They’re in some random motel in an even more random town in some state that might be Connecticut, but Sam’s not too sure. It could just as easily be New York or Massachusetts or even Rhode Island, for all he was paying attention when they’d stopped. They’ve just finished up a hunt and had planned to head back to the bunker today, but the weather’s turned shitty overnight, pouring rain and so dark that high noon looks like dusk, so Dean suggests that they just stay an extra night.
“You sure?” Sam asks, glancing outside. The rain’s gotten even heavier; he can’t even see the Impala, and it’s parked, at most, ten feet from the door to their room.
“Sure,” Dean shrugs. “Hunt’s over, we don’t have another one lined up yet, and this motel actually doesn’t suck as much as usual.”
Sam switches his gaze from the window to the room. Dean’s right, he has to admit; he hadn’t really noticed last night, too sore and dirt-covered to care much about his surroundings beyond the shower and the bed, but this place is actually decent. It’s relatively clean, for one thing, with a good-sized bathroom and a little mini-fridge and microwave combo in the corner. There’s even a couch in front of the TV, which he’s kind of amazed he hadn’t really registered before now. His duffel’s even on it, for god’s sake.
“It’s actually pretty nice,” he says out loud.
“Yeah, exactly,” Dean agrees. He kicks his boots off and drops down onto the couch, knocking Sam’s duffel to the floor in the process. “What do you think? Watch some TV, maybe a movie or two, order in later if the rain lets up?”
“And if it doesn’t?” Sam asks, toeing his own shoes off and joining Dean on the couch. It’s a big leather affair, cracked and worn with age, but surprisingly comfortable.
Dean shrugs. “I’ve got microwave popcorn and M&Ms.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that sounds like the breakfast of champions.”
Dean launches one of the cushions at him, smirking. “Better than lettuce and dried carrots or whatever it is you brought.”
Sam catches the cushion inches from his face and throws it back, actually laughing when Dean fails to duck in time and it smacks right into the center of his forehead. It feels good to laugh, he thinks as Dean mock-swears at him and lunges for him. It feels good to joke like they used to, to actually be able to for once. It’s been too long.
He revises that opinion when Dean starts tickling him. “Really?” he gasps before collapsing into helpless laughter. Dean hasn’t tickled him in years. It’s also completely not fair, because Dean isn’t ticklish, even on his feet, and Sam’s ticklish practically everywhere, a fact Dean is making gleeful use of as he scrabbles at Sam’s elbows and ribs.
“Truce!” Sam calls a few minutes later, his sides aching. They’re both panting and in complete disarray; Sam’s hair is a tangled mess, thanks to Dean rubbing his head against the leather arm of the couch until he managed to toss him off, and Dean’s t-shirt is so twisted it’s practically on him backward. But they’re both laughing, so hard Sam’s actually got tears in his eyes, and it feels so damn good that he almost doesn’t want to stop. But he’s also starving, and even prepared to eat popcorn and M&Ms at this point.
“You just want to stop because you’re losing,” Dean taunts. He wiggles his fingers at Sam’s abdomen, and Sam starts laughing even though Dean’s fingers are a good two inches away.
“Asshole,” he gasps. “Stop it, we need food.”
“Yeah, whatever, loser,” Dean scoffs, but it’s with such affection that Sam impulsively sits up and hugs him. Dean hugs him back, resting his chin on Sam’s shoulder and leaning their cheeks together. “I’ve got granola bars too,” he murmurs, his voice rumbling against Sam’s skin. “The ones you like.”
Sam turns his head just enough that his lips graze Dean’s cheek. It’s rough with stubble, but Sam’s always liked it that way. “Thanks,” he whispers. “Now get them, jerk, before I get my revenge.”
Dean huffs and pulls back. “Fine, fine,” he grumbles. “Ruin the moment, why don’t you.”
Sam leans forward, pressing their mouths together. Dean hums, his lips parting, and Sam slips his tongue inside, his fingers curling into Dean’s shirt. Dean’s hands come up to frame his face, and he pushes Sam against the back of the couch, deepening the kiss, tangling their tongues together. His stubble rubs across Sam’s face, and Sam wraps his arms tight around him. He can wait a few more minutes for food, he thinks, drinking Dean in. They hadn’t done anything last night, too worn out from digging two separate graves in one evening. They hadn’t even really kissed before falling into the bed, though Sam thinks he remembers feeling Dean’s lips on his forehead before he’d dropped off.
This is better.
Just when Sam’s considering pulling Dean’s shirt off, though, Dean pulls away, breathing hard. He’s trembling, Sam realizes. “I don’t know about you,” he mumbles against Sam’s lips, “but if we’re gonna do this right, we need to eat first, dude.”
Sam reluctantly unwinds his arms from Dean’s back and sits up, shaking the mess of his hair out of his face. “Yeah,” he agrees as his stomach rumbles.
They turn the TV on and eat three granola bars apiece, then share Dean’s M&Ms while they watch some stupid late morning talk show that has Dean swearing at the screen every two minutes. Sam’s not usually big on chocolate and especially not on M&Ms, but something about eating them like this, with the windows dark with rain and nowhere else to be, makes them almost taste good.
After their breakfast (of sorts), Dean flips through the channels, scowling more and more. “Shit, shit, shit,” he mutters. “All of it’s shit.”
“We could—” Sam starts to say.
“Hang on,” Dean says, hauling himself up off the couch and heading back over to his duffel, which is spilled out onto the bed from his earlier search for granola bars. “I think I’ve got a movie in here.”
“Yeah, I was gonna — here!” Dean holds up a battered copy of Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark.
Sam starts to ask if there’s even a DVD player, but then he spots one on the stand under the TV. First a working remote, and now this? This place really is nicer than their usual fare, he thinks, watching as Dean slides the disc inside. He has to admire the arch of Dean’s back as he bends over, and the curve his ass makes against his jeans. Dean should really bend over more often, Sam muses, then grins as he remembers the last time Dean bent over for him.
They sit back on the couch to watch. At first just their knees are touching, but by the time Indy has figured out Nazis are after the Ark of the Covenant, they’re half-lying on each other, with Dean’s legs across Sam’s lap and Sam’s head pillowed on Dean’s stomach. Halfway through the movie, Sam experimentally slips his fingers under the hem of Dean’s shirt and wiggles them against his abdomen.
“Are you trying to start something?” Dean asks, grabbing the remote. “‘Cause I can pause it, if you are.”
Sam moves his hand up and over, tickling under Dean’s arm now. “Nothing?” he asks, tipping his chin up to scrutinize Dean’s face.
Dean snorts. “Give it up, Sammy.” He ruffles Sam’s hair (Sam grunts when his fingers catch on one of the tangles) and then turns back to the movie. Sam considers pursuing it — the feel of Dean’s skin under his palm is making him remember that kiss from earlier — but then the Ark gets opened and his attention is back on the screen. They have all day, he thinks, resting his head on Dean’s chest. And there’s something to be said about just lying together like this, not having sex or making out or even having it on the table at the moment. Most of the time he feels like they rush through everything, get each other off as fast as possible because they might get interrupted at any moment. He loves it, loves everything he and Dean do to each other, but it’s nice, to take it slow. To just be together for once.
When the movie’s over, the rain has let up a little bit, so Dean orders pizza — “No onions, spinach for you, bacon for me, and no Sammy, I’m not eating mushrooms, don’t even ask” — and they eat it sitting on the couch with some old movie starring John Candy playing in the background. “Popcorn?” Dean asks him around a mouthful of cheese. “I’ve actually got all the Indiana Jones movies in there too. Well,” he amends, “the three that count, anyway.”
“Kind of a theme,” Sam observes. He glances outside, at the angry gray sky and the sheeting rain. It’s barely afternoon, even if it doesn’t look like it. “Yeah, sure, let’s watch them all.”
Dean pops a couple of the bags of popcorn while Sam scrounges up some cups from the bathroom. There’s still a couple of beers from last night in the fridge, but Dean also got a two-liter when he ordered the pizza, and so they pour themselves some of that (it’s root beer, which Sam actually likes enough to drink, unlike most sodas) and then settle in to watch Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Dean’s found a bowl somewhere for the popcorn, and they sit side-by-side and balance it on their thighs. Dean also produces a can of Pringles and a bag of Doritos, which makes Sam raise an eyebrow at him. “What did you do, raid the snack aisle before going on this hunt?”
“Pretty much,” Dean says, and pops the top.
The couch, their laps, the floor, and somehow Sam’s hair are all littered with popcorn and chip crumbs by the time the credits roll. Dean grins as he brushes kernels out of the hair by Sam’s ear. “What did you do, try to feed it?” he chuckles. “Would explain a lot, actually.”
“My hair is not sentient,” Sam grumbles, fighting him off. “Stop it, you have butter all over your hands.”
Dean leans forward, brushing a kiss over Sam’s mouth, and then whispers in that ear, “Is that a request?”
“A—” Sam starts, just as Dean touches his mouth, rubbing the pad of one thumb over Sam’s lower lip. Ah, Sam thinks. That kind of request.
Dean’s fingers taste salty, mostly, and Sam closes his eyes and sucks on them, running his tongue over them. There’s a hint of butter and of ranch, probably from the Doritos, but he can also detect the flavor he’s come to know is uniquely Dean’s, a sort of musky savoriness he loves. He cleans his brother’s fingers one by one, licking them until there’s nothing but Dean’s taste on his tongue.
They’re both breathing hard by the time he’s finished. Sam licks one last stripe down the length of Dean’s pinky. He keeps going, dragging his tongue down to Dean’s wrist, sucking on the sensitive skin just under his palm. Dean squirms, mumbling his name, and Sam pulls off with a wet pop. Their eyes meet. Dean’s are half-lidded, the pupils wide, the green a thin ring around them.
“Let’s watch the third movie later,” Sam whispers.
Dean surges forward, bringing their mouths together again, his still-damp hands cupping Sam’s face. “Sammy,” he mumbles, pressing Sam back against the arm of the couch and kissing him over and over.
Sam will take that as a yes.
He opens his mouth under Dean’s, tangling their tongues together, enjoying the bursts of salt and butter mingled with the taste of his brother. Dean’s practically on top of him now, half-kneeling on the couch with one leg pressed between Sam’s as they slowly slide down until Sam’s head is on the arm of the couch. Sam clasps his hands around the back of Dean’s neck, holding him still as he kisses him as slowly as he’s ever wanted to, memorizing everything about him, the taste, the scent, the feel. He can feel Dean’s hand on his side, pushing up his t-shirt so Dean can trail his fingers over Sam’s naked skin, and it doesn’t tickle, not this time. It feels like Dean’s branding him, like his fingers are drawing fire from his skin wherever he touches him.
“Dean,” he murmurs, needing to say it, needing to hear his brother’s name be what breaks the stillness. Dean moves his mouth down Sam’s neck, sucking on the pulse pounding in his throat, and Sam arches up under him, feeling the weight of Dean’s body pressing into him. He can feel Dean’s erection, even through the denim, hard and hot against his hip, and Sam’s done with taking it slow. He needs Dean, now.
They help each other out of their clothes, their hands fumbling as they wriggle out of jeans and t-shirts without falling off the couch. The remote tumbles to the floor when Sam pulls Dean’s shirt over his head, and they crush what’s left of the Doritos when Sam lifts his hips so Dean can pull his boxers off. But Sam’s beyond caring about anything but Dean anymore; Dean’s naked above him, his body curved like a bow over Sam’s, his mouth warm on Sam’s as they kiss again and again. Sam fumbles for his hips, grabbing onto them as their cocks push together, hot and sure and perfect. He’d had the vague idea of Dean fucking him, when he’d lain down, but now all he wants is this.
Thunder rumbles as they rock together, their bodies melded, their hands searching and their mouths fused. Dean’s legs bracket his, his thighs pushing against Sam’s as their cocks slide against each other. Sam feels electrified; every kiss, every touch, every slide sends sparks through him, until they all build up into a crescendo and then crash over him. He arches his back as he comes, his cock pulsing against Dean’s, his lips gasping out his brother’s name.
“Sammy,” Dean gasps back, his voice wrecked, his whole body shaking as he buries his face in Sam’s neck and follows Sam over the edge.
They lie quiet for a while after that, breathing each other’s air. Sam closes his eyes, listening to the rain and, underneath it, the faint electric whine of the TV. His fingers stroke idle patterns on Dean’s back, and he presses his mouth against Dean’s temple, loving him, loving the rain that’s kept them here, even loving the crinkled-up chip bag underneath his back.
Lightning flashes then, outlining the whole room in white, and thunder splits the air, much louder than before. The lights, the TV, everything goes off.
“Guess we’re not watching The Last Crusade,” Sam says finally, and Dean laughs into his shoulder.
“I can think of a few other things to do,” he smiles.
“Water first,” Sam smiles back. “That was way too much salt, man.” He kisses Dean, a brief press of their mouths, and sits up, combing his fingers through his greasy (buttery?) hair, wincing as he works out the snarls. He can hear Dean get up, swearing a little as he makes his way toward the bathroom.
His hair’s as good as it’s going to get without a shower, a brush, and a lot of conditioner. Sam gets up too, stretching his sated limbs, and then pads over to the nightstand, where he’s pretty sure he left his phone. After a couple of misses, he finds it and swipes the screen, waking it up. It seems as bright as a flashlight when it flickers on, and Sam squints at it, reading the time. It’s barely six pm, he sees, a smile touching his mouth. They still have hours.
Then his gaze catches on something else at the top of the screen. It takes him a moment to register what it means.
It’s May 2.
It’s his birthday.
Sam usually aggressively ignores his birthday. It’s never been a good day for him, and in fact is usually the opposite; some of the worst days of his life have been his birthday. He was killed on his birthday, and so Dean made that stupid deal and died a year later, also on his birthday. It’s always been like that for him. Even when they were kids, his birthdays were always just a huge disappointment, if not outright terrible, no matter how hard Dean tried to make them special.
It all comes together in his mind, then. The nicer than usual room. The popcorn and the chips. Dean happening to have all three Indiana Jones movies with him, in a room that happens to have a DVD player.
The lights come back on then, bathing the room in soft yellow light, and Sam turns to see Dean emerge from the bathroom, a cup of water in one hand. He looks so good that Sam almost falters; his hair is mussed, his lips flushed and his eyes bright, his naked skin seeming to glow in the lamplight.
“Do you know what day it is?” Sam demands.
Dean clears his throat. “It’s, uh. It’s May 2.”
Which means Dean knew exactly what he was doing. Dean’s never forgotten Sam’s birthday, no matter how much Sam has wanted him to, though he usually doesn’t go this far. Usually it’s just porn and a sad-looking gas-station cupcake or something. “So you did this.” Sam waves his free hand, encompassing the room, the fallen popcorn bowl, the couch, everything. “You planned this whole thing.”
“Well, I didn’t make it rain, but yeah.” Dean shrugs, looking sheepish. “I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he mumbles. “You didn’t seem to even remember, and I know how you… I just wanted you to, you know. Not even have a good day, just… just have it be a day, you know? No shit going down, no crap interfering, but no celebration either. Just a day like any other.”
Sam blinks at him, taking it in. A tiny part of him is still annoyed that Dean did anything at all, but the rest of him realizes that Dean actually thought about what he’d want, first. He hadn’t said anything to remind Sam what day it was. He hadn’t tried to take Sam to a bar or a game or anything. He’d found a nice room, yes, but it wasn’t anything grand or completely out of their usual fare. He’d brought movies he knew Sam liked. He’d gotten Sam’s favorite granola bars. He’d just — been Sam’s brother.
“Sammy?” Dean ventures. He puts the cup of water down on the desk and approaches Sam, hesitant. “Sam, man, I—”
“Not a day like another other,” Sam says softly, setting his phone back down and walking into Dean’s arms. Dean holds him tightly, letting out a sigh, and Sam leans his cheek against Dean’s hair and closes his eyes.
Dean kisses the corner of his mouth. “So we’re good?”
“We’re good,” Sam agrees.
Dean kisses the other corner. “Can I say it?” he mumbles. “I mean, since you know…”
Sam shakes his head, reflexively. But he doesn’t mind, he realizes. It’s been too good a day, and it’s not even over yet. “Go ahead. I know you want to.”
Dean kisses him full on the mouth. “Happy birthday, Sammy.”
And for once, Sam thinks as he kisses him back, as they fall onto the bed together, it actually kind of is.