Dean hasn't so much been watching the TV for the past thirty minutes as he has been using it to distract his brain from worrying. The remote keeps his hands busy, flipping channels, volume up and down, and he's not really catching anything on any of the programs he lands on. It's pretty late. Sam should be back by now. He never was the one to overstay his welcome at a one night stand. Dean's about ten more minutes from shutting the TV off and going after him.
Not that he thinks the girl Sam picked up is a threat, really, but in their line of work, better safe than sorry. He doesn't even have to interrupt if it turns out Sam is, somehow, still fucking her. He could just peek through a window, make sure his baby brother is okay, and dip. Sam wouldn't mind. He'd probably like knowing that Dean's checking in on him. It would settle something in both of them, especially if Sam happened to look up at just the right moment, catch Dean's eyes through the window while he's fucking the girl under him-
The lock on the motel door clicks. There's Sam. Dean feels his jaw unclench. He sprawls on the couch, one arm lazily dropped over the back. "Have fun out there?" he teases. Sam's already making his way to his bed. There's a sort of looseness to him that he only ever gets after a good fuck. That's exactly why Dean should keep pushing girls at him. Sam kicks his shoes off.
"Oodles," he snarks, but it lacks the bite it would have if Dean had left the questioning till morning. It's always worth it to wait up for Sam. He gets up from the couch and goes to his own bed, sitting opposite Sam as his brother fumbles with the buttons on his jacket.
"That good, huh?" He leans back, smirking, warmth settling in his gut as he takes in all of Sam. Sam's eyes are hooded, sleepy and sated, and all his movements carry the vague discoordination of post-orgasm exhaustion. Dean wonders how many he had. He's got a few rounds in him. He's built different. Sam's fingers slip on another button, and Dean stands. He slaps Sam's hands away gently and starts undoing it. Sam huffs.
"I can do it myself," he mutters, same tone of voice when Dean had to tie his shoelaces as a kid because otherwise Sam would shove the ends into his shoes and call it a day.
"Sure you can, champ," Dean answers, automatically. Sam doesn't push him away. He wavers in place slightly when Dean finally gets the overshirt off his shoulders, and Dean puts his hands on Sam's hips to hold him steady. "She really wore you out." Sam grins. Dean commits the expression to memory. He stores it in his great vault of 'happy Sammy moments' for a rainy day.
"She was great," Sam admits. Loose all the way down to his tongue, it seems, but that's alright. Dean's always liked getting the details straight from the horse's mouth. He's got to make sure his little brother enjoyed himself, and it helps when he's out looking for another girl to send Sam's way. All outward appearances suggest Sam's the type for sweet and gentle lovemaking, but Dean's got firsthand accounts that he likes it a lot harder both ways. Good thing, too, because Dean seems to be a magnet for the kind of girls that play rough. "She went down on me first. That was... great." Sam tilts his head forward, letting his hair fall in his eyes. Dean reaches up automatically to tuck it back. He pulls Sam's undershirt up and off.
"Details, Sammy, details." There's a flush rising on Sam's cheeks, arousal or embarrassment or both.
"She sucked me off, and then she said she wanted to fuck me." Dean whistles encouragingly. "I haven't gotten fucked in forever-"
"Not since we've been on the road," Dean says. He would know. Sam would have told him, or he'd have noticed Sam shifting weirdly.
"Yeah. She ate me out while she was fingering me, too. I was so hard it hurt."
"Bet you soaked the bed." Sam wrinkles his nose up.
"Did not."
"Did too. I had to change your sheets when you were a teenager, remember? I know how wet you get." Sam rolls his eyes.
"Not as much since... you know." Sam gestures to all of himself. Maybe Dean does still have new things to learn about his brother. Dean gets himself back on track, tugging at the bottom of Sam's undershirt until he lifts his arms for Dean. "It took a while. I was tight."
"You sore at all?" There's a 24 hour store nearby. Dean can drop in and grab a heating pad or something for him.
"Good kind of sore," Sam assuages. He steps away from Dean to try and get his pants off himself. Dean hovers over him anyway, half to check if Sam's lying and half to hear the rest of the story. "Felt really good once she started fucking me." Dean's dick is starting to get interested, and he mentally tells it to knock it off. It's late, and this is Sam. No jerking off until he's at least in his own bed. Sam bends down to slide his pants off. The low light of the motel room plays across his shoulders, and Dean frowns.
He reaches over to touch a spot on Sam's right shoulder. Sam freezes up.
"Did she bite you?" Dean asks. There's a few mouth-shaped bruises on Sam's shoulders. They're purple now, but knowing that they'll fade eventually doesn't do much to quiet the sudden roar of jealousy in Dean's gut. He presses his thumb against one, and Sam lets out a noise. It's not protest.
"A bit," he confesses. Dean presses down harder. Sam swallows down another, more desperate sound.
"You let her?" Dean's trying to collar it, he really is, but that green-eyed monster is escaping its choke chain. Sam looks back at him, wide puppy-dog eyes.
"I liked it," he says, and by his tone, he's misinterpreting what Dean's pissed about. He probably thinks Dean is just mad someone laid a hand on him, and he's right, Dean is, because the only one who should be leaving any sort of marks on him, stitching him up and bruises from training and maybe the indent of nails from getting yanked hard out of the way of something during a hunt, should be Dean. "I asked for it, Dean."
Why didn't you ask me, Dean thinks. He presses down on the bruise again just to hear Sam whimper.
"So she gave you what you wanted," Dean says. "Did she give you enough?" Sam frowns. "Because it seems to me you still want to be hurt." Either that, or he's hallucinating the way Sam's leaning back every time he pushes a bruise hard enough to make it ache.
"You don't have to do that."
"Hey," Dean gentles his voice, the same way he would if Sam were injured or panicking, "It's my job to take care of you, right?" Sam nods. "And you need this? It's not just something that gets your engine running?" Sam nods again. It obviously is something sexual for Sam, at least a little, or he wouldn't have let that girl mark him up at all, but there's no doubt in Dean's mind that if this goes deeper than sex for him, than it goes deeper for Sam as well. Dean licks his lips. He can practically taste Sam under his teeth, salt and skin and pure Sammy in a way that might drive him insane. It'd be worth it. "Lay down, then." He pushes Sam towards his bed, purposefully shoving into the bruises. Another sound bursts out of Sam's throat, a startled grunt. He flops down onto the bed with no grace whatsoever.
Dean follows him. Those marks are dark and obvious, almost accusatory where they've made their home in Sam's skin, and he needs to drive them out. He splays his hands out over Sam's back. Sam's surprisingly calm under him, not so much as shifting around to get more comfortable. His head's sideways, laying half on his arm and half on the pillow he pulled closer, and his eyes are closed. Dean can feel his breathing, the steady expand-deflate of his strong lungs, powering that hard-working heart of his, keeping him here and safe with Dean.
"Shhhh," Dean hushes for no other reason than to stall here. He skates his hands up and down Sam's sides. Sam snorts something too tired to be a laugh. Dean swings his leg over his brother, straddling him. He bears down on Sam a little, just a test, and Sam gives under the weight of his brother pinning him down. He absolutely melts. Dean thumbs one of his bruises again, and the noise Sam makes this time is soft, breathy.
"Hold still," Dean orders, unnecessarily, but it's nice to pretend that Sam's something he has control over. Dean bows down until his breath puffs against Sam's shoulder.
He bites.
Sam doesn't manage to stay still. He gasps, clenching up immediately. Dean can feel the muscle under his teeth go stiff as a board, and he just bites again, harder, until Sam goes limp. He's breathing heavily now. Dean can feel his heartbeat against his teeth, his tongue. He's hyperaware of the blood rushing under Sam's skin. He's balancing on a tightrope, seeing how hard he can go without drawing a drop. All that blood needs to stay inside Sam where it belongs, keeping him alive. He's sure the girl Sam was with didn't think about that. She didn't understand that she might have broken open this precious thing.
Dean lets go reluctantly and bites again, higher up. Sam still jerks, but he doesn't tense. A whine leaves his mouth between his pants. Dean worries at the skin to make sure the bruise will take. Again, he lets go.
"More?" he asks. His voice sounds rougher than it should.
"More," Sam echoes.
Dean looks at his neck. It's tempting. He'd give anything to feel those tendons under his teeth, or the minute movements of each breath, or the artery that will leave Sam to bleed out in seconds if Dean bites too hard. He turns his head away, lifts his own wrist to his mouth and bites. Harder than he would Sam. Dean tastes copper rising to the surface and muffles the noise he wants to make. He can't do that. No marks where anyone can see, anyone but him and Sam and whatever girl Sam goes to bed with next so she'll think twice about marking up what's Dean's. They've got to look respectable for the monkey suits to fool anyone.
Later, he promises himself, if they get a drought of cases, he'll ravage Sam.
He's calmed himself down enough that he can bite at Sam's back. Harder to get a grip on the skin there without the curve of his shoulder to sink his teeth into. Dean nips and pulls, and Sam grunts. He's gone completely lax again, trusting and pliant. A blank canvas for all of Dean's most desperate desires.
His eyes flick to the marks Sam came in with.
Not blank. Dean runs his tongue over his teeth. His mouth still tastes of his own blood.
Dean breathes against the marks at first, letting Sam know exactly what he's doing. He gives Sam the chance to call uncle. Sam stays quiet. Dean runs his tongue along one bruise. He can do better. He bites down, fits his teeth around the bite. Sam groans. It's a sound closer to sex than any of the ones that he's made before, but Dean's not that disturbed. Something hot as blood slides into his gut at the thought of Sam getting himself off later, back pressed to the mattress, Dean's marks aching with every movement. Reminders that Dean's the one best at taking care of him.
The bruise is bigger now, even darker than before. Dean can't help grinning smugly. He does the same to the other marks, until each one has been reclaimed as his. He leans back to admire it. He reaches over to play with Sam's hair absently as he looks. Sam smiles, eyes still closed, fully relaxed. Dean did that. Dean gave him that.
"Feels good?" he asks, mostly for the flattery of Sam's groan in response. He ruffles Sam's hair again, getting off his brother. "You gonna say thank you?"
"Thanks," Sam mumbles into his pillow.
"That's my boy," Dean says, laying down on his own bed and reaching over to turn the lamp off. Sam scoots from the middle of his motel bed to the side, as close to Dean as he can get without falling out. Dean is already right on the edge with him.
In the dark, he can hear Sam's breathing easy. Can see him shift slightly out of the corner of his eye. Dean licks his lips again. Sam rolls over onto his back and moans softly. Dean's dick twitches again, reminding him that he's been turned on the whole time and there is no way he'll be falling asleep without taking care of it. He glances over at Sam, who had one arm thrown over his eyes. Dean waits a minute, two, and when he hears Sam start touching himself, he reaches down into his own boxers for relief as well.