The heat was suffocating. Dean could handle most things but 101 degrees with 95% humidity? No fucking way. He lay in the backseat of the Impala; his father was inside the small market, buying gas. Sam sat in the floorboards, his head tilted back on Dean's abdomen, his legs stretched out over the center console. Dean's arm lay draped across his collarbone. He knew it was stupid to be touching in this heat but after that last hunt... Dean started as his father rapped sharply on the window.

"Go get you some provisions," he barked wearily.

Dean patted Sam on the shoulder. "Let's go." The boys heaved themselves out of the cramped and stuffy car into air that was much better. Dean stumbled towards the small store, rubbing his eye, Sam at his back. The man behind the counter was old, his teeth yellowed and chipped, his skin dark and crackled with age and sun. There were only two other customers in the shop, young men in their twenties, scruffy faces and trucker hats.

Dean headed towards the drinks while Sammy loaded up on chips and candy bars. Dean opened the door to the cooler and leaned on it, savoring the cold air on his sweat-drenched skin. A shock of cold on the back of his neck made him turn to see Sammy grinning, holding a beer to his neck. Dean smiled and took it from him. "Too young for that shit," he said as their fingers brushed. He put the beer back, not wanting to get in trouble, knowing his dad was in a fucked up mood.

They finished gathering provisions and headed to the counter. They dumped their stuff and Dean was peripherally aware of the other two men moving up behind them.

The old man began tallying up their total, and Sam leaned over, propping his elbows and the counter and resting his hand in his chin. He leaned his body against Dean, who leaned slightly back, returning the pressure.

There was a snicker from behind them.

Dean tensed. He felt Sam go still against him. But Dean very determinedly ignored the young men behind them. The man behind the counter was less than a third done ringing up their food. Dean wished he would hurry. He didn't like the feel of strange men at his back, and he liked even less the sinking feeling that their eyes were trained on Sam.

"Awful pretty," drawled on of them.

"Mm hmm," agreed the other. "Ain't that sweet? Couple faggots out for a summer drive. S'downright romantic."

Sam's head turned slight and Dean placed a hand on his back in warning. Dean heard the laughter increase and his jaw clenched. The old man was very intentionally ignoring it, his eyes firmly on the things he was pricing.

Dean rubbed at Sam's back, willing him to relax. They weren't going to get into this; it was hot, and they were tired, and Dad was waiting for them. Let the rednecks have their laugh.

But then one said, "Pretty like a woman. You see that mouth?" It was something he'd heard a thousand times in a thousand different ways and it pissed him the fuck off each time. He knew what he looked like. He had stared at himself in the mirror and seen the femininity there, seen the delicate features, the full lips, the big eyes, the long lashes. He looked like his mother, and he couldn't resent that, no matter what hillbillies liked to say about him.

But it bothered Sam. He stood up straight and turned around, rising to his full height. Even at 17 he was huge, six foot five, muscular and slim. "Back the fuck up," Sam snarled.

The men just laughed. "Aww, look at that," one said. "The bitch is defending his butch."

It registered somewhere in Dean's mind that these hicks thought he topped, and he was kind of gratified by that. Then he remembered that they thought he topped his brother, and he turned around as well, angry. He put his arm in front of Sam, hand on the boy's hip, and gently nudged the boy behind him. The old man was still ringing up the food, ignoring them all.

The blond hick raised his eyebrows. "Protecting your bitch, faggot?"

"He's my brother," Dean said, wondering as he did so why he felt the need to clarify. It didn't matter who they were, no one needed some redneck fucker calling them names in some back water fill-up joint.

The men laughed. "I'm sure he is, faggot," the brunette said. "He's also kinda young, ain't he? You a faggot and a pervert?"

"Same thing, ain't it?" The men's faces darkened and Dean wondered why this kept happening to them, what it was about him and Sam that screamed SECRETLY GAY LOVERS, COME GAY BASH US!

Dean took a deep breath, readying himself for a brawl. A discordant jangling made everyone freeze.

"Boys?" came their father's voice, cautious and alert.

Dean saw the hicks glance back at his father, register that this was a tank of a man and probably wouldn't be a fair fight, and then begin searching for escape ideas.

Dean sighed. He turned around and dropped a fifty on the counter and grabbed their bag of stuff. Shoving it in Sam's arms, he said, "Let's go." He took hold of the back of Sam's neck and steered him out the door his father held open for them.

The boys climbed into the back seat of the car and their father drove down the highway.

John Winchester didn't ask about the incident. It was becoming increasingly common for Dean and Sam to be accosted when alone together in public. At first it had seemed to bother John, but he now took it with a weary sort of acceptance. Maybe he understood what these people were seeing in Sam and Dean.

Dean thought about himself and his brother, tried to picture how they'd looked to those hicks. They both wore ripped jeans a size too small. They hadn't gone clothes shopping lately. Each boy was wearing a dirty wife-beater, sticking tight to their sweat-soaked skin. Sam's red flannel shirt tied around his slim waist, his jeans hanging low on his hips...

Dean shook himself. Okay. Maybe he could see it too, what they looked like from the outside.

The car stopped at a dingy motel. Their father got out and headed into the office. Sam sighed and leaned on Dean, Wrapping an arm around Dean's waist and pressing his face into Dean's abdomen.

It was too hot to be touching like this but Dean allowed it, even put his arm over Sam's, sweat making their skin slick. Sam raised his head and just looked at Dean, face unreadable. Dean raised his other hand and touched Sam's hair, feeling illicit, like they were doing something very, very wrong.

But they hadn't done anything…. had they?

They heard the door to the motel office shut and jumped apart guiltily. John rapped on the window and Sam said, "Tell me again why he won't get air conditioning for this thing," as he and Dean climbed out.

Dean latched onto this familiar topic. "Uses too much gas," he replied as they got their bags from the trunk. "But when the Impala is mine, I'm so gonna install an A/C." Speaking of... Dean glanced at the motel's sign and saw the most glorious words ever - WRKNG AC.

John handed Dean a key. Dean stared at it. Before he could ask, John said, his voice like a tired, broken gate, "I need a night's unbroken rest, boys. Tired a'listenin' to you kids snore."

Dean followed John to the rooms. They were next door to each other. He watched as his father unlocked his door. Dean didn't miss the large brown bag sticking out of his duffel. Dad was going to drink himself into a stupor. No wonder he'd gotten them separate rooms. Last time he'd done that, Dean had ended up with a black eye and Sam hadn't spoken to their father for a week.

Dean unlocked their door and he and Sam stepped in. Sam went straight for the A/C under the window. He turned it on and kneeled in front of it as it clunked and clanked and began pouring icy coolness into the air. Sam made an extremely inappropriate noise and leaned over the machine. Dean watched a bead of sweat travel from Sam's hairline down the back of his neck, past freckled, golden shoulders, to stop at his shirt. "Gonna take a shower," he said gruffly. Sam merely waved his hand, too busy basking in conditioned air to care what Dean did.

In the bathroom, Dean peeled his sweaty clothes from his skin. His shoulders had a permanent, mild sunburn. He turned the cold tap on all the way and hit the button for the shower. The cold water was shocking on his skin, and he forced himself not to jump out. Once he'd grown accustomed to it, he grabbed soap and began washing the sweat from his skin. He stayed in the shower much longer than was strictly necessary, but it wasn't as if the cold water would run out. Finally he got out and wrapped a towel around his hips. Feeling better, physically at least, he opened the door only to have Sam push past him.

"Fuckin' bathroom hog," Sam said as he shut Dean out. Dean shook his head and collapsed onto his bed. He heard the shower start up and very determinedly did NOT think of Sam soaping himself up.

Maybe all those rednecks were right. He WAS a pervert.

Sam came out from the bathroom much quicker than Dean had. He was also in a towel, and Dean couldn't even be jealous of the physique Sam just seemed to genetically have. He just felt a weird sense of pride at having such a hot brother. Which... probably not the best thing to be thinking while Sam stood there, dripping.

Dean wrenched his eyes away and turned his gaze to the cracked, water-damaged ceiling. He saw Sam moving, but wasn't prepared to feel the bed dip. Sam draped himself over Dean's stomach and Christ, they were both still in towel, and why did Dad have to get them a separate room now?

Dean's breathing was labored, even though it was now wonderfully cool in the room. Sam's fingertips traced patterns onto Dean's skin, making Dean feel jittery. But still, his hand went to Sam's damp hair, resting on his head.

Sam's finger slowly danced their way lower, and with every inch Dean told himself that now he would stop Sam, now he would set a boundary. But he didn't.

Sam's fingers skittered over the edge of the towel. "Sam," Dean finally managed, going for a warning tone and failing miserably.

"Everyone sees it, Dean," came Sam's soft voice. "Everyone. I think even Dad sees it. I think it's time to stop ignoring it, don't you?"

Dean was having a hard time focusing on Sam's words because his breath was puffing warm across Dean's stomach, causing gooseflesh to ripple across his skin and his nipples to harden. "Sam," he croaked out, voice pained.

Sam slithered his way up Dean's body until their faces were level. He leaned over Dean, and the older boy was struck by Sam's eyes. Like dark, swirling honey, rich and sweet, sweet enough to hide the poison they contained. Dean wanted to slap himself for waxing poetic about his own little brother's eyes but fuck... Sam's chest was pressing against his and he could smell Sam's breath, all cherry coke and tootsie rolls.

When Sam leaned down and pressed his mouth to Dean's, it felt like that moment right after pulling the trigger. The sickly relief that washed over Dean every time, that relief at having managed to do something awful and illegal, and being so fucking glad you did it.

Dean slid his fingers through Sam's hair but didn't move to control the kiss. He let Sam kiss him, let him slide his smooth tongue along Dean's, because Dean knew instinctively that if he was allowed to control things that he would never give up that control.

Sam pressed into Dean's body, fingers sliding under the towel. They were useless scraps of rough terrycloth that did little to hide the lengths of hard, heated flesh between them. The only sound was their ragged breathing, the whir of the air conditioner. Dean drew in a sharp breath as Sam's nimble fingers found his cock. His thigh muscles jumped and he tried not to buck desperately into the light touch. Sam's fingers still just barely brushing him, he looked up at Dean.

"You can, you know," he said. "Do whatever you want to me, I mean. You can."

And how was Dean supposed to fight that? He sat up and grabbed Sam and kissed him hard. He turned them over and pressed Sam down into the dirty mattress. Sam went willingly, arching into him, hands gripping Dean's hair. Dean tossed aside the useless towels and gripped Sam's cock. He had a moment to be aware that it was bigger than his, but he felt nothing but choking, cloying lust and it pushed everything else from his mind. He turned Sam over pushed his face into the pillow.

"Fucking do it, dean," Sam ground out, voice muffled.

Dean growled at him and yanked his hips back. He leaned over his brother, laying a possessive bite on the back of his neck. His fist found Sam's cock again, while his own settled in the crack of Sam's ass. He thrust against him as he pumped his hand, and Sam moaned into the stained cotton.

God, it was hot and filthy and wet, the A/C not enough to keep them from sweating. They slid together and Dean had never been so turned on in his life, turned on and feeling like an awful person and fucking loving every minute of it. Sam was making tiny little desperate sounds beneath him and it was the best thing Dean had ever heard.

Dean was a very experienced 21, and had never been the type to have a hair trigger, but he was closing in on the edge so fast that it was almost embarrassing. Luckily, Sam was no better off, shoving himself back against Dean and into his fist, making constant noises.

The head of Dean's cock caught on Sam's hole as he rutted against him, and suddenly Sam was coming, pulsing over Dean's hand, and he babbled brokenly, "Fuck yes, fuck, that's it Dean, shit, fuck me, god just fuck me…."

Oh god. For one glorious moment Dean imagined sinking into Sam's wiling body and pounding him, and then with a wounded sound he was coming too, painting Sam's back white. Dean collapsed next to his brother on the bed, shaking hard.

For a long time the room was silent, save for their panting and the rattling of the A/C. Finally, Sam spoke, "Are you freaking out?" he asked, voice soft and very carefully neutral.

"Not yet, Dean replied.

"Can we just… skip that part?" Sam, still on his stomach, turned his face to Dean. "Can we just like… accept that this happened and is gonna happen again and that we both loved it and just…. skip the freak out and the guilt and the worrying for our souls?"

Dean watched Sam for a long time. His mind was a blank, pleasant buzzing, like television static. It was the first time in a long time that he'd felt so damn good. "Yeah," he finally agreed hoarsely. "Yeah. Let's skip that shit." He reached over and slid two fingers through the mess on Sam's back. Sam caught Dean's wrist and brought the fingers to his mouth. Dean's eyes widened slightly as Sam sucked his fingers clean.

"Maybe we should tell Dad we like the whole two rooms thing," Dean said, almost ready for round two.

Sam smiled.