"Dammit." Dean rattles his flashlight, thumps it against his thigh. "Batteries," he mutters, holding out his free hand as Sam comes up behind him. "Pass me the bag."

"The bag?"

"Yeah, Sammy, the bag."

"You've got the bag, Dean."

Dean turns back. Sam is a vague outline looming over him in the darkness. The trees are thick here, and moonlight can't penetrate. "I don't have the fucking bag, Sam." He drops the flashlight, fishes his lighter out of his jeans pocket.

He waves the flame in front of Sam's face. It's painted green like his own to blend into the trees. "We can't walk five miles through thick forest with this."

"We'll make camp," Sam says. "Sunrise is in a few hours."

"We'll freeze to death." Dean shivers and rubs his bare arm. The camouflage paint is tacky under his palm. "My jacket's in the bag."

"So's mine." Sam turns slowly on the spot. "We'll make a fire." He stoops, runs his fingers along the ground. Leaves make a damp sound as they rustle together. "There's a clearing a way back. We'll find dry wood up there."

"Sure," Dean mutters.

They get a fire going, but dry wood is scarce, even where the ground is exposed to sunlight during the day. It's a pathetic flicker, good only for enough light to see what they're doing. There's a little whiskey to clean the cut still seeping blood on Sam's forearm, and when Dean's done, he tips the flask back for a mouthful.

Sam snatches it out of his hand. "We don't have any water."

"Warmth, Sammy." Dean wipes his chin, feels paint come away with the dribble of whiskey. "It's getting cold, and this is the worst fire in the history of fires. What I wouldn't give for some old bones right now. They seem to go up just fine."

"We'll huddle for warmth." Sam scooches closer, tucks his shoulder behind Dean's.

Dean leans away. "I'm not cuddling you, man."

"Huddle."

"Huddle, cuddle, same thing. I'm not doing it." Still, Dean doesn't move away when Sam moves in again. He's shivering, and Sam's warm.

They don't sleep. The ground is damp, and the dry wood runs out quickly. Dean shivers on his side, staring at the slowly dimming coals and trying not to think about the fact that Sam is pressed against his back, arms wrapped around him.

"Roll over," Sam murmurs.

Dean starts to move, desperate to warm the cold parts of him, then he stops. "Nah, man, I'm good."

Sam twists over to face the other way. "My back's cold. We're just switching places. Jesus, Dean."

Against his better judgment, Dean twists. He lies stiff behind Sam, his arm lying awkward along his side. Sam sighs and pulls Dean's arm around his waist.

Dean slowly calms his rapid breath, starts to feel warm for the first time in what seems like hours. Exhaustion pulls him toward sleep, makes him loose and relaxed. He snuggles closer into the source of the warmth, hides his face in the broad expanse of back.

"Dean."

"Mmm?"

"That why you didn't want to cuddle?"

The heat presses back, and a happy shiver goes through him. He pushes against it, hips straining toward the warmth.

Everything moves. Dean finds himself flat on his back, staring up at the stars with a Sam-shaped darkness hovering over him. Cold seeps into the back of his t-shirt, into the backs of his hands where his wrists are pinned to the ground by a grip he can't break.

"Sam? What the—?"

"What are you doing, Dean?"

"Trying to sleep. What the hell are you doing?"

Sam laughs, low and dirty. "You've been humping my ass for the last ten minutes."

Dean jerks, breaks through the last lingering fog of almost-sleep. "No I haven't."

Sam leans down, and his next words are whispered into Dean's ear, warm breath fanning out over his cheek. "Yeah, you have." A thigh presses against his half-hard cock, solid muscle and heat. "That's why you didn't want to cuddle, isn't it? You were scared you'd get hard and I'd know."

Dean splutters. "Are you crazy? Get the hell off me." He struggles, but Sam's weight holds him down. He draws the line at kneeing his brother in the balls, at least for now. "You think I'm some kind of pervert?"

"Yeah," Sam says as he shifts, moving his thigh over Dean's filling cock. "But you wouldn't be the only one." He drags his lips over Dean's cheek, stops at the corner of his mouth. "Come on, Dean. Tell me I'm wrong."

A breeze cools the sweat beading on Dean's skin, and he gasps, sucking air into lungs that are suddenly starved. "Sam." He should push Sam away, tell him to stop, but he can't. "Sammy."

"Yeah, Dean," Sam says, then kisses him, hot and hard and clumsy. He tastes of the paint on his lips.

And if Dean's life wasn't already as fucked up as it possibly could be, his brother's dick starts to harden against his hip.

He turns his face away, but Sam sucks a hicky into his neck and grinds their hips together. "What are we doing?" Dean gasps, manages to twist one arm free. He presses his palm flat against Sam's chest and he's about to push away when Sam's teeth bite into the muscle where his neck meets his shoulder.

Dean arches up, lets out an anguished groan as he spreads his legs. He tries to ride Sam's thigh from beneath, twisting his fingers into the front of Sam's shirt. Stitches pop as Dean tries to pull him closer.

Sam jerks up to his knees, yanks the offending garment off over his head, then starts to tug at Dean's t-shirt. "You want this," he mutters, words running together like they're not even meant to be heard. "My god, you actually want it."

Dean is used to telling himself he doesn't feel these things when he looks at his brother. His instinct is always to deny it.

But he fights it this time, lifts himself, lets Sam peel his shirt off him and flick it away, then slides his hands up Sam's bare chest in the darkness. "Yeah, I want it." He drops his hands to Sam's belt, tries to undo the buckle but everything's backwards. "Come on, Sammy. Give it to me."

"Jesus, Dean." Sam swats his hands away, gets their jeans undone. Dean arches and moans as Sam's large hand wraps around both of them, holds and strokes with a firm grip. The sky starts to lighten while Sam grunts and whimpers above him.

"I'm close," Sam says.

Dean grits his teeth and knows he's gonna regret this as soon as it's over. Sam spills onto his stomach, hot streaks over cold skin, then rises up on his knees and jerks Dean off with a sticky hand.

"Come on," Sam says, leaning over to hiss in Dean's ear. "I wanna hear you come, hear you moan like you do when you think I'm sleeping."

Sometimes he lies between stiff motel sheets and listens to Sam breathe, deep and even. He teases himself with slow strokes and lets his mind wander, imagines Sam behind him, cock buried deep. He can almost feel it now, how full and stretched he'd be, how he'd be mindless and wrecked and drooling.

He mouths 'fuck me', sees it in Sam's eyes when he reads his lips.

"Yes," Sam hisses. "Swear to god, Dean, when we're out of here. I can't wait to get inside you."

Dean groans and arches up off the ground. His cock jerks in Sam's hand, and when he comes it draws from every muscle in his body until it's almost painful.

He shivers as warmth hits his face, at odds with the damp ground beneath him. He registers distant birdsong, and his own panting breaths. He opens his eyes, blinks into the early morning sun. "God, Sammy," he murmurs, then scrunches his eyes shut tight.

"Don't you dare," Sam says. "Don't ask me to pretend this never happened." The warmth on Dean's face disappears, and then Sam's tongue is in his mouth.

Dean knows he should push Sam away, but he doesn't.

fin