Sometimes, Sam thinks about recording the sounds Dean makes.

Dean would kill him, so he never will.

But he thinks about it.

He imagines running with his iPod strapped to his arm, Dean's choked off moans and whimpers pumping right into his ears on repeat. Imagines timing his steps to every rhythmic pant and gasp.

He could do it. Reach for his phone while Dean's got his eyes closed, hit record without him ever knowing. Get every last huff of breath, every plea for more.

"Come on," Dean groans, impatience implicit in his tone, and it's fair. Sam gets lost in imagining, lost just listening. It's aural porn, the sounds Dean makes, and Sam's sure he could get off on it, and thinking about it makes him slow for every shudder.

"Get the fuck on with it, Sam."

Sam pulls himself together, breathes in, lets it out slow as he twists two slick fingers deep into Dean's body, crooks them to drag another shuddering moan from his brother's throat. The pitch is higher this time, and Sam's cock throbs as he anticipates the tight grip that's coming.

"Another." Higher again, desperate. "Hurry up, Sammy, more. Do it, open me up." Fingers clawing at Sam's bicep, pulling.

"Dean."

It's the first word he's spoken, the first sound he's made since Dean stripped down and slid, flat on his belly, onto the faded floral comforter spread over the squeaky motel bed. Never wants to hear his own voice, only Dean, but can't hold it in. "Dean, I...fuck."

"Do it. Sammy, do it, get in me, fuck me, yeah...oh God." Trails off into a tortured groan as Sam's fingers slide out and leave him empty and slack and gaping, hips coming up off the bed in an attempt to keep them inside. "Need...fuck...want it, Sam." Hips jerking even as Sam moves close enough, pushing back as the tip of Sam's cock slides over his hole, catching on the rim. "Fuck, fuck, goddammit, shit—holy fuck."

Sam shoves in hard, filling Dean to the hilt in one quick, almost violent, thrust. Dean squawks and whines, hips still pumping as if it'll get him deeper.

Sam's head spins, so hot, so tight, and the sounds of Dean's pleasure-pain all twisting together in his belly and in his balls and shooting warnings up his spine.

"Move, fucking move."

Sam's got to pin him down, hands pressing hard down on Dean's shoulders, all his weight in his hips, keep him there, almost clamps a hand over Dean's mouth to keep him quiet because Sam could get off to just the sound of him, never mind the way his ass squeezes Sam's dick tight, over and over. It's torture of the best kind.

Sam draws the line at telling him to shut the fuck up, can't risk that Dean will get it into his head that he should keep quiet all the time.

"Don't care, Sammy, come, do what you gotta—" Dean groans and squirms and fights and then, finally, quits.

He goes slack and loose and relaxed. Pants with his cheek pressed into the worn floral fabric, works his ass on Sam's cock like he can milk the orgasm out of him, and maybe he can.

"Your ass," Sam grunts, locks his throat closed on the words because he wasn't going to speak, wasn't going to make a sound, but it's sending him out of his mind.

Dean keeps at it, squeeze and release, like a pro, like his life depends on it, and with each a low, guttural groan, voice rising and falling, faster and faster, dragging Sam toward the inevitable end. "S'it, Sammy. Come in my ass, make a mess, dirty me up, fucking—"

The breath punches out of him as Sam shoves him into the mattress with a hand between his shoulder blades, pushes himself up and starts to thrust. "Gonna make a mess," comes out of his mouth in a growl, unbidden, unwanted, but there's no stopping it. "Gonna fuck you up."

Dean grunts, like when he's in a fight, like something just kicked his ass. "Fuck me up good." His voice is weakening, exhaustion setting in. "Do it, Sammy. Come all the fuck over me, in me—"

The first spasm hits Sam like a freight train, his voice rising in a roar, primal and monstrous. He shoots, deep inside his brother's body, and before the next wave, starts to pull out.

He leaves a trail of come behind him, paints Dean's insides, holds his cock against Dean's empty, clenching hole, paints it white and dripping as Dean's voice rises again, like pain, like loss, like he's just had a limb torn off.

Sam shoves his cock back in, throat raw and wrecked as he cries out and shudders. Slumps forward, catches himself on his hands.

"Stay," Dean says, voice thin and reedy and plaintive. "Please stay, Sammy."

"I'm not going anywhere," Sam says, still slowly rocking into Dean's pliant body. "I'm staying right here."

He holds Dean's hips, rolls them both onto their sides, never breaking the connection between them, and he holds Dean tight, tips Dean's head back onto his shoulder so that every sound Dean makes comes right to his ear. "Gonna make you come," he breathes, savors the soft sigh Dean gives him. "Let me hear it." He wraps his hand around Dean's cock, hard and throbbing and dripping with pre-come.

Gasps and grunts and groans and high pitched whines come more frequent as Dean gets closer to orgasm, as he tightens up inside. He knocks his head on Sam's shoulder as he starts to come, cursing and crying out, the peak of noise, of sound, the vital part Sam needs to hear, the thing that, if he had it recorded, would be the moment Sam would explode, untouched.

Or at least he likes to think.

And then it's over. Sam's cock slips out of him, and Dean's silent, and Sam has come on his hand, and Dean's eyes are closed, his chin tucked into his chest. He never wants to talk afterward, always quiet, as though he's used up his quota of sound, as if the capability is gone.

Sam wraps his arms around his brother and tugs a sheet over the both of them, and he lies awake and listens to the barely audible breaths as Dean falls asleep.

fin