It’s early evening when they leave the cabin and everything’s drenched in that golden hour light that hums in the pores of your skin and warms you just by looking at it. Dean goes back to check the place over one more time – make sure they’ve rubbed out all the sigils, haven’t left the two-ended dildo under the bed (’you’ve checked three times’ Sam yelled after him but Dean didn’t care, he was checkin’ again). He’d found the bottom of a bottle of Jack’s and held it in his mouth a minute, looking round the cabin. It’d been a good fucking week.
When he comes back outside Sam’s sitting in the driver’s seat and he says ‘get outta there asshole’ and Sam just gives him a shit-eating grin and opens the door but stays there, sitting. Dean comes up and runs one forearm up on the open door, says ‘c’mon Sam, I’m drivin’’ and Sam just grabs his belt in one hand and jerks, hard, so that Dean goes right up almost on his lap before he catches himself. By then Sam’s got his belt undone and is sucking him off, sitting right there in the driver’s seat, and Dean gets one hand on the headrest and the other twined up in Sam’s hair. It’s so fast and hard that it almost hurts, Sam’s hands gripping tight round the meat of his ass and holding him still and he can hardly even keep his legs underneath him. He bucks a little into Sam’s mouth and Sam does this nuzzle thing where he keeps sucking but rubs his face a little back and forth so that Dean feels the brush of his scruff and the soft wet slip of Sam’s cheeks against his cock.
‘Fuck,’ Dean says, breathy and reverent, and his legs buckle a little but Sam’s hands catch and hold his ass just as he comes, shoots into Sam’s mouth and Sam swallows and swallows and then falls back across the front seat with his legs still hanging out the door.
‘Now we can go,’ he says, dimpling broad and lazy. Dean looks at him and shakes his head.
‘Nope,’ he says, and winks, ‘not yet.’
Yep. I like.