It's after midnight when Sam and Dean walk into the laundromat. Dean blinks under the too-bright lights, and he hauls two bags of laundry—bursting at the seams—toward a washer as Sam buys detergent from a vending machine.

Laundry day came and went while they were working a hunt, and it's finally over, but it finished messy. Messy like blood and slime and decomposing flesh, and they're covered in it.

Dean nods at the attendant, sitting in the office at the back with his feet up on the desk and the door open. The guy barely blinks at their appearance, and he goes back to the book he's reading. He's probably seen it all.

Dean starts stripping. He tosses his clothes into the first washer and lifts his eyebrows when Sam gives him an incredulous look. "Come on, man. We're not hauling this stink around for the next two weeks. Get it off."

Sam glances at the front of the store and seems to make a decision. Maybe it's because this isn't one of those places that has big glass windows so the whole world can see you washing your panties. Instead, the windows are all painted up. No one's gonna see them unless they actually walk through the door. Sam starts taking off his clothes.

They've shared close quarters most of their lives. They wander around in their boxers from time to time. Dean got good at not looking without making it obvious that he wasn't looking a long time ago.

He shouldn't want to look at his brother mostly naked, but hell if Sam didn't fill out while he was away at college.

They fill two washers. Dean's entire wardrobe save the boxers he's still wearing fits in one, but he doesn't think much of it, because that's the way it's always been.

Sam had a couple years to get out of the habit of living like that. Then all his shit burned in the fire, and it took him no time at all to get back into it.

They play cards while they wait.

It's fucking freezing in here.

When they transfer their laundry from the washers to the dryers, they huddle around them, warming their hands on the heat leaking out of the machines.

The attendant has a direct line of sight to them now, or he would, if he were still awake. The book he was reading dangles from one hand, and his head is hanging over the back of his chair. His mouth is open and he's snoring.

The dryers are side by side, but there's space between them. Probably because of the heat they give off. It's wide enough that Dean could fit down there, and fuck it. He's cold.

Dean slides down into the gap. The machines bang and rattle but holy shit, it's warm.

Sam gives him a look. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Staying warm," Dean says, but then Sam crowds in against him, effectively trapping him, and perhaps this wasn't such a great idea after all. "Get lost. Find your own spot."

"These are the only two machines running," Sam says. "Hell yeah. This is much better."

Christ. This was not a good idea. There's barely enough room for one. With the both of them crammed between a couple of noisy dryers Dean barely has enough space to breathe.

It has the potential to get too comfortable.

Dean shoves at Sam, almost in a panic. "Let me out. Fucking let me out, Sam."

"What?" Sam doesn't move. "You're not claustrophobic, Dean. Don't be stupid."

The situation is bad. It's bad enough having to share the same space with Sam again like they have been. But it's been manageable. When Sam parades around their motel rooms in just a towel Dean can avert his eyes, he could remove himself from the situation. He wasn't damn near naked himself.

Now Sam's close enough Dean can smell the essence of him beneath the sweat of the hunt, and Dean can't hide a damn thing. He tries to turn away, but all he succeeds in doing is rubbing up against his little brother.

Sam's eyes immediately flick down and Dean can't hide it anymore. He starts to sweat and crave the chill of the room away from the machines. For sure Sam will let him out now.

He doesn't. Sam doesn't spring back in horror, he doesn't recoil from the fact Dean has a boner he can't hide, and he's not disgusted that Dean got hard because he was so close to Sam's skin he can almost taste it.

Sam looks up again. His pupils are blown wide, almost eclipsing the iris. His lips are parted, and he's breathing hard.

He leans in. Christ. Motherfucking shit. Sam's hard. He's fucking hard, his cock is pressed against Dean's hip, and wetness wicks through Sam's shorts and into Dean's.

"What?" Dean says. "What are you doing? What the fuck—"

The words, all the breath in his lungs, gasp out of him as Sam grinds against him.

"Wouldn't be the first time." Sam huffs against Dean's cheek, his lips moving over Dean's skin. He holds Dean's face in his hands, turns him, and his tongue darts out and past Dean's lips.

Fuck. Fuck. Sam's kissing him. Dean's mind goes blank, then he's assaulted by a memory he tried to forget but never could.

Sam was maybe 17. Dad ditched them somewhere in Wyoming and they got drunk and started sparring on the rough carpet of the shitty motel they were in. It got messy. Messy like Sam getting hard and rubbing off on Dean until he came in his jeans. Messy like it was awkward as fuck for a couple weeks after. Messy like Dean jerked off to the memory for years after. Messy like Dean wanted it, wanted his baby brother, wanted Sam, and when Sam went to college it was the best thing he could have done because Dean was weak.

Dean's still weak. So weak he stops pushing at Sam's chest and starts clutching at him. He links his hands around Sam's neck and grinds back.

It's gonna happen again, but it's not the same. They're both stone-cold sober. Sam's a grown-ass adult, and instead of desperate abandon, he moves against Dean with a focus that seems intent on getting not just himself off, but Dean as well.

It's gonna get messy. They're gonna come in their shorts and all their clean clothes are in the dryers. It's impractical and potentially mortifying but rather than tell Sam to stop, Dean drops to his knees.

Dean takes Sam by the hips and shoves him back just enough so he can get at his cock. Sam's body blocks the harsh light from the room, and Dean tugs down the elastic of Sam's shorts.

Dean's thought about sucking cock before, but he's never done it.

Still, he knows what he likes. He presses his lips to the swollen, leaking tip of Sam's fat cock, tongues at the slit.

"Fuck, Dean," Sam gasps. Serves him right for kissing Dean in the first place. "Oh, Dean. Fuck."

Dean sucks the head into his mouth, licks at the underside, then slips his tongue into the slit again, coaxing, slurping up the precome that burbles out. He's rewarded with a flood of it, as Sam's hips jerk and his cock slides deeper into Dean's mouth, stretching his lips wide. Precome spreads over his tongue, salty-sweet. Sam's palm slides over his head, fingertips pressing, retreating, pressing, as though Sam's fighting the instinct to fuck into Dean's mouth.

Dean moans, and he cradles Sam's balls in his hand. They're heavy and tight. God, is he gonna be able to swallow? What the fuck is he doing? He's on his knees for his brother, his fucking baby brother.

Sam moans and jerks, his cock hitting the back of Dean's throat. Dean gags. He coughs, splutters, pulls off just enough to breathe, then sucks Sam into his mouth again.

All those years, all those nights he lay awake with his hand on his cock, remembering when he had his teenage brother pinned to that ratty carpet, remembering Sam writhing beneath him, rutting against his thigh, knowing what was happening, pretending it wasn't, pretending all Sam was doing was trying to get free and Dean was making sure he didn't.

He's gonna make his brother come again, but this time it won't be soaking through his jeans. This time he's gonna swallow it down.

Dean pulls off Sam's cock, and he looks up at his brother. Sam's eyes are hooded, hungry, and he guides Dean back to his cock. Dean keeps his eyes on his brother, holds Sam's cock at the base so he doesn't get choked again, and he bobs his head, watching Sam's face, reading him.

The look on Sam's face when he comes is seared into his mind, and has been for years. Dean watched him then, he knew what he was doing back then and he knows what he's doing now.

Sam's mouth is open, and he stares down at Dean, gasping out heavy breaths that come quicker and quicker.

Dean doubles down. He's gonna make his brother come. He's gonna do it with his mouth. He's gonna suck the orgasm right out of Sam, and then he's gonna get himself off because he's so fucking hard right now, his balls are tight and aching and this here, right here, Sam's cock in Dean's mouth, that's years worth of jerk-off fantasies, and he's never going to forget it.

Sam makes a sound. It's deeper now, but Dean knows it. That sound has rattled around in his head for years, it's the same sound Sam made on that carpet in that shitty motel, right before he came.

Dean grabs for his own cock, strangles it at the base because he's so fucking close. He gulps, swallows as Sam's cock spurts onto his tongue, shoots at the back of his throat.

He swallows, and he swallows, thick, cloying, gooey come slicking his throat. As soon as Sam's done, he jerks Dean up off the floor by his armpits and shoves him back against the wall where pipes and wires dig into Dean's back, and he kisses him.

Sam shoves his tongue into Dean's mouth like he's trying to climb inside, like he's searching for the taste of himself. He shoves his hand down Dean's boxers and shoves Dean's own hand away. He pumps Dean's cock, once, twice, and Dean cries out and empties his balls into Sam's hand.

Then they're both just gasping. Sam's heavy on Dean's chest and there's a hot pipe searing the skin off Dean's bare back. Sam's panting against Dean's cheek and holding his arm out away from them awkwardly, because, well, it's covered in Dean's come.

Dean can still taste Sam on his tongue. He can feel his baby brother's sticky semen clogging his throat.

Dean shoves Sam away. Pushes him out of the tight space between two dryers as one of them rattles to a stop and pings like an old elevator.

"Dean," Sam says, accusation thick in his voice.

Dean pulls the door open and starts dragging clothes out into an empty basket. He knows he's got jeans when the buttons and rivets burn his skin, pulls them on, wriggling to force his body into the just-out-of-the-dryer denim.

"Get dressed," Dean says. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

---

Dean can count on one hand how many times he's regretted sex so soon after it's happened, and this just might be a record. He didn't even regret it this fast after that tumble on the carpet years ago, though it could have been because of how drunk he was at the time.

The drive out of town is silent and the air inside the car is thick with tension. Dean's waiting for the inevitable moment when Sam opens his mouth to 'talk it out' or whatever, and Dean spends the time thinking of ways to effectively shut him down.

He doesn't get very far.

"Dean, we should—"

"No, we shouldn't," Dean says. "That was the most fucked up thing I've ever done sober, and it's coming pretty damn close to the most fucked up thing I've ever done ever, so how about we just never speak of it again, huh?"

"That's the problem, Dean," Sam says. "We don't talk about this shit, it never gets resolved. If we'd talked about what happened in Wyoming then maybe we wouldn't be so fucked up. Maybe I wouldn't have spent years stewing over that night, thinking I'd screwed up everything between us."

"You didn't," Dean says. His eyes are on the dark road ahead, but he's intensely aware of Sam's presence beside him. His eyes ache with the need to glance Sam's way, to reassure him that Dean's telling him the truth. "You didn't screw up anything. We were already fucked. We've always been fucked. Since the night Mom died, we've been screwed, Sammy. Nothing either of us do can stop this train wreck."

"If that's true, Dean, I don't understand why you're so freaked out."

"Oh." This time, Dean casts a pointed glance at his brother. "We're already messed up so why fight it? Are you kidding me right now? Don't you see how wrong what happened back there is?"

Sam just shrugs. Long moments pass, and then finally Sam drops his head to the window and closes his eyes. Before long, he's asleep.

---

The sky is lightening when Dean pulls into a motel in a small town with a ghoul problem. It's not the closest motel to the cemetery, but it is the cheapest.

They check in and unload the car like clockwork, and they've got a visit to the morgue lined up for the afternoon. Dean makes a beeline for one of the beds because he's been awake for going on 24 hours.

His mind offers up the too-recent memory of sinking to his knees and sucking his brother's cock before sleep claims him.

They're back in the laundromat. Every machine in the place is running, pumping out shimmering heat. The benches are gone and the crunchy linoleum has been replaced with cheap polyester carpet.

Dean's on his back. Sam's riding his thigh, smearing precome and grunting with every thrust.

Dean tips his head back to look at the attendant in the doorway of his office. It's John Winchester.

"Sammy," Dean whispers. "Hey, Sammy. That's Dad over there."

Sam looks up. He doesn't stop what he's doing. "I thought he was dead."

"He's working here," Dean says.

Sam moans as he ruts against Dean's leg.

Dean wakes gasping and sits bolt upright in the bed. The time on the clock radio reads 11:00AM and Sam's standing in the center of the room with a towel and his shaving kit in his hands. He looks stunned.

Dean falls back down to the bed and throws an arm over his eyes. "Jesus Christ."

"Nightmare?" Sam asks.

"Nah." Dean can't get the sound of Sam's moans out of his ears. It was so fucking real. "Just a messed up dream."

Sam snorts. "Yeah. Messed up in all the right ways."

Dean peeks out from beneath his arm. "What?"

Sam's not looking at his face. He's looking down at the blankets Dean's lying under. Dean follows his gaze.

He immediately lifts his knees. "Shut the fuck up, Sam. Like you never woke up with a boner."

Sam smirks and disappears into the bathroom.

---

Dean's convinced Sam is doing it on purpose. He came out of the shower in a cloud of steam with just a skimpy motel towel wrapped around his waist. He's just wandering the room, making no effort to get dressed, and the moment Sam got out, Dean should have gotten into the shower himself, but he didn't.

Either he's a pervert, or he's punishing himself. Dean wants to see his brother naked, that's no secret at this point, but after lecturing Sam in the car on the way here, he's at least a hypocrite.

In the dream, he felt nothing. No guilt, no shame at what he was doing.

Not that he was doing much. Sam was doing all the work, and that might just be more horrifying than dreaming that Dad was watching them.

John Winchester didn't seem to care that his sons were practically fucking right in front of him.

Why should he care? He's dead. He's gone. Even Dean knows that while they have a responsibility to him to keep up the fight, to end the demon that killed their mother, they don't owe him anything to do with their personal lives—or their relationship with each other.

Dean's allowed to change his mind, right? Hell, he's even giving himself whiplash over it. Dean's the one who dropped to his knees for his brother, because when his dick is hard there's not a lot of higher function devoted to integrity.

That came later. And with it, all the guilt he should have felt during the act.

Even now, with his eyes on the water still beaded on Sam's bare skin as he digs around inside his duffel, Dean can't summon the regret he should be feeling.

"Drop it," Dean says, his eyes on the precarious hold the towel has on Sam's hips.

It does nothing to hide the fact that little Sammy is hung. Even flaccid there's a significant bulge in the threadbare bit of terry. Fuck the insufficient towels in cheap motels and fuck Sam for standing there in almost nothing like a goddamn tease.

"You want it gone," Sam says, "you do it yourself."

Dean clams up. Sam's right. He wants this, he's gotta make a move. But, goddammit, it's like being expected to talk about it. If it's Sam pinning him to the floor or crowding in on him in a confined space, that shit is easy. All he's got to do is take, but to actively seek out what Sam's got on offer?

That shit's terrifying.

Sam seems to notice. "I'll take it off if you let me watch you shower."

Dean's heart almost stops in his chest. The cubicle in the bathroom here has a glass door, and unlike most of the motels in this class, it's not entirely covered in limescale. The shower doors here are crystal clear, like they discovered some kind of miracle product and have used the goddamn shit out of it, chemicals be damned.

Dean grabs his gear and heads for the bathroom.

Whatever product they use on the shower door stops it from fogging, too. The ventilation in these motel bathrooms are garbage, so there's water clinging to the glass, running down in rivulets, but it doesn't obscure anything. Dean feels self-conscious as he strips to nothing and climbs into the shower with Sam's eyes on him.

Dean's always been confident. He never thinks twice about stripping down in front of women, but his brother is different.

Maybe it's the monster cock under that towel. Dean's jaw aches at the memory of having it stuffed in his mouth.

"Drop it," Dean says. "We had a deal."

Sam's eyes are on Dean's face as, with a twitch of his fingers, the towel drops. Sam clicks the bathroom door closed, and leans against it, hips jutting forward.

His cock is at half-mast. So heavy it hangs straight down.

Dean was rock hard the moment Sam got naked. Dean's cock sticks straight out in front of him, already leaking a bead of precome. He stands under the hot water and makes no attempt to wash, just stares through the glass at his naked little brother.

There's a look of defiance on Sam's face as he takes hold of his meaty cock in his right hand, and slowly strokes it, root to tip. "Turn around," he says. "I wanna watch you play with your ass."

Dean's heart skips a beat, and he damn near swallows his tongue. "What the fuck, Sam?" The whole point of this was for Dean to get to look. He can't watch Sam if he's staring at the wall.

And yeah, there's the shock that Sam thinks about Dean's ass at all.

"Fuck this," Sam says. He pushes away from the door and pulls open the shower screen, and he climbs in the shower with Dean. Sam crowds in on him, glaring down with a look in his eyes that is pure hunger. "Turn around."

"Oh fuck." This got real, fast. They're not stuffed into the space between two dryers here. They don't have the scant barrier of two pair of boxers between them and they don't have a guy snoring 10 feet away.

They're naked, screened by steam but utterly alone. Shit got weird back at the laundromat, it was a quick fumble, rushed and messy and they could have brushed it off as just one of those fucked up situations and gotten on with their lives but this is different.

They have complete privacy and all the time in the world. They can premeditate the fuck out of this.

All Dean has to do is let it happen.

He stares into Sam's eyes and feigns a defiance he doesn't feel.

The intensity in Sam's eyes is entirely authentic. There's no fear there, and Dean only wishes he could be like that.

Sam stands over him, and he brings his face so close to Dean's that Dean can feel Sam's breath on his lips. Sam puts his hand on the small of Dean's back, and slowly slides it down, dipping his middle finger into the cleft.

Sam brushes over Dean's puckered hole and Dean's mind short circuits. He opens his mouth and lets out a surprised gasp, and his head falls back to clunk against the tiled wall behind him and he pushes his hips forward.

Sam's cock is a hot, hard, twitching length against Dean's thigh. Sam's fingertip presses against Dean's tight hole in time with the twitch of his hips, as though he imagines shoving his cock into Dean's body.

"Fuck," Dean says. "Oh, fuck."

Sam growls and captures Dean's lips in a hot, hard kiss, plunging his tongue into Dean's mouth, matching the cadence.

Sam wants to fuck him. Dean's baby brother wants to fuck him, and that realization hits Dean hard, like a wrecking ball to the chest, punching out all the breath in his lungs. It hits him like a blow to the head, and with a sudden clarity, Dean knows that he's gonna let Sam fuck him because he wants it, too.

"Do it," Dean rasps, spreading his legs and grinding his cock against Sam's hard, muscled thigh. "Put it in me."

Sam grunts and grabs at Dean's ass, and his fingertip breaches Dean's hole.

The water raining down on them is a poor substitute for lube. It burns, burns hotter still as Sam uses his finger like a hook to jerk Dean against him. It sinks deeper into Dean's body, long and slender, and all Dean can do is moan and grasp ineffectually at Sam's biceps and ride Sam's thigh.

They rock together under the streaming, steaming shower until they're both gasping at each other's throats. Sam's biting at Dean's flesh, pulling chunks of skin between his teeth and pinching it as he releases. His finger slides in and out of Dean's body with each timed thrust of his cock against Dean's thigh, and Dean matches it, riding Sam's leg like a dog, frantic and desperate.

Dean comes when Sam hits a place inside him that makes him see stars, and Sam falls over the edge behind him, making those same sounds he made on the carpet, making the same sounds he made with his cock in Dean's mouth at the laundromat.

They cling together gasping as the water spits out of the shower head and starts to run cold, and then they high-tail it out of there, dripping on the carpet as they slink out of the bathroom one after the other.

---

"So that happened," Dean says, when dressed in their fed suits, they get into the car and tear out of the parking lot.

Sam is weirdly silent. He doesn't speak until they pull up outside the hospital. "You still intent on fighting it?" he says, making no move to get out of the car.

"You couldn't instigate this little heart to heart before we got here?"

Sam shrugs. "Answer the question."

"I can't do it on my own," Dean says. "I can't fight it. You're gonna parade around—"

"You're gonna blame me for your lack of self-control?"

Dean glares at his brother. "You're a fucking bitch, Sam. No, I'm not gonna fight it. Because I can't. If you said no to me, I wouldn't touch you, but since you're rolling out the welcome mat—"

Sam snorts. "I dunno, Dean. I think maybe you're the one inviting me in."

Dean damn near chokes on his tongue at Sam's inflection.

"I believe your actual words were 'put it in me', correct me if I'm wrong."

"Keep going the way you are and I'll revoke that invitation, Sammy."

Sam's jaw snaps shut so hard it's audible.

Yeah. Dean could get used to having that kind of power over his little brother.

fin