”. There would be an inevitable petty argument, then a sullen silence. Just like the one they’d been in for the last forty minutes.
Sam stirred and pushed himself up to his knees, the bedsprings screaming so loud it felt like they were a siren alerting Sam to his brother’s sinful thoughts. Guiltily, Dean averted his eyes and looked up at the orange ceiling, trying to pretend he hadn’t been checking out his brother for who knows how long. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sam peeling his t-shirt with the weird dog print from his long torso, fighting with the soaked fabric’s inclination to cling the whole way, before casting it to the floor.
“You should really take your shirt off too.”
Dean turned to Sam in confusion, then stopped hearing the dying air con unit, or brooding about how fucked up he was. Sam was still on his knees on the bed, his expression unsure. His naked torso was golden-tanned in a way Dean had never been able to achieve, and gleaming almost as if it had been oiled. Beads of sweat were running down that perfect V-shape of muscle, like an arrow pointing right to his cock, his underwear slung so low on his hips Dean was slightly surprised that he couldn't see the base of Sam’s dick. He stared at those sweat droplets, imagining the taste on his tongue, fresh salt and stale sourness mingled. He could almost feel what it would be like to pull the fabric down just the couple of inches he needed to get to Sam’s dick and get his mouth on it. He knew how Sam would smell; no need to imagine when the stifling room was filled with it.
Dean had sucked a fair few cocks in his time – some for cash, some as part of a cover story, and some because he’d damn well wanted to – but he was sure none of them could compare to what it would be like to blow Sam. There was something about imagining looking after his little brother like that, god help him, that really got his twisted-up motor going. He’d take Sam as deep as he could, and he wouldn't care about how Sam smelled from this sauna, or how damp the curls his nose would be buried in were. He’d choke on Sammy’s cock to get him off, if he needed to.
It felt like he stared at Sam for ages, brain wiped of everything except the things that shouldn’t be there in the first place. Some small shard of remaining sanity screamed at him from under the fog of confused lust, telling him to say something damn it until he finally blinked and managed a pathetic, “Uh, why?”.
Sam still looked nervous, as if he wasn't sure he was doing the right thing but was determined to see it through regardless. That was his pig-headed little brother, all right; once he was set on something, Dean knew there was no dissuading him. A spike of fondness fused with the arousal deep in his stomach. The fabric of his underwear felt a little tighter, and he hoped his boner wasn't too noticeable. The shame at getting a boner from looking at his brother – well, he just pushed that in with the rest of his guilt. It was easy to do, now that it was a daily fucking occurrence.
“Because it’s too fucking hot to wear it, and it’s drenched anyway. Mine felt gross. Yours must be as bad.”
Sam was right. The cotton was saturated, as stuck to his body as Sam’s had been. It seemed reasonable, even logical, for him to remove it and be a little more comfortable. There was something in the way Sam was looking at him that gave him pause, however; there was the nervousness, sure, but underneath that there was something eager and hungry. Something that told Dean he hadn't been imagining the way Sam had been looking at him in the past. It felt risky, to have both of them almost naked and sneaking the kind of glances at each other that brothers generally didn’t. Risky, and reckless, and too fucking tempting for Dean to say no to. He wanted Sam to look at him like that, the same way he looked at Sam, no matter how bad an idea he knew it was.
No good reasons to keep his shirt on presented themselves, so Dean sat up and grabbed the hem of his t-shirt. It was already black, but it felt damp under his hands, as if he’d been caught in a sudden downpour and had to run from the parking lot to the room. As he pulled it over his head, he felt it resisting and clinging to his skin the same way Sam’s had. Even without being able to see him, he knew Sam was watching him, taking the opportunity to check him out when Dean couldn't see. He couldn't resist removing his shirt even more slowly in response, putting on a bit of a show and imagining Sam biting his lip with that look of want in his eyes. Dean knew that was a terrible idea even as he did so; he internally cursed his impulsiveness. He was hard, and he knew there was no way Sam could miss that, with his dick straining against the fabric as much as it was. He also suspected that Sam was into it, the evidence of what he did to Dean physical and unmissable.
Hell, he’d get off on it if it was the other way round.
He finally finished and dropped the t-shirt on the floor, turning to Sam and said, “Satisfied?”
Sam looked flushed, and not just from the heat, and that hungry look had wiped away any hesitancy that had been there before. “Yeah, I’m good,” Sam replied, his voice sounding as breathless and dry as the air around them.
Oh yeah, Sammy was into it. Dean’s smugness at being right, mixed in with arousal, overwhelmed the sane part of his brain that was screaming that this was a bad road to go down.
They both lay back down on their beds on their backs. Dean shifted a little, his boner a little uncomfortable. The air con unit clacked ineffectually, barely producing a draft in the baked-thick atmosphere.
“Maybe if you jerked off you’d feel better. You look like you need it.”
Dean raised his head to look over at Sam, surprised. That sort of comment was more his thing; it was a little shocking to hear it from Sam. “Nah, too hot to bother moving to the bathroom. And anyway –” he paused to look pointedly at Sam’s crotch, where a bulge betrayed him “-- looks like you’re in the same bind, little brother.”
He watched Sam’s throat move as he swallowed, trying not to think about how good it would feel to lick over the bulge of his Adam’s apple, or the tendon that stood out on the side of Sam’s neck. “Yeah. Who says we have to go to the bathroom? I mean, we’ve jerked off in the same room plenty of times before. We could just… I don’t know, release a bit of tension. It doesn't have to be a big deal.”
It was true. They had both got themselves off, hands working under comforters in the dark, burying any sounds in pillows, and never, ever talking about it. Still, Dean knew this was a bad idea. He also knew that he was weak and fucked up, and there was no way he could turn this down, not when Sam was putting something he wanted right on a silver platter. The idea of being able to see Sam’s face as he jerked it, hear the sounds he made when he came, and know just what his dick looked like hard… Dean wasn’t a good man, and he wasn’t strong enough to resist.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay. We can do that.” Before he could start to overthink this, Dean shoved his boxers down, clinging almost as much as his t-shirt had, and cast them aside as he reached for his duffel. “You need lube?”
The bedsprings of Sam’s bed howled as he moved. “Yeah, if you have some.”
Dean found the tube in a side pocket and squeezed it into his hand – no need to wait for it to warm in this heat, it wasn’t cold at all and was less thick than usual – then wordlessly tossed it to Sam, who caught it easily. Sam was already naked too, and Dean took the chance to have a good look at his brother’s dick while he lubed up his own. Oh, he’d seen it before, more times than he could count, but never like this – hard and able to take time for more than a passing glance – and while he’d known Sam was big, he hadn’t been prepared for just how big. Just looking at it, thick and long in Sam’s huge hand, he could imagine how his mouth would stretch to near-pain around it, how hard and smooth the head would feel against his tongue, and how the skin would taste, sharp and good. God, he wanted to, badly.
He’d have to make do with looking. That was messed up enough, after all.
Dean’s hand stroked along his cock without him really thinking about it, instinct demanding some physical stimulation to go along with the visual. He couldn't stop watching Sam even as he settled down to jerk himself off properly; seeing him laid out naked and sweaty with his dick in his hand was too close to one of the dreams Dean tried to pretend he didn’t have for him to be able to look away. Dean watched in fascination as Sam’s right hand worked up and down his dick, thumb rubbing over the head on the upstroke, while his left drifted down his stomach to scrape the nails gently over his inner thighs.
“You like that?” Dean blurted out, horrified even as he spoke. It was weird anyway, openly jerking it with your brother in the next bed. The looks were the icing on the fucked up cake. Talking about how they liked it while they did it was… Dean didn’t even know. Totally insane, probably.
Sam didn’t seem to mind. He smiled slightly, his eyes already heavy-lidded with arousal. “Yeah, feels good.” He did it again, and this time he made a sound, half-moan, half sigh, that Dean knew would be seared into his memory for life.
The only sounds in the room were their breathing, the unsexy wet noise of lube against skin, and the irritating grind of the air con. He realized that he was matching his pace to its lazy rhythm, a few beats slower than he liked; annoyed at it fucking up this as well as pissing him off with its noise, he sped up and hit the right speed quickly. It was instantly so much better, the pleasure and the pressure in his groin balancing just right now, so much that he couldn't hold back a satisfied sigh. He started to settle into this whole thing: glances towards each other neither called out, their hands moving almost in sync, their chests rising and falling a little heavily now. This was okay. If they kept things like this, he could pop it into a nice and neat box, something he could store away except for the occasional guiltily indulgent shower session. It wouldn't be a big deal, like Sam had said. They could go back to stealing looks and doing nothing about them, and things would be back to normal. A little twist of his hand on his cock felt really fucking good, and he closed his eyes and relaxed into the pleasure.
“Do you ever think about dudes when you're getting yourself off? I do.”
All Dean’s pretense about the situation crumbled with Sam’s words. If what he’d asked Sam had been insane, Dean didn't have any way to describe what that was. His eyes snapped open to look back at Sam, who was staring at him in a way that made Dean feel hunted down, prey brought to bay and all out of escape routes.
In blank shock, he mumbled, “Yeah?”
Sam nodded, his lips parted on a barely audible gasp. “Yeah. Male model type usually. With a smart mouth – love thinking about shutting it up with him on his knees, you know? Slim too, but still strong enough that I can fuck him hard as I want. Up against the wall, or over a car… anywhere I want, however I want, and he won’t break.”
The whole time he spoke, Sam’s eyes were on Dean – his face, his chest, then down his body to linger on his cock. Dean had never felt more exposed, and more turned on; his cock felt unbearably hard, like the skin might split if he didn’t get to come soon. He knew now that he would never be able to stop thinking about the thickness of Sam’s cock, or that little break in his breathing when he rubbed his thumb over the head. The way he bit his lip, and the sound he made when he scraped his nails over his inner thigh were all going to come to mind every time he jerked off in future. Before, things had been vague and hazy, impressions of want and warm, tanned skin over rock-hard muscle, but now things had crystallized into something real. He knew now just what Sam wanted to do to him, and how he’d look when he did it. The idea of Sammy, his little brother, wanting to take charge like that, manhandle him, was thrillingly shocking. He wanted Sam to do all that to him: shut him up, give him everything rough and hard, and he’d take it all. He’d grab every scrap and be grateful for it.
“Yeah, I think about guys.” Their breathing was scattered with groans now, almost drowning out the clanking Dean hated. Sam bit his spit-shiny lip at that, something like triumph in his eyes. Dean didn’t care about that right now; the levee had broken and he couldn't stop his secrets from spilling out, tar-black and filthy. “Taller guys with big shoulders. Think about just letting them take control of how it all goes down.”
“Oh, fuck,” Sam’s voice was quiet as he came, over his stomach and chest. Dean watched as Sam’s head fell back on the pillows, his abs tightened and flexed, almost soundless as he finished. He noticed a small drop on Sam’s lower lip and instantly wanted to lick off, slow and filthy. That image was the tipping point that sent him over the edge too, groaning loudly with something that wasn’t just pleasure, his eyes closed tight.
When he came down, he felt even more gross than before. The sweat and come on his torso were sticky and uncomfortable, sweat had pooled in his ass, and the bedsheets felt damp underneath him. Avoiding looking at Sam, he picked up his discarded t-shirt and wiped at his stomach, trying to clean himself up a little bit. Dean felt a wave of horrified guilt wash over him, filling him up as the satisfaction of his orgasm drained away. So much for hiding his big, sick secret.
“Feeling better?” Sam asked, voice suddenly unsure, the predatory sex god of a few moments ago evaporated.
At least he wasn’t the only one regretting this. Maybe, with enough shame and repression, they could put this behind them.
“Yeah,” Dean replied, not even trying to make it sound convincing.
It was still suffocatingly hot, the trip to the bathroom an impossibly long journey. The room smelled of sweaty dudes, stale cigarette smoke, and fresh come, and the air conditioning unit clacked out its ineffectual and irritating rhythm. Dean stared up at the orange ceiling of a room that was like being entombed in the sun and thought about how knowing was so much worse.