A/N: No plot. Even if you tilt your head and squint hard. Wincest.
They are calm and collected as they climb out of the Impala and cross the distance to the room. Dean fits the keycard into the lock and Sam glances around nonchalantly. The lights flash green and he pushes the door open, crosses the threshold.
Sam's on him before the door is completely shut, pinning him against it with such force that the neighbors are probably wondering what they're slamming doors for. But Dean doesn't care; he's too wrapped up in hazel eyes and pouty lips and Sam.
Adrenaline left over from the hunt still pulses through them, a slow and deliberate poisoning of reason. His brother's mouth is hot on his, all sliding tongues and clacking teeth. This is a different sort of fight.
Regardless, they are good at fighting.
They're stumbling into the room, hands and mouths still hungry, searching, in a flurry of discarded clothing. The backs of Sam's kness hit the edge of the bed, and Dean pushes him back against the cheery motel coverlet.
Climbs on after, planting gentle little kisses all over Sam's face. They seem out of place, apologetic, in this feverish dance of tongues and fingertips. Dean bites at the small up-turn of Sam's nose, rough and sharp, before moving down to mouth at his brother's neck.
Sam tilts his head back to accommodate him, making unconscious noises that incite Dean to continue, to lap at the pulse point on Sam's neck, to elicit more little moans and whimpers.
Adrenaline fades to something that burns brighter and is more needly, rushes through their veins like liquid fire. Sam arches against Dean, a failed attempt to gain friction on his painfully hard cock still trapped in his jeans, and Dean moves lower.
Nips and licks at Sam's nipples as they pebble, hands gliding lower on the flat plane of his brother's stomach. They stop just below his navel, fingering the sparse line of hair that leads beneath Sam's jeans and boxers.
Dean's mouth follows as his fingers occupy themselves with getting the button and zipper undone as quickly as possible. He pulls the offending garments off and Sam shifts to assist him. As soon as they're tossed away he dives in, teeth scraping over hipbones and the sensitive skin on Sam's inner thighs.
He ignores Sam's leaking cock long enough to award him a small whine of protest. Sam rolls his hips to illustrate his point, and Dean shoots him an amused grin, before he finally wraps his hand around it and pumps slowly.
Sam throws his head back, lost in sensation, and Dean wraps his lips around the swollen skin. Sam's hands move from where they were tangled in the coverlet and scrabble at Dean's too-short hair, trying to find something to grab on to as Dean moves his tongue, following the throbbing vein on the underside of Sam's cock and flicking over the slit.
Then he sucks, long and deep, and Sam arches off of the bed with a shout. Adrenaline leaves his veins in the hard pulse of fluid that floods Dean's mouth. Dean's throat works around him, trying to swallow all that Sam can give, and his hands on his hips slowly bring him back down.
As soon as Dean's made sure that he's gotten every last drop of come, he's climbing up Sam's body again, laying out beside him. Boneless, Sam brings the hand that was laying uselessly at his side down, cupping Dean's own erection through the fabric of his boxers.
He squeezes and creates a channel with his too-big hand for Dean to thrust into. Mutters that he's going to make it up to Dean in Round Two. And then Dean stiffens, makes a stifled noise, and comes all over Sam's hand, hot and sticky.
They lay there together, not quite cuddling, as the pool of come dries on their stomachs. The smell of sex and of each other hangs in the air as they recover, dozing.