Dean can smell that distinctive aroma – that leathery smell, that isn't quite leather. It smells of hunts, of stale fast food containers that got lost under the seats, of heating that would always break down.
It smells of home.
But above all, it smells of Sam.
Sam's there now, in this empty little parking lot where Dean has parked the Impala. He's there on the front bench seat with Dean, warm breath in his ear, whispering filthy promises.
Dean asks him why they have to wait until they get back to the motel room, when they can do it here; now.
It's raining, despite it being summer, and the windows have fogged up. Nobody will be able to see, says Dean, relaxing a little more into the heat beside him. Little droplets chase each other down the windows – it's probably cold out there, but it's warm in the car, with Sam right there next to him.
He'll always be next to him, no matter what destiny throws at them.
His hand is on Dean's stomach now, gently brushing past the hem of the old gray t-shirt he's wearing. Dean tenses – it's been a while since they were together like this, and the touch feels unfamiliar, almost ghostly. He sucks in a shaky breath as his brother's hand explores further, skating over the ridges of the muscles of his abdomen.
There's a certain tentative quality to Sam's touch – it's obvious that there's been a rift driven between them. He doesn't kiss Dean's neck like he used to, doesn't leave little nips along his jaw and tell him how much he loves him. But Dean can feel him there,
breath warm and comforting on his neck, and fingers working their way lower.
The fingers shake as they attempt to pop open the button on Dean's jeans. Sam's scared, nervous, though there's no reason to be. Sure, they hadn't been on the best of terms over the last year, but that's something Dean regrets now, especially as Sam conquers the button and moves on to the zipper with a slow hiss.
Dean gasps and lets his eyes slide closed as Sam pulls his cock free from his jeans and into the open air. It turns out the Impala is colder than he thought. But it's alright, because Sam's hand is on his aching erection, pulling tentatively. It's good – it's bittersweet, because Sam's shaking and Dean can't comfort him.
Nevertheless, when he thumbs over the slit and picks up a drop of precome, Dean can't help but buck into Sam's hand; his warm, familiar hand that comforted Dean whenever he needed it.
Finally, Sam picks up the courage – or whatever he needed – to weave the fingers of his other hand into Dean's short hair and tugs it away from him, exposing his neck. Dean's heart rate picks up.
Come on, Sammy, he says, though Sam does nothing, leaves his neck untouched. He does begin to pump faster though, twisting his wrist in that way he knows Dean likes.
Suddenly Dean's sweating in the cold Impala, Sam's heat all-encompassing and overwhelming. Sam's talking to him now, his voice soft and comforting by his ear. The voice tells Dean it'll all be okay – that they'll be okay.
That voice, and the leather, and the heat and Sam all combine so that, after two more strokes he's shuddering and coming harder than he has in a while. Sam's hand milks him through his orgasm, slowing to a stop when Dean becomes too sensitive.
Dean doesn't want to open his eyes. He wants to imagine that after that, Sam licks his fingers clean, green eyes all innocence and reverence. After that, he and Sam would share a kiss, all messy and wet, and Dean would be able to taste himself on Sammy's tongue.
After that, Dean would hold him close, and tell him that it would all be okay. Dean would make Sammy feel the same way, would make him come and then brush his hair out of his eyes.
For once, they wouldn't bicker, and poor nervous Sam would be reconciled, knowing that Dean wasn't angry with him anymore.
But all that was a ridiculous fantasy.
He'd done this far too often – snuck out of Lisa's house to the Impala, and driven to some remote parking lot. He'd search for some remnants of his little brother on his own skin, hoping that he'd find something there. After all, Sam was his own flesh and blood, there had to be something of Sam in Dean.
And even if there wasn't, Sam had mapped every inch of Dean's skin innumerable times. There was something left of him there, maybe not something physical, but more like some invisible tattoo. This unspoken, unseen mark of possession would never fade with time, or be diminished by any others Dean slept with.
So as he sat in the front seat of the Impala, his own fingers covered with his come, he allowed himself a tear or two. The car was cold now, no heat, just a horrible empty iciness. Dean felt dirty, and the overwhelming loneliness hit him square in the chest like a car crash.
Dean hopes that Sam knows he loves him, because he never really got the chance to tell him. He hopes he knows he's not angry with him any more.
He hopes Sammy knows it'll all be okay.