A/N: I don't know what in the world compelled me to write this, but it just sort of came pouring out around 1 AM. I'm gonna pretend that any lack of coherency is a direct product of sleep deprivation and not my own ineptitude. ^^

You're cold and tired and you'll admit it—shaken.

It's no excuse, but it's all you've got and you're clinging to it desperately, telling yourself that what you're thinking, feeling, doing—it's going to be okay. He'd headed straight into the bathroom the second you arrived, not bothering to look behind, not even turning on any of the lights. The click of the lock had sounded frighteningly judgmental. You, you take your time getting out of the car, twiddling with the keys, trying not to choke against the sudden weight crushing your chest.

You don't really notice the rain, walking to the room, already so drenched, so chilled to the bone, that there's no sensation left for it to impart. When you close the door, the room goes pitch—the only illumination coming from the occasional flashes of lightning that burst through the slats of the blinds— momentary, harsh. The thunder is muffled, whether because of your own lack of focus, or because of the purposefully sound-dampened walls, you don't bother wondering.

It's not hard to feel your way to a bed, motel room layouts being one of the few constants to your life, and when you sit, you can't help but face the yellow glow coming from beneath the bathroom door. The thin strains of guitar leak through the wood and after a few beats you recognize the simplicity of a Beatles melody. Not your favorite, but his, a slow, sad rendition of Here Comes the Sun. You almost want to laugh at the absurdity of it, but if you started, you might just not be able to stop, hysteria just a half-step away.

Steam filters in as the sound of running water abruptly cuts off and your heart clenches tightly. You don't know what to do. Well, you know what you should do, and what you want to do, but neither of them seem even remotely feasible. You don't bother to decide, just freeze, staring at the carpet, hoisting even more unfair weight onto his shoulders, again making him choose. You'd feel guilty if you had the room for it, but right now… right now you're stopped up, too full of the things you'd pushed back and back and back over and over again. They've finally caught up—and now you're drowning.

The lock clicks again, and snatches your attention. The doorknob creaks and the time it takes for the door to swing open feels like an eternity. The light hurts your eyes, but you dare not look away. When they adjust, he's leaning against the frame, hair dark with water and combed back away from his face. The stark white towel stands out against his skin, hanging so low on his hips you can't help the way your eyes are drawn to the wiry trail of hair leading down from his belly button. He's started to fill out, definition just starting push out his chest and sink in his stomach.

He drums his nails along the wood as he continues to stall, eyes skittering away each time they catch yours. The air is thick and tense- you like to pretend because of the steam. You've made up your mind though, you won't move, couldn't even if you'd wanted to. Of all the things you'd tried to be for Sam, this… this—oh God. You swallow thickly and try not to shake as you run a hand through your hair. The warmth of something so familiar is just within reach, but you know that it's not going to stay like that. If you make the connection, just a single touch, you'll be lost to it.

After the stand-off lasts too long, he pads across the room, not noticing, or at least not acknowledging, when your gaze tracks him across the room. When he reaches down into his duffel, the towel inches down, following the swell of his flesh, and the crack of his ass peeks out, in any other case an open invitation, here and now, just the reminder to continue toeing the line. When he straightens back out, the filter of a menthol rests between his lips as his fingers wrestle with the wheel of a gas station lighter. His whole body seems to relax into the motion as he takes his first drag, the cherry glow throwing shadows across his face, darkening the boyish features and with the release of the smoke, that unnerving sense of innocence seems to go with it.

You don't say anything, just level him with a stare. He keeps up the game with his reply, just a shrug of the shoulders and a quirked eyebrow, before taking another inhale, then flicking the end with his thumb, not caring about the ash tumbling onto the bedside table. He lets the next stream out slower, shuttering his eyes as it curls around his tongue, caresses his lips, cuts around the gentle upturn of his nose. He pushes off the edge of his bed with a heel, comes to stand directly in front of you, and offers up a toke, free arm crossed just below his chest, fingers clutching his ribs.

You take it from his hands, careful not to brush fingers, and take a deep pull, letting it all out in a harsh rush and chasing the taste of nicotine on your lips. When he goes to take it back, not half so careful, dragging fingertips from your knuckles all the way on up, breath shallow, he steps even closer, practically between your legs. "You're going to freeze."

The words come as a shock and all you can manage is to reel in their wake. You feel as though your head is stuffed with cotton, as though this is a fever dream brought on by too much cough syrup and not enough sleep. You close your eyes against the haunting and hope when they open that you will be back in control of yourself. But when the fingers come back to clutch at your chin, you follow their lead without a fight, and draw in a sharp breath when your nose touches warm skin, cheap soap filling up your senses and making your brain swim with the spices.

Wiry hairs brush along the tops of your cheeks, the fingers travel down to your throat, then back up into the hair at the nape of your neck, and when nails scratch at your scalp you can't help the contented sigh that ghosts across his stomach, leaving a trail of goose pimples in its wake. He mimics the sound and pushes closer, done with tempting, done with sordidness, and now just encouraging, comforting, calling you back to things you know but shouldn't.

You mouth dryly at the quivering muscles beneath your lips, catch your teeth on the rim of his navel, and finally clutch at his hips, shoving the bunched cloth out of your way. He gasps at the sudden contact, at the clash in temperatures, and his grip tightens in your hair. He fumbles behind himself for a moment, scrabbling to pinch out the butt of the cigarette, arching into your touch and hissing as your frigid hands travel up and down his back, again and again.

The towel rustles as it hits the floor and with it gone you feel free to knead at the sweltering mounds of his ass, pulling them roughly apart, groaning at the rasp of his hair. You swing him around to lay across the bed and nose further and further down, finally letting yourself taste when you reach the crease of his thigh, the musk of him still clinging in the crevice. His swelling length twitches at the sensation, nudging at your cheek, dragging across the stubble.

You pull back, just for a moment, to shed your own clothing, unsurprised when everything really does turn out to be proportional, and settle down in the v of his legs, kissing and nibbling your way down from a delicate ankle to sinewy thighs, burrowing in to nip at his taint and let the heft of his sac settle against your face. He whines as you take your time, feet stamping against the mattress, knees thumping against your shoulders as he fights the urge to wrap himself around you, pull you deeper, dig his heels into your back.

Hey may be taller, but you're thicker, and it's easy to keep him right where you want. You creep down and down and down, parting curly hairs to get at his dusky opening, before kissing him, wet and sloppy. He writhes beneath you, white-knuckling the bedsheets and cracking his skull against the headboard each time you push at the ring of muscle.

Once he's relaxed, when he winks instead of clenches at pressure, you pull back, slipping blunt fingers to take your place, and turning your affection to the swollen root of his dick, vein bulging at the underside, hood fighting to cling to the glistening, purpling head. You poke your tongue teasingly at the slit before sliding down to catch at the leathery tan skin, sliding beneath to stimulate the plump ridges, stretching it thin as it will go. His hips stutter, stomach muscles quavering, as they indecisively thrust forward for more heat before jittering back down, missing the pressing burn. "D-Dean!"

You know he's already close, can feel his balls starting to draw and tighten when you roll them between your fingers, starved for it, but you don't care, scissoring him wide, and plunging as far down his length as you can manage—eyes watering when the tip hits the back of your throat, spreading thick, bitter slick. You pull off to fist at the straining length, heart quickening at the obscene squelch, watery squirts eeking out the tip every time you press against his prostate.

Just as he's tottering at the edge, you let go, pull out, and sit back on your haunches. His pupils are blown wide, his chest is heaving, and the muscles in his legs jump and spasm. You grab onto his thighs and drag him closer, settling them against your thicker ones, before letting your hands roam against his flanks, calming him like a spooked horse. You grab hold of him again, and pull his cock against its natural curve, away from his belly, and down to meet your own.

You stroke both lengths in tandem for a moment before pressing the heads together, gently tugging at his still stretched-out skin, and using the elasticity to pull it forward, further and further, until it grasps at your own head, catching the flare. Encased in his heat, sliding against his spongy head, you thrust weakly, slipping in the trapped slick, groaning at the hyper sensitivity. His nails dig into the backs of your shoulders and his heels dig into the small of your back as you lean over him, pressing your erections together, rolling with the jerks, like two magnets fighting against pressing together.

The connection gets hotter and hotter, wetter and wetter, as the skin dutifully sticks against your own, and you're so close. You don't know what's missing, what's keeping you from that weightless free fall, but the both of you are starting convulse, sweat rolling down foreheads, and the line between pain and pleasure is beginning to waver. You can't help but let out a desperate cry against Sam's throat, choking on the anxiety, the despair, the want, the fear, the content— everything that's fighting for attention.

With a little maneuvering a hand comes back to clutch at your chin, drawing your head up, and for the first time, your eyes meet. His are soft, pleading… happy. His brows are furrowed over them, damp hair curling loosely across them, tears welling up around their edges. Slowly, all too goddamned slowly, he leans forward, and kisses you. Soft, slow, shallow, searching— he breathes into you.

It's just that simple.

With a swallowed whine, you come, God only knows who first, making a mess yourselves and the bed. Tired, so relentlessly tired, you slump down against him, eyelids drooping as he curls around your side. He locks his hands around your middle, burrows his face into your throat, wraps a leg between his own, and kisses you again. You don't care that there's clean sheets just feet away, that there's a serious shit storm brewing right outside, that after a night like this, there's probably only hell waiting when you're dead and gone.

This is all you've ever needed.

MOAR NOTES: For those of you confused or unfamiliar with what I was having them do with their penises, it's called docking and you should look it up and love it because it's a really underappreciated kink… Cuz foreskins…. I APOLOGIZE FOR NOTHING.