Okay, so it's been a while, sorry. But I've got a angst-free fic to make up for it!
I own nothing, as always.
He knows it's a mistake as soon as he says it.
"Yeah, we'll take the honeymoon suite." Fast and easy, falling out of his mouth as smoothly as any of their other lies. The woman beams at him, face lighting up as she passes over the keys.
"We've had nothing but positive feedback about this room," she promises him, leaning forward like it's a conspiracy. "I'm sure you find it most enjoyable."
And then she winks at Dean, turning to the next customer and engaging them in a lively debate about sea-view rooms.
"Dude," Dean mutters to Sam as he reaches him, "she winked at me." Sam glances at his brother then back over his shoulder at the receptionist with a short laugh.
"Maybe she fancies you. What? She wouldn't be the first." Dean snorts, but decides it'd probably be better if he didn't tell Sam what he'd told the woman. It would raise all sorts of questions that he really didn't want to answer.
Instead, he walks a fraction closer to Sam than usual, hands brushing together so lightly it could be taken for a mistake. When they reach the door, Dean holds it open for his brother, which gains him a strange look from Sam and another creepy grin from the receptionist.
He sucks his lip into his mouth as they reach the room, waiting for Sam's response to the lack of a second bed.
"Forgot how to count past one, Dean?" comes Sam's voice, tinged with humour, and Dean exhales messily, following Sam into the room.
"Funny story," he starts, and Sam raises an eyebrow, dropping his bag to the floor. "I may have told the receptionist that we're on our, uh, honeymoon."
There's silence for a moment, and then Sam laughs slightly in disbelief.
"Seriously?" he asks, face folding into an amused grin. "You who always complains about people making assumptions?"
"Yeah, well, she was implying shit and I get bored of always denying it," Dean replies, tossing his bag onto the bed and bending down to unlace his boots.
"So you told her we were married?" Sam scoffs and toes out of his own shoes, looking around the room. Dean shrugs and kicks his boots to the wall.
"She told me, more like. I just agreed."
"Idiot," Sam tells him fondly, dropping down on the bed behind him. The springs squeal in protest, and there's a quiet shuffle outside, the sound of feet scuffing the concrete. Both boys freeze, head turned towards the door, and there's another soft noise, like someone inhaling.
Dean rolls of the bed and creeps to the window, twitching the curtain in an unnoticeable way that takes years of practice to perfect. His face pales and Sam shoots upright, ready for a fight.
"It's that fucking receptionist," Dean hisses, walking back to the bed. "She's listening at the door."
Sam blinks, then collapses into laughter.
"Just when I thought we'd met the freakiest people we could," he replies, and Dean nods his agreement, eyes focussed on the pillow behind Sam's head.
"Why don't we give her a show?" he asks without thinking, and immediately flushes a dark red. Sam blinks again, has to think back to make sure he heard his brother right.
"Sorry," Dean mutters, and Sam sits up, shaking his head.
"No," he says slowly, "if you want to."
And yeah, they've fucked before - when the tension between them reaches a fever pitch, there's not much else they can do - but it usually involves copious amounts of alcohol and no small amount of self-loathing on Dean's behalf. This is different. This is daylight-sober, clear-as-rain, sex.
Dean hesitates for a moment that drags on into what feels like forever, stretching painfully around them. And then he smiles. It's a scared, shaken smile, but it's got a hint of the old Dean, and that's all Sam needs.
"Can't let her think I'm not a good lay," he murmurs, and Sam laughs, forcing the last nerves from his mind as Dean drops down on top of him, hands bracketing his head
"You sure?" he breathes, and Sam nods, has never been more sure in his life, because this is Dean, and he could never not be sure about Dean.
And then Dean's kissing him, mouth hard instead of messy, and he tastes like coffee and salt instead of whiskey. His hand moves sure and strong down Sam's side, gripping his hip tightly, and it's so fucking much better without a haze of intoxication blocking out the feel of Dean's calluses on his skin.
Dean pulls his mouth back, bites down on Sam's jaw, hisses, "make some noise, you prick." Sam huffs out a laugh, drags his nails up Dean's chest over his shirt and digs them into the muscle around his nipples.
"You make some noise, you got us into this," he replies, brushing the pad of his thumb over the hardening nubs, and Dean lets out a low groan, arching his back into the touch. Sam grins, drops his head back in a moan as Dean's tongue traces his windpipe. His fingers tighten on Dean's shirt as his brother digs his teeth into the soft skin, cutting off Sam's air for a dizzying moment.
"Fucker," Sam pants when Dean releases his throat, and Dean laughs in return, a low, breathy sound that goes straight to Sam's cock. He hisses out another curse as Dean rocks his hips down, denim catching and dragging over sensitive skin. Sam bucks up into the feeling as Dean pulls back, and the bed groans loudly again. Dean chuckles against Sam's chin, and Sam slaps his shoulder, then drops his hand to Dean's hip and tugs their groins together again.
"Think she's still there?" Dean asks, and Sam hits him again, on the side this time.
"Do you really care?" he hisses, and Dean laughs, shaking his head as he presses his lips to Sam's again. Sam groans into his mouth and flicks his jeans open, tugging them down over his hips. He pauses and squirms his head back when his fingers meet bare skin, glancing down between their bodies with a raised eyebrow.
"Going commando, Dean?" he teases, fingertips tracing a line across Dean's naked stomach, and Dean shivers into the touch.
"It's quicker," he replies, and Sam laughs.
"Slut," he replies, and Dean rolls his eyes, pulls his mouth back up into another kiss.
Dean gets Sam's jeans open easily, but it takes some awkward shuffling to get them off, mainly because Sam busies himself with Dean's neck while they're doing it. After a moment's huffing and swearing, Dean's sporting a bruise that'd make a cheerleader blush, and Sam's jeans and boxers are in a pile by the foot of the bed. Dean reaches for his bag, digs through and pulls out a condom with a frown.
"I haven't got any lube," Dean mutters, and Sam snorts.
"So much for being quick. I don't, either."
They stare at each other, and Dean's eyes grow hopeful. Sam hits him again, harder this time.
"I'm not letting you fuck me without prep, prick," he tells him, and Dean deflates slightly.
"Bitch."
"Jerk," Sam replies, and wraps his hand around their cocks, pressing them together in his palm. "There are other ways to get off, you know."
Dean's hips angle down into Sam's hand, and Sam jerks his fist roughly over them both, pulling his hand away for a moment to spit into it when the friction starts to burn. As the skin becomes slick with pre-come and saliva, his fist starts moving faster, stripping over their dicks firmly.
He knows just how to get Dean off, knows how his brother likes his hand to twist as it reaches the base, how Dean groans out loud when Sam flicks his thumb over the nerves just under the head. Digs his thumbnail into Dean's slit, listens to Dean mewl at the pain-pleasure, bites at Dean's lips. Dean's hands slide all over his hips, like he can't keep them in one place for too long, scratching up his back and stomach, and tracing the crease of his arse.
It's fast and dirty, aiming for orgasm rather than foreplay, and Dean stiffens with a groan after just a few minutes, spilling out across Sam's fist and the bottom of Sam's shirt. His nails bite into Sam's hip as he bats Sam's hand away from their cocks, closing his fingers around Sam's cock himself instead, tugging at it long and fast like Sam wants. Sam arches up into him, moans out his name, surrounds it with god and fuck and harder. Dean's hands are filthy, know their way around a handjob, and Sam's coming, crying out, shuddering, trapped between Dean and the sheets.
Dean grins down at him, wipes the come off of his hands onto Sam's shirt. Sam swats at him, pushes him off and sits off. He runs a hand through his hair and then remembers what's covering them, groaning as his hair falls back into his face, matted and sticky. Dean snorts up at him, and it's good. It feels normal.
"Think she's still out there?" Dean asks, and Sam laughs.
"Probably not."
"Yeah," Dean agrees. "You probably scared her away. All that moaning and groaning and-"
"Idiot," Sam cuts him off, slapping lightly at his shoulder.
"Awww, Sammy, I loved it really," Dean mocks, and Sam sighs, rolls his eyes.
"I don't suppose asking you to shut up will do any good?"
"Nope. You're stuck with me now."
"Fuck. You're usually asleep by now."
"I'm usually drunk."
"Goddammit."