Dean still isn't sure about this. Being a hunter all his life means he's spent a good amount of time in the woods, chasing werewolves or vampires or whatever else thought it could hide from them in the trees and the shadows, and usually, in Dean's experience anyway, the woods is a horrible, horrible place where nothing but awful things happen. Watching any city's local news channel proves that – as soon as search and rescue teams start scouring the woods for somebody, it's almost a guarantee they're not coming back alive. And Dean's as badass a mother-fucker as they come, but he's not into the whole wilderness thing. It's dirty and cold and wet and tree sap just gets everywhere and it never comes off. Like, ever. But, the hits have just been coming one after another lately, never enough time in between for either of them to recharge before the next one, and Dean really doesn't like how tired and worn down Sam's looked for longer than he can even remember. So – camping.
It's maybe a terrible idea. Actually, it's probably a terrible idea. They've both got basic survival training, Bobby made sure of that back when he was always Uncle Bobby, and it's come in handy more than a few times, but Dean's never pitched a tent in his life and sleeping on a mattress filled with air seems like one of the dumber ideas humans have ever come up with. It wasn't all that long ago they spent the whole night balls-deep in a forest in Michigan hunting a Wendigo and Dean's not exactly eager to repeat that experience. He doesn't really know what people do when they camp, either. It's spring but it's still too cold to swim, and it's not like either of them have any interest in hunting something lame like a deer. It would be easy and boring and Sam would probably cry. Dean was trying to think, though, of some place they could go where they could take a break from everything, somewhere their real lives won't be able to find them for a night or two, and the middle of fucking nowhere was the best he could come up with. There won't be internet connections or newspapers where they're going so if weird deaths or accidents pop up they won't hear about them, and there won't be cell service either. For two days and two nights, they'll be completely alone. That part, Dean's looking forward to. And he and Sam could both really use a breather.
It's all too much sometimes. Dad's death, the secret about Sam he made Dean keep until he couldn't anymore, Sam being both pissed at Dean for lying to him and as terrified of the truth as Dean is – the way Sam just stares off into space sometimes, like he's so afraid of what he thinks he might become that he doesn't know how to deal with it short of just letting himself go blank and numb and empty. Dean hates it. He hates that it seems like he can promise Sam he'll save him until he's blue in the face but Sam still doesn't believe it. He wants to believe it, Dean can tell, but he seems to think this is something that's out of Dean's hands. And he's right, probably, but that makes Dean hurt in places he's never hurt before. The one thing in the world he should be able to do is protect his little brother. If he can't even do that, he doesn't really have anything left. And it's not like a weekend sleeping in a tent and pissing in the bushes is going to fix anything. But Dean feels like maybe he needs some time to get his head back on straight. And Sam's been wound up so tight the last few months that if he doesn't relax he'll start bursting blood vessels.
Sam was skeptical at first, like Dean knew he would be. "Why would we want to go camping?" he'd asked, head tilted to the side and eyebrows furrowed in that confused puppy expression Dean knows so well. "We spend like a third of our lives in the woods with monsters that're trying to kill us. Or eat us, or drink our blood, or sacrifice us to the devil."
Which just proves that they spend entirely too much time together, because that was Dean's exact thought when he'd first come up with the idea.
"One word, Sammy. Seclusion."
"I didn't think you knew that word," Sam deadpanned, face completely serious even though the glint in his eyes gave him away.
"Oh, you're just, you're a modern-day George Carlin, you know that? Just so, so funny."
Sam had laughed, and it was maybe the first time Dean had seen him smile in almost a month. "Alright, what're we gonna do out there, then?"
"Nothing. That's the point," Dean told him. "We are going to pitch a tent and have a campfire and we are going to do absolutely nothing except freeze our nuts off and try not to attract bears or serial killers. And maybe have sex."
The smile on Sam's face just widened, even as he shook his head. "Is that what this is? This is all part of some weird, Jason Voorhees, teenage girls at camp fetish? You wanna get me out into the middle of nowhere and have your way with me?"
"I feel like you want me to say no," Dean joked, smiling all the way down to his toes when Sam laughed even louder.
"Freak. You're not gonna wear a hockey mask, are you? 'Cause I gotta tell you, as much as I love you, I'm not sure I could get into that."
"You'll just have to see, won't you?"
Sam's eyes sparkled as he smiled. "Okay, but really. You have never wanted to go camping in your life."
Dean shrugged. "Well I want to now, so c'mon. Move your ass."
"What about everything else?"
"What everything else?"
Sam answered with a pointed look, and Dean sighed.
"That'll all still be here when we get back. It's not like it's going somewhere if we don't spend every waking moment stressing over it. Look, we bust our humps every single day saving people and ganking monsters and trying to figure out what the hell Dad was trying to warn me about and lately it seems like all it does is make us miserable."
"Helping people is important, Dean. You're the one who taught me that. You practically beat me over the head with it."
"Yeah, I know it is. I'm not suggesting we retire, alright? I'm just saying we need a break. A minute to catch our breath before we dive into the next one. We're not the only hunters in existence. The world can live without us for forty-eight hours. Okay?"
Sam had still seemed reluctant, or maybe just confused, but he went along with it because Dean didn't exactly give him much choice in the matter. Dean wasn't really asking, anyway. Sometimes being the older brother means stepping in and doing what's right for Sammy even when Sammy doesn't want him to. Which is almost always, because Sam's ornery like that.
The spot Dean found for them is technically a campsite, but it's pretty far off the beaten path and according to the map he picked up at the ranger station, the closest hunting lodge is more than three miles away, so they really will be completely alone. Dean's cell phone lost its last bar twenty minutes before they arrived, just like he wanted, so he turns it off and sticks it in the Impala's glove compartment along with Sam's.
"If Bobby or Ellen need to get a hold of us," Sam starts warily, but Dean cuts him off.
"Then they can wait."
It's very unlike them that Dean's the one pulling them away from hunting and Sam's the one trying to cling to it, but it isn't surprising. Sometimes it feels almost like they've switched personalities lately, and Dean doesn't like that. There are so many things he dislikes about himself, the last thing he would ever want is for Sam to become more like him.
Pitching a tent, it turns out, is a lot harder than Dean thought it would be. It's one of those infuriating things that seems like it should be easy – poles go in the slots, pegs go through the loops and into the ground, simple – but is actually stupidly difficult. It keeps falling down in the middle, and the poles are bent in a couple places because Dean bought it for ten bucks at a pawn shop, so they keep snagging on the slippery material. If they had two or three more hands each, Dean feels like it would have been a piece of cake, but as it is, it takes them a lot longer than it probably should. And the package said rainproof on it, but Dean's just going to hope they have good weather because the thing looks like it's about fifty years old and nothing this flimsy could possibly last that long without losing its ability to repel water.
The air mattress doesn't look too horrible, though, especially considering Dean's spent most of his life sleeping on motel mattresses that probably weren't much better. Dean's mostly used to lumps and busted springs, and to trying really hard not to think about the fact that he's putting his body on something that's most likely stained with someone else's semen. So as long as this thing doesn't spring a leak in the middle of the night, it should be okay. It takes them a while to get it blown up with the ancient air-pump Dean borrowed from Bobby, but once it's full Dean sits on it to test it out and it really isn't half bad. The sleeping bags look alright too; big and squashy and hopefully warm enough that they won't have frozen to death by the time the sun comes up. And Dean brought flashlights and blankets and a full cooler of beer and as many bags of chips as Sam would let him, so really, it could be much, much worse. By the time they get everything set up, Dean's almost proud of himself for conquering something so ordinary.
"We're, like, people," he says, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and grinning at Sam. Sam's sweating too, even though it isn't exactly hot out, and he grabs the bottom of his t-shirt and pulls it up to wipe at the moisture on his face. Dean's caught with an unexpected but fantastic view of Sam's rippled stomach, and his mouth fills with saliva just looking at it. He still can't remember when his little brother stopped being so little and turned into this big, strong, heavily-muscled man, but Dean is definitely okay with it.
"I don't know what that means," Sam replies.
"This," Dean explains, gesturing vaguely around the campsite. "All of it. Sleeping bags, junk food, cooking hotdogs over a fire. This is the kind of shit people do. Like, regular people. People who aren't us."
"Oh." Sam looks at him halfway between affectionately and like he thinks Dean is a complete moron. "Yeah, I guess it is. Everything except for the armory in the trunk."
"Well that's just good sense. Never know when you might need to blow something to smithereens. What is a smithereen, anyway?"
Without skipping a beat, Sam answers, "Comes from the Irish word 'smidirin', it means small fragments," and Dean rolls his eyes. Of course Sam knows that off the top of his head. "Speaking of that, are there actually bears out here?" Sam asks, frowning and glancing around.
"Why, you scared?" Dean teases, and Sam huffs and glares at him.
"No. We just gotta be careful about the food and the garbage if there are. And we should make a lotta noise so they don't get curious and come wandering through here."
"Don't even worry about that, Sammy. We are going to make, just, so much noise," Dean tells him, waggling his eyebrows and Sam huffs again and rolls his eyes, but smiles anyway.
There isn't a whole lot to do out here once the work is done, and Dean sort of starts to wonder again why anyone would want to go camping in the first place, but then Sam suggests they go for a walk through the woods, and when they're surrounded by nothing but trees and the eerie, blanketed silence of the wilderness, Sam pushes Dean up against an old oak and kisses him. Dean wraps his arms around Sam's neck and kisses back, fingers playing idly in Sam's hair as Sam rocks up against him and plunders Dean's mouth with his tongue like it's the making out Olympics and he's going for the world record. He pushes the top of his thigh into Dean's quickly filling erection, the pressure of the firm muscle just enough to have Dean's head spinning.
"We don't have to hide out here," Sam whispers, his voice low and rough and spine-tingling in Dean's ear, his breath hot on Dean's cold skin. "I can do this – " he reaches down and cups Dean's dick in his hand through the denim, squeezing it gently, and Dean's head falls back against the tree trunk, " – and there's no one around to care that you're my big brother."
"S'fuckin' hot, little brother," is all Dean can manage to get out, shivering when Sam smiles sexily at him and then pushes his hand into Dean's jeans, wrapping his big hand around Dean's cock and stroking.
Sam nips at Dean's earlobe and then licks at it. "Love the way you feel against me, how good you fit in my hand. Make me so crazy for it, Dean. Can't even think straight sometimes."
He jerks Dean off quick and dirty and so overwhelmingly good that sounds escape from Dean's throat that he's too turned on to be self-conscious about. Sam's the only one who knows how to do this exactly right, to get Dean close to the edge so fast it would be embarrassing if it wasn't so hot. Sam kisses him around a moan when Dean comes, squeezing the head of his cock as Dean catches fire and empties himself into Sam's palm. When he's caught his breath, he grabs Sam by the shoulders and flips them around so Sam's up against the tree. He drops down to his knees, tugging Sam's pants down with him, and swallows his leaking erection down as far as he can in one swift movement. He sucks Sam off just as enthusiastically, bobbing his head and laving his tongue back and forth over the sensitive underside until Sam's crying out harshly and exploding down Dean's throat.
Sam is all flushed cheeks and bashful smiles when Dean stands back up, and Dean almost laughs at how ridiculous it is that Sam can be a confident, dirty-talking sex god one minute and then go right back to being a giant, over-grown puppy the next. He tucks Sam back into his jeans and does up the zipper and button for him like he used to, and then Sam pulls him into a big bear hug, holding Dean close against his chest and not letting go when Dean tries to pull away after a minute. Dean frowns, not exactly sure why Sam's being clingy, but he just slides his arms back around Sam's waist and lets Sam hold onto him for as long as he wants.
Once the sun starts setting, Dean gathers as many sticks and small logs as he can find and arranges them in the fire pit, in a teepee shape like Dad taught him with dried leaves in the middle for kindling. He lights it from the bottom, in three places so it'll burn evenly, while Sam gets their dinner ready. And then, after everything's cleaned up and put back into the Impala where the bears can't get to it, they just sit. There's an old hollow log that's probably about as tall as Dean is, resting on its side near the pit, and it's not the most luxurious seat Dean's ever put his ass on but it's not horrible either. It's a lot better than sitting on the ground, anyway. And he's full and pleasantly buzzed from his fourth beer of the evening, and it's just him and Sam and the bright orange and pink sunset and Dean's man enough to admit that he really, really likes that.
The fire throws a good amount of heat when it gets going, which is nice because it got cold once it was dark and Dean definitely didn't bring a warm enough jacket. It's kind of hypnotizing to just stare into it and watch the flames burst and curl around each other and flicker from yellow to orange to red and then back again. The sparks look like thousands of tiny stars cascading into the sky and then burning out once they get too far away into the darkness. And the smoke keeps the bugs away. But other then that, Dean doesn't really understand the appeal. It's not really as entertaining as he thought it would be. Fire still confuses him, too. It has meant so many bad things in his life – Mom's death mainly – but it's also meant good things. Tossing a match into a salted grave and watching it explode always comes with a sense of accomplishment, because getting to the stage of a hunt where he and Sam put a spirit to rest means they've done their jobs. He kind of likes fire and hates fire at the same time, and it leaves him feeling unsettled.
"I don't really know why people do this," Sam says softly after a few minutes, saying out loud what Dean had just been thinking like he's prone to do.
"I don't either." Dean shifts a little on the log, trying to find a spot that's more comfortable.
"Does it make you think about Dad?" Sam asks, and honestly, it hadn't until Sam brought it up, but now that's sort of all Dean can think about. He can still see the ignited pyre as clear as if it happened yesterday when he closes his eyes – can still recall the smell of melting flesh and bone turning to ash, can still vividly remember the way he felt; his eyes stinging from the smoke and the tears he tried so hard to hold back, a knot in his stomach that felt like it wouldn't ever go away, and the utter devastation when a grief-stricken Sam had asked Dean if Dad said anything to him before he died, and Dean had to lie and say no.
"I … yeah, kinda," he answers quietly. "Does it make you think about Jess?"
Dean glances over in time to see Sam nodding and blinking a few times in quick succession like he's trying to keep his emotions in check.
"Fuck," Dean swears under his breath. "I'm sorry. This was a really stupid idea, wasn't it."
To Dean surprise, Sam actually shakes his head. "No, it … it wasn't. I, um. I miss you."
He still isn't looking at Dean, so Dean can't quite make out the expression on his face. "What're you talking about? I'm right here."
"I don't mean like that."
"What, then?"
"I miss … I don't know, being with you like this. Without all the other shit getting in the way."
"Oh." Dean swallows and turns his gaze back to the dancing flames. "Yeah, I … me too."
"I didn't really know what to think when you first suggested this, I thought maybe you'd lost it, actually. But it's kind of nice. I like when it's just you and me, when we don't have to think about anything else. Reminds me of when we were teenagers, y'know? Before everything got so complicated. When Dad would take off for a week and we didn't have anything to do but …"
"Bang?" Dean suggests with a smirk, and Sam chuckles.
"Not exactly the word I was looking for, but sure."
Dean laughs, but then he bumps Sam's shoulder with his own and says, "I miss that too."
He couldn't even begin to explain to Sam how much he misses those days. When hunting was just something Dean did because he didn't know how to do anything else – when Dad made all the hard decisions and Dean just tagged along and did what he was told and didn't have to be the person with all the responsibility. It's more than he knows how to handle, sometimes, being the one in charge; having so much on his shoulders. It's even worse when Sam looks at him like he does every now and then, like he wants Dean to be able to snap his fingers and make everything okay again and it just kills Dean to know he can't.
Dean moves a little closer to Sam on the log and slides his arm around Sam's shoulders; Sam leans down and rests his head on Dean's shoulder, resting his big hand on Dean's thigh and squeezing it. Dean kisses the top of his head and then breathes in the smell of Sam's hair, lets it fill him up and take him back to the days when nothing mattered but him and Sam, together. Sam is warm and solid against him, slumped down so that he fits in Dean's arms like he used to, and isn't all that comfortable but Dean never wants to let go. He whispers his brother's name into Sam's soft brown hair; there's more that he wants to say but he can't find the words and Sam doesn't need him to anyway.
"I know," Sam answers softly, tilting his head up to kiss Dean's neck. "This was great, okay? Thanks for bringing us here, Dean."
He's maybe just saying that because he thinks it'll make Dean feel better – because he thinks Dean needs to know sometimes that something he's done has made Sam happy – and either way, it works and he isn't wrong. Dean slides the fingers of his free hand through Sam's hair, tilting his head up so he can see his eyes. They're shiny, glinting green and blue and accented by the flickering light from the fire, and there's more love in them than Sam could ever express in words. It's all Dean needs for the rest of his life reflected in those beautiful eyes, and in the way Sam smiles at him like he means everything. Dean kisses him, slow and soft but so meaningful it makes it hard to breathe. Sam opens up for him, humming when Dean slips his tongue into Sam's mouth and swirls it around in languid sweeps. The bitter taste of beer is still there on Sam's tongue but it's mostly the mellow flavor of Sam that explodes on Dean's taste-buds, and he chases after more of it, never getting enough of Sam no matter what he does.
"C'mon," he murmurs into Sam's lips, standing up and tugging Sam with him.
Dean won't admit it, to Sam or to anyone, but there's a part of him that likes the fact that as Sam stands, Dean goes from leaning down to kiss him to leaning up to kiss him. It isn't manly or whatever else Dean thinks he's supposed to be, but he likes it sometimes that Sam's bigger than him. Dean likes that Sam can manhandle him, toss him around like he's nothing. He also likes that Sam could throw Dean off him if he wanted to, but he never does. He wants this just as much as Dean does, and Dean remembers being eighteen and confused and angry and completely miserable every time he was alone with his sweet, innocent, perfect little brother; he remembers fucking every girl who would have him because he couldn't imagine a world where Sam would ever want him back. But Sam does, and nothing has ever made Dean happier.
"We gotta put the fire out," Sam says, even as he slides his arms around Dean's back and pulls him closer, ducking down and kissing below his ear. For another minute or two Dean ignores him, dragging his teeth along Sam's strong, smooth jaw; lifting his leg up enough to press his thigh into Sam's crotch like Sam did to him earlier, just to hear him moan. Sam makes the most beautiful noises when they're together like this, and Dean can't ever get enough of them. But Sam's right, so Dean reluctantly pulls away from him and grabs the bucket he'd left next to the fire pit. He jogs down to the water, filling the bucket up a few times and dousing the flames with it until the embers are just smoke and ash.
Then he grabs Sam and kisses him again, leading him back towards the tent and pulling at the zipper on his jacket as he does. Sam looks kind of adorably ridiculous all bundled up in sweaters and scarves, but he'd look a hell of a lot better without them, even if they both freeze their asses off because of it. It takes a little work and two elbows that almost hit Dean right in the nose – one of which is his own – to get them both in the sleeping bags and free of clothes, but then Dean has Sam naked and hard and pressed up against him, his cock brushing against Dean's and his tongue back in Dean's mouth, Dean starts to think maybe he could get used to the whole wilderness thing. Sam kisses him until Dean all but forgets his own name, pushing his hips up into Dean's and sending delicious sparks up and down Dean's spine, and yeah, Dean could definitely get used to this.
Dean rolls on top of Sam, his weight trapping their erections between their abdomens, and rocks against Sam slowly as he kisses him. Sam digs his fingernails into the meat of Dean's back, humming softly every time the head of Dean's cock slides against his own, and kissing him so deeply Dean gets dizzy.
"Did you bring – ?" he asks, nipping at Sam's bottom lip.
"Yeah, in my bag," Sam answers, reaching blindly for it and somehow managing to wrestle the bottle out of the front pocket with one hand, without breaking their lips apart. But then he does; pushing gently at Dean's shoulder as a way of asking him to stop. Dean does, but he keeps his forehead resting against Sam's and his eyes closed.
"Sammy?"
"Can we talk about something first?"
"Before the crazy slasher-movie sex, you mean?"
Sam laughs, the sound bright and happy even as he shakes his head like he thinks Dean is an idiot. "Yeah, that."
Dean's reluctant about it, but he knows he won't get anywhere until he indulges Sam, so he rolls off him and props his head up on his hand. "Okay. Shoot."
"I ... um." Sam doesn't look at him, instead he fixes his gaze on the blue nylon ceiling. "I wanted to tell you I'm sorry."
Dean frowns. "For what?"
"I just …" Sam pauses and swallows. "Everything's been kinda messed up lately."
"Why would you be sorry for that? You didn't cause this, Sam."
"I know. But it's been messed up between us too. There's been all this unspoken … whatever. You're worried about me, and I know it's 'cause you care about me, but it's like you're so focused on me that you're forgetting to take care of yourself. You're stressed all the time, on edge. I've never seen you like this."
"Sammy, I'm fine," Dean promises, even though he isn't, and Sam instantly sees through him like Dean should have known he would.
"You're not. And you don't have to pretend that you are. Not for me."
Dean closes his eyes and doesn't answer. There are things he wishes he could say – like that he's completely terrified of what's happening to Sam, that he hates how entirely out of control everything feels lately, that he loathes himself right down to his blood cells because there's something bad going on with his little brother and he hasn't been able to do a damn thing to fix it – but he can't say any of it. Not even to Sam. Even after everything, everything they've been through together and everything else they are to each other, they're still brothers first and Dean's still the older one. Part of his job is to be strong, to hold them both together even as he's falling apart.
"Dean," Sam whispers, and Dean opens his eyes again when he feels fingertips gently brushing over his cheek.
"Yeah," he mumbles. "You're right. I've been comin' a little unglued lately. But c'mon, we came out here to get away from all that, remember?"
"I know we did. But I feel like it's partly my fault, 'cause … I guess I thought maybe it's been kinda hard on you, when you keep promisin' you're gonna save me and I keep ..."
"Not believin' in me?" Dean suggests, and Sam's eyebrows fold together instantly and he turns his head toward Dean.
"It's not that I don't. Hey, I mean it," Sam insists when Dean makes a 'yeah right' kind of face. Sam leans up and kisses him, sliding his fingers along Dean's cheek and down, his palm settling heavy and warm on the side of Dean's neck. "You're my big brother, right? You can do anything."
Sam's probably just saying that too, but Dean would be lying if he said it didn't make him happy to hear it. Maybe he's too easy to manipulate, but maybe, and this is the one Dean's hoping it is, Sam says things like that because he really wants to believe they're true, even if they aren't.
"I just … I'm not sure this is all going to be as simple as you think it will be. That's all. And every week that goes by that you haven't figured it out yet, I feel like … like you think you're letting me down. And you're not, Dean."
Dean nods and sighs, laying his head back down onto the pillow and cupping his hand around Sam's hip under the blanket. "Look, I know it's not going to be as easy as me wishing nothing will ever happen to you and it coming true. Whatever Dad warned me about, whatever he wants me to save you from, obviously it's something big. I just don't like you lookin' so worried all the damn time."
"I'm scared," Sam admits softly, like it's some horrible, shameful secret. It's like every time he had to say out loud that he'd had a nightmare, when he was only seven or eight years old but old enough to be ashamed of himself every time he wasn't as brave as Dean was. Dean hated it then, and he hates it now.
"I know. I am too. This isn't happening only to you, okay? Whatever happens to one of us happens to both of us. That's how we've always been. We can figure this out together, I know we can. Just … remember that. Remember I'm in this with you."
Sam nods too, a frown still twisting his forehead, but then he kisses Dean again and whispers, "Thanks, Dean," against his lips.
There's probably more that Sam wants to say, but Dean isn't going to let him. This trip was supposed to be about them taking a break from their lives, and if Dean lets Sam get caught up in thinking about everything it won't be. He takes the lube from Sam's hand, brushing his lips lightly back and forth over Sam's in slow, sweet kisses as he pops the cap on the little tube. He pushes up onto his hands and knees over Sam, smiling as Sam's legs fall open to make room for him. Dean loves how much Sam trusts him. He has to pull away from Sam for just a moment to pour some clear gel on his fingers and spread it around, and then he captures Sam's lips again, planting his clean hand down beside Sam's shoulder to hold himself up. Sam shivers when Dean slowly trails his fingers down his chest, stopping at his cock to rub the heel of his palm from the base to the tip a few times. Then he ghosts his fingertips down over Sam's balls and finally settles below them, circling just the pad of his index finger around the little furled opening a few times before he slowly pushes past the ring of muscle.
Sam is always so warm and soft on the inside, and he always pulls Dean in like he never wants to let Dean go. Dean works his finger in slow back-and-forth movements until he can get it in all the way. Sam doesn't need him to go as slow as he's going, as often as they do this, but Dean wants to take his time; make Sam fall apart. Show him how perfect and precious and utterly amazing he is; make him feel that Dean will do whatever it takes to keep him safe, since words don't seem to be enough. He slides his finger out and then back in, gradually working up to two. He leans down and kisses Sam, gently at first and then deepens it, and Sam shivers beneath him. Dean spreads his fingers apart just a little, nipping at Sam's bottom lip, and then he pulls his fingers out and pushes back in with three. Dean's so hard it almost hurts not to reach down and touch himself, but he doesn't. He presses against Sam's prostate instead, loving the soft, desperate cry that falls from Sam's lips and the way his back arches and then drops back down to the mattress. Dean does it again, his tongue moving in and out of Sam's mouth with the same easy rhythm. He gets lost in it, lost in Sam's lips on his and the smell of Sam's skin and the beautiful, barely-there sounds Sam makes, until Sam loses patience and pulls Dean's face down a little, kissing him hard.
"C'mon," he mumbles.
"Easy, Sammy," Dean whispers. "Wanna go slow, okay?"
"We've been going slow," Sam points out, probably not even aware of the little brother petulance in his voice. "Want you. Besides, if you hurry up there'll probably be time for me to fuck you too before we pass out."
Dean groans. That hadn't been in his game plan for the evening, but now that Sam mentions it, he really, really wants that to happen. He pulls his fingers out of Sam gently, resolutely ignoring the satisfied little smile on Sam's face at getting exactly what he wanted from Dean – like he always does – and reaches for the lube again. He has to squeeze around the base of his cock for a moment and take a few deep breaths to keep himself from coming at the sight of Sam all spread out and sweaty and messy-haired, staring up at Dean like Dean's own little debauched angel. Then he pours a generous blob of lube into the palm of his hand and spreads it over his dick, getting himself slicked up enough that when he positions himself at Sam's entrance, he can just glide all the way in, in one long push.
Sam moans like he's dying, eyes fluttering closed and mouth falling open, and Dean grins to himself. He leans back down, bracing his hands on either side of Sam's head and then not moving a muscle, brushing his nose against Sam's and then whispering right into his kiss-swollen lips.
"This what you want, baby boy? Want me to fuck you till you can't see straight, pound this ass so hard you'll walk crooked tomorrow, then flip us over and split me open on that big cock? Make 'em hear us all the way back at the ranger's station?"
Normally Sam would roll his eyes at Dean talking like that, like he's the star of a low-budget porn flick, but instead Sam grabs the sides of Dean's face again and kisses him, their teeth clinking together roughly. "Shit," he breathes. "Yes. Yes, c'mon. Do it."
Dean definitely doesn't need to be asked twice. He lifts his hips up, dick sliding almost completely out of Sam and then slamming back in. Sam wraps his legs around Dean's waist and Dean sets up a quick pace, hitting Sam's prostate on every other thrust if the way Sam whimpers is anything to go by. Sam bucks against him, one of his heels digging into the small of Dean's back, urging him to move faster. Dean does, dropping his head down to lave his tongue along Sam's neck as he does. Sam clenches around Dean's cock, the heat and the pressure almost too much for Dean to handle all at once.
"Love this," he says shakily, drawing Sam's earlobe into his mouth and scraping his teeth over it.
"Me too," Sam answers, his words breathless and soft but still harsh and needy. "Love you. Wish we never had to stop."
Dean wishes that too. Sometimes he hates their lives, hates that there's usually so much else for them to deal with that they don't have the time to get lost in each other like this nearly as often as Dean would like. But they have the time now, Dean brought them all the way out here for the sole purpose of being somewhere where nothing could get between them, and Dean is for damn sure going to make the most of it. Sam tries to get a hand between them to jerk himself off but Dean stops him, lacing their fingers together and then moving Sam's hand up over his head and pressing it into the pillow.
"Just this, just me," he whispers, and Sam nods.
Dean thrusts into Sam's body a few times even harder, and then he stops and stays buried inside, moving his hips in a small circle so the head of his cock drags against Sam's prostate. Sam cries out softly, the hand that's still in Dean's squeezing his fingers tightly.
"Fuck," he breathes. "So close, Dean. Keep going."
Resting his lips over Sam's and sharing his air, Dean does, rocking faster into Sam's fluttering channel until Sam bites his lip and grunts, falling to pieces beautifully in front of Dean's eyes and painting his own stomach with creamy white release. The noises that fall from his lips and the feeling of him clenching around Dean's cock with the waves of pleasure have Dean coming too – balls drawing up tight against his body and heat blooming bright in his stomach. He lets go, lets himself tumble down into the spinning blindness and trusts that Sam will catch him. His elbows give out and he collapses like a broken puppet down onto Sam; Sam wraps his free arm around Dean's back and traces his fingers through the sweat pooling along Dean's spine. Dean lets himself float in the lingering bliss and the warmth of Sam's body and the musky smell of them together for long enough that he's almost fallen asleep when Sam laughs softly and gives Dean a gentle shake.
"Don't pass out on top'a me, dude," he says, a smile apparent in his voice even though Dean can't see his face.
Dean rolls off Sam but he makes a pretend big deal about it, sighing heavily and grumbling, "Why not? You're comfy."
"'Cause we had a deal," Sam answers, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, and Dean can't help laughing back.
"Nap first," he decides, pulling Sam back into his arms and nosing through Sam's messy hair. Sam doesn't argue, he just tucks his head under Dean's chin and snuggles in close to Dean's chest where he belongs – where Dean can keep him safe. He wishes Sam didn't ever have to move from this spot, but at least for now he doesn't. For now, it's enough. And maybe camping isn't so stupid after all.