Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Wincest. Sexual content. Adult language.
Summary: Frottage. That's basically it.

Disclaimer: Dean, Sam, the Impala, and they're (obviously sexual) relationship do not belong to me. I'm borrowing for fun, with no profit. If they belonged to me, Dean/Sam/Impala would be canon OT3. And John Winchester would have a hotter ass.

Author's Notes: I wrote a Supernatural drabble for my friend Athena on livejournal a little while ago and she apparently thinks that means I'm her fic writing bitch and...I have done absolutely nothing to disillusion her of this idea. This, except for said drabble, is my first attempt at writing a Supernatural fic, so hopefully it's okay.


Lips met lips and it was so wrong it was right. They were too hard, too thin, but everything he had dreamed them to be. A quick push and they were against the hood of the car, another and they were leaning back against it, his little brother's long body spread out against the cooling black metal like some pagan sacrifice on an obsidian altar.

There was a quick gasp of, "Dean," at the beginning, the shock radiating through both of them as he...just...snapped...and took what he had always wanted. Sammy was older, now, experienced, now, and his body knew how to move even though it had never felt a body quite like this against him. Compact and hard and...hard.

Dean slid his thigh between the tense legs, pushing upwards until he could feel everything and gasped at the act of giving pleasure. Nothing was more important than Sam, happy. Nothing had ever been hotter than those little noises his Sammy made in the back of his throat, now. The questing tongue that was hesitant despite obviously wanting it.

"Fuck, Sammy," he manages, when he finally pulls back enough to look. He has to look, has to see those pupils, dilated, those lips, bruised.

And Sam blinks up at him, still too confused to form words. Dean left him miles away, wandering, wondering how he was suddenly transported into a situation that had nothing to do with their research, with their newest hunt. His expression would be cute, if it wasn't so very hot.

Another push, Dean's thigh pressing, rubbing against Sam's growing erection and Sam's own leg is moving without any conscious consent, just wanting to return what he was being given, just wanting to feel and cause feeling. They're kissing again, suddenly, lips locked like they're breathing each other's air and bodies twining, writhing as much as possible in their position.

Sam groans, "Fuck, Dean," because repetition is all his brain can handle as Dean's lips, full and lush, wet with more than his own saliva, move down and just about destroy Sam. When the teeth are added, biting down just short of savagery, Sam breaks.

"Dean, Dean, fuck, more, please." He can't think of a sentence, doesn't even hear his own words, just knows that he has a mantra, in his head, involving Dean and other, less important words.

They're rocking, the fact the car isn't moving shocks Dean in one moment of clarity before the taste of Sam's skin, that clean sweat of sex, distracts him and he just has to gnaw, just a little. Has to bruise a little more. This is Sammy, he knows pain doesn't always mean pain.

Dean didn't even notice his hands, holding tight around Sam's wrists, until he moved them. Pressed one down to reach up, sliding under Sam's shirt and fumbling across his chest. Pressed one down to fall in between their crotches, stroking Sam through worn denim and brushing against his own crotch whenever he could distract himself from how perfect his brother felt.

Teeth clenched down, again, then released, scared at the first hint of copper because this was Sammy, though if anything had to make him bleed, Dean was the best cause. Their lips met, pushed and pulled, tore. The kisses had gone from just intense, so far past intense that they were sloppily lapping at each other, taste more important than feel.

"Sammy, Sammy," Dean repeated, until the name lost all meaning and just descended into a bunch of sloshing thoughts that would curdle later on, after he regained the conscience he had discarded. "You're so perfect, so good."

And Sam almost laughed, Dean could see it in his eyes, knew his brother knew him. That sweet talk from Dean was what sex with Dean always had, even if Sam had only heard it through a shield of blankets or a thin wall. The reminder was a moment of clarity and Dean jerked as a hand slapped his backside, playfully and roughly.

It was a sudden movement that brought a growl to both of them and then words were rocketing from their throats, "fucker," "bitch," "asshole," all the little endearments they'd made for each other over the years. All the while rocking and worrying, tearing and cradling.

When it was over, jeans stained with fluids and that certain sticky, after-the-afterglow feeling crawling over their skins, they separated.

"That was hot," Dean commented as he tried to look suave.

"Please tell me that Papakalanosiwa-wannabe didn't cause this. I don't need to know my older brother gets off on cannibals," Sam replied as he tried to look casual. And then, "You're going inside to rent the room, lover boy."