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Sam knows he’s taking a risk jerking off on the bed, out in the open. But it’s been a while since he’d had any privacy, and the half hour it will take Dean to get to the burger place, order, and come back, stretches out like an eternity compared to the five minutes or so he normally gets in the shower.
Besides, it’s a hot Alabama summer night, and Dean’s left his jacket behind in the room.
Sam can smell it from where he lays on the bed, shirtless, one hand idly rubbing his half-hard dick through his jeans as he mentally flips through his spank bank looking for the fantasy or memory that will do it for him. He licks his lips, nostrils flaring to catch more of the heavy scent being carried on the humid air. It smells like old leather, gasoline, dive bar, and Dean.
The carpet is stiff and greasy under his bare feet as he crosses to the dresser. He gives a quick check to make sure the curtains are drawn. Should he chain lock the door? No, better to risk death by embarrassment than deal with Dean Winchester when there is a locked door between him and his little brother.
He’d tried that once, years ago. He’d gotten a little freaked out at being alone, locked the door to the skeezy hotel room, and then fell asleep. Not only did John not punish Dean for breaking down the door, he made Sam work it off with the manager. Sam still didn’t understand how the door being locked from the inside automatically equalled something getting in to kill him, but he had to admit, it had been kind of hot. Dean kicking down the door, bursting in like a SWAT team, and then his hands all over Sam, checking him for injuries.
Sam lets himself remember that feeling as he picks up the jacket.
It’s soft between his finger. Worn down from years of wearing. He puts it up to his face and inhales. The scent takes him back to nights falling asleep in the backseat, head pillowed on Dean’s lap, that jacket over him for a blanket. He remembered Dean’s fingers combing through his hair and his Dad humming along quietly with the radio.
It shouldn’t turn him on. No normal person would find childhood memories of their big brother arousing. But Sam had known for a long time that he wasn’t normal. The anger simmering in his veins like acid all the time is proof of that. So he takes the jacket and lays back down on the bed.
Stretching out on his back, he drags the jacket up his body. It’s cool against his skin at first, soft, and his nipples get hard at the touch. He closes his eyes and remembers how the feel of Dean’s fingers in his hair had blended with the vibrations of the car wheels rumbling over the blacktopped highways of the heartland.
He runs his own fingers through his hair, tugs a little. Nice. Not the same, but still it feels good. He tugs the jacket up higher, around his shoulders. Dean’s scent is stronger here around the collar. Sam rubs his face against it, mouth gently touching it. His cock is getting harder, and he turns on his side, away from the door, sliding his hand down the front of his pants without unbuttoning them, just like he used to do when he was a kid. When he was twelve, thirteen. Almost too old to be using his brother as a pillow, and praying that Dean wouldn’t notice how hard it made him.
Now that he’s six foot five, the jacket doesn’t cover nearly what it used to. Even curled up, the hem barely reaches past his waist. His breath puffs out as he jacks his cock as best he can without opening his jeans, trying not to move. He might as well go all the way in this fucked up recreation. As the back of his wrist brushes the soft leather, he realizes one thing he’d never done, something that’s always had him creaming his jeans back then just from the thought of it. His cock fattens up in a hurry, and he groans quietly.
With a quick look at the clock, he pushes down the fleeting sense of shame, and opens his jeans. He sighs with the release of pressure. He rubs through the thin cotton of his soft boxers while he builds up the nerve to do what he’s always wanted to. He pushes the boxers out of the way and thrusts his hips up into the warm, soft leather.
Fuck. It feels just as good as he thought it would. And just as dirty. He’d had sexual feelings for Dean before he’d even known what the hell sex was; that he was used to. But the leather jacket fetish hadn’t started until Dad had given it to Dean. Thank god for that small grace, he figures.
He rolls his hips into a few more times, heat building in his groin. Sliding his hand up across his chest, he pinches his nipple hard, pretending it’s Dean’s hand. So many times he had lain, head in Dean’s lap, imaging Dean looking down at him, seeing the slight movement under the jacket and knowing what his dirty little brother was up to.
In Sam’s fantasy, Dean’s eyes would widen, just the slightest, emerald green glittering in the strobe of the street lights. Then, instead of yelling or looking disgusted, he would slip his hand under the jacket, under the collar of Sam’s t shirts that were always too big, and just slide over his nipples. Scratch back and forth, slowly, so John wouldn’t notice. Slowly, achingly until Sam came with a whimper.
Here in tonight’s motel, it’s just Sam, just Sam’s fingers pulling at his nipples. The soft press of the leather is maddening, not enough to put him over the edge. He pulls one arm out from under it, and reaches down, pressing into his cock, trapping the leather against the hard length. The smell of Dean’s cologne on the leather is intoxicating and he has to taste it. He sucks the edge of the collar into his mouth, imagining it’s Dean’s skin that he’s tasting.
The leather slips and catches against the head of his cock, and Sam has a brief, distant worry about how he’s going to clean come off it. But he just doesn’t care. Time is passing swiftly, Dean could be back any minute. He closes his eyes, remember the feel of the leather, the rumbling of the Impala’s tires in his bones, vibrating in his adolescent cock.
He rolls over onto his stomach, jeans pushed down lower now, the curve of his ass sticking out as he ruts into the leather. It smells like the Impala and tastes like Dean. He knows he’s fucking it up, spit on the collar, teeth marks where he’s biting down. Wet from his cock slicking his way as he fucks into it. It’s hot like the sun and it feels so fucking good. He wants to make it last but he knows he can’t. Sweat rolls down his back from the heat of the night, and he swears he can almost hear the sweet growl of the Impala.
He remembers that one time when he was 15, maybe 16. Definitely too old to have his head on Dean’s lap, too aware of what it meant, but he’d been hurt on a hunt, just a little, and John had given in to Sam’s begging to have Dean with him. The adrenaline from the hunt was still singing in his blood, and Dean couldn’t seem to stop touching him. Sam had pulled the jackets up and had his hands down his pants as soon as he thought Dean wasn’t paying attention.
But god, Dean had been touchy that night. He’d started in Sam’s hair, as usual, scratching and tugging almost absent-mindedly. Then his fingers has wandered lower, teasing at the collar of Sam’s t-shirt, pulling harder than normal at the baby curls still hiding at the base of Sam’s neck. Sam hissed at one hard tug, and Dean stilled.
“Okay, Sammy?”
Sam had nodded, not trusting his voice. His cock was an iron rod in his pants. The jeans were so tight against his hand, he was losing feeling in his fingers. Dean’s blunt nails scratched across the skin on the back of his neck, and Sam couldn’t hold back the harsh burst of air from his nose. Dean had to feel him stiffen, but all he did was ask John to turn up the radio.
“I like this song. Sammy doesn’t mind, do you Sam?”
Sam didn’t dare move, let alone answer. Dean’s hand resumed its tugging and scratching. Dipping under the shirt in the back, sliding across the curve of Sam’s neck, strong fingers grazing the top of his collar bones. Sam rolled his hips just a little, just so he could push into the vibrating seat. Dean’s fingers ghosted over the line of his jaw, thumb caressing behind his ear, before burying themselves in his hair again. One hard tug on the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and Sam was gone. Panting so loud though his orgasm, praying that the music covered the noise, hoping that Dean never realized what had happened.
Right now, his breath is harsh and loud in the room. He’s so close, balls pulled up tight, hips slapping against the jacket, making the cheap mattress springs creak and moan. But it’s not enough. He just can’t get there.
He groans with frustration, reaching for that feeling. He remembers Dean’s hands on him, remembers the way he looked breaking down the door. “Fuck,” he says out loud. “Fuck, Dean.”
Suddenly he registers a breeze blowing across the sweat of his back, and he stills. Fuck. He doesn’t roll over, keeps his head turned away.
The mattress dips as Dean kneels next to him. Dean’s voice is like gravel in his ear. “You fucking come on my jacket, Sammy, and then I’m gonna make you lick it up.”
A shudder wracks Sam’s body, and as Dean spreads his hot palm across the curve of Sam’s ass and pushes, Sam cries out and comes harder than he can ever remember. Dean pushes him into the jacket over and over, muttering Fuck, Sammy, fucking hell, do it, come on.
Sam jerks hard one last time, then collapses, shivering into the mess. “Dean,” he starts.
Dean’s still got his hand on Sam’s ass, squeezing and running his hands up and down the curves. “Fuck, Sam. Remember...remember when you were a kid. Sleeping on the back seat...” Dean sounds breathless, his voice shaky.
Sam groans. “God, yes.”
Dean slides his fingers down, teasing at the crack of Sam’s ass. He leans over to whisper directly into Sam’s ears. “Remember how you’d have your hands down your pants, jerking that boy cock and thinking I didn’t know?”
Sam’s cheeks glow with embarrassment even as he feels his cock twitching, sliding through the cooling mess.
“Don’t be shy now, little brother. Not after fucking my jacket.” Dean grabs up a loose sleeve and runs it across Sam’s back. “It was fucking hot.” He lets the sleeve drop down, and fucking licks a cool stripe down Sam’s back.
Sam shudders, and moans. “Jesus, Dean.” His hands tighten in the scratchy blankets.
Dean grabs the hair on the back on Sam’s head and pulls, lifting his head up. “Remember that night I made you come in your pants when I pulled your hair? You loved it. You were a kinky bastard even then.”
“Jesus. You knew? The whole time?” He squawks as Dean pulls his jeans completely off his body.
“Took me a little bit. You were probably thirteen when I realized what you were doing.” Sam can hear him pulling off his shirt. “Got me hard. Made me feel like the biggest perv in the world.” He tugs gently at Sam’s ankles, dragging him down the bed. “Then I realized that you did it mostly when I was touching you. And knew it wasn’t just me.”
Sam is getting dragged through the wet come and he makes sound of protest.
“Don’t bitch, little brother. I told you if you came on my coat, you were going to lick it up.” Dean’s hand is back on his head. “Get to work.”
Sam can hear Dean taking off his shirt, the soft whump of it hitting the ground. He tentatively touches his tongue to the mess. Dean groans, and toes off his boots. Sam makes a show of it then, long licks though the streaks of white, soft moans.
Dean curses and Sam hears his jeans hits the floor, belt buckle clanging. One more lick and Dean is straddling him on the bed, his hot cock pressed tight against the crack of Sam’s ass. “Do you want this, Sammy? Tell me, tell me you want this.”
Sam can only moan and push up on his elbows, neck bowed to give Dean better access. Dean doesn’t hesitate, leaning forward to put his mouth on Sam’s skin. He bites and sucks on the thin skin of his neck, breath hot and heavy in Sam’s ear.
Dean’s thrust get more erratic, his breath coming shorter and shorter. Sam clenches around the hard length dragging against his ass. “Sammy,” Dean groans out, stretching his name like taffy.
Sam reaches back, grabs Dean’s head and cranes his neck for an awkward straining kiss. He has to feel that mouth on his. That mouth that he's dying to see stretched out around his cock. “Come for me,” he gasps, as their lips slide apart. “Come on, do it, fuck me.” His cock is hard again, from the friction, the feel of Dean on top of him and the leather still under him.
He doesn’t register what’s happening until he’s on his back. Dean’s flipped him, so they’re face to face. Dean’s got his arms braced next to Sam’s head, and he’s kissing the air right out of his lungs. Surrounded by Dean, overwhelmed by the feel of him, the feeling of safety and comfort and love that he’d felt all those years ago in the backseat, Sam holds on tight and tries to give it all back to his big brother.
Dean’s hips hitch, once, twice, and he’s coming all over both of them. The thought of it is enough to set Sam off again. His fingers clench around Dean’s rock hard biceps, blunt nails digging into the skin.
He slowly releases his hold as their breathing comes back to normal. Dean collapses down onto top of him, knocking the air out of his lungs.
“Dude,” he wheezes. “Heavy.”
“Deal with it,” Dean says, not lifting his head from where it’s nestled between Sam’s neck and shoulder. “And you’re going to be the one taking the jacket to the dry cleaner’s.” He bites Sam again, tongue chasing the shiver down Sam’s neck. “I hope it’s a really hot chick, too.”
Sam smacks Dean hard on the ass, the crack echoing in the room. “You’re a dick,”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees. Sam can feel his smile against his neck. “But I’m your dick.”
Yeah, he is. Sam can live with that.