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Dad's an adult so he has sex, obviously, they both know that. It's not like he talks about it. But every now and again he takes two rooms instead of one at whichever grimy motel they've rolled into, disappears for a night out, tells Dean to look after Sam. When the car rumbles into the lot they can sometimes hear voices: Dad’s, deep and low, and then a woman’s high giggle. They might catch a glimpse of her, after: slipping out late-night, a shape moving past the curtains under the orange lights outside. Dean's usually in the bed nearest the window. Sometimes he opens the curtains and looks.
Once Sam gets up early in the morning, sweating in the heat of a Florida summer, and on his way to the ice machine he runs into someone leaving Dad's room. Her make-up is blurred, mascara crumbs on her cheeks, color clinging to the edges of her lips. She's wearing a short skirt and heels. She smiles awkwardly at Sam and they do the this-way-that-way dance on the gangway outside the bedrooms, until eventually he squeezes past her on the outside. She smells of perfume but something else, too, familiar enough but in context it makes him queasy, makes him conscious of his dick. When he gets to the machine he scoops up the ice in his hands and crunches it between his teeth, drops a cube or two down the neck of his warm t-shirt. When he gets into the room he dumps half the bucket onto Dean's head and Dean leaps out of bed and hollers at him and Sam feels normal again. Dad comes by not long after, hair wet from the shower, and tells them to pack their bags.
As Dean gets older Dad takes him out with him, not just hunting but to bars as well. Sam is left behind stewing over his homework. He tells himself it’s fine. Sometimes he goes out, too, without them knowing about it: to a party, an arcade, a lake; to make out with a girl in her pink-and-purple bedroom. But most of the time he stays home and studies and nurses the left-out feeling in his gut. It’s okay because he doesn’t want to fit in.
Some nights Dad goes out solo, even now; doesn’t say anything about it, just grabs the car keys and leaves. Dean hates that. Sam sees it in his brother’s tight shoulders, the set of his mouth. It’s stupid. Dean’s the one who’s always going on about a man’s needs, about cleaning the pipes, about the girls who’ve given it up for him in every state across America. He must know that Dad couldn’t exactly get any action with Dean along for the ride.
Some days Sam gets home from school and the room smells like sex and he knows Dean banged someone while he was out. It’s okay when they’re not sharing but it happens now and again when they’re all three in a room together, Sam and Dean in one bed and Dad in the other, which means Sam has to lie all night in his boxers and T-shirt in Dean’s crusty sheets. “You’re disgusting,” Sam says, and Dean says, “Oh Sammy, you jealous?”
Sam wonders whether Dad doesn’t want to take Dean out when he’s trying to hook up, not because having your twenty-odd-year-old kid along is a cockblock in anyone’s book but because it’s hard to believe that any woman, seeing Dean, could go for anyone else. It happens to Sam, more than once: Dean’ll take one look at whoever Sam’s dating, give them that big, bad-boy smile and Sam will physically feel them start to peel away. Once he gets home and the room smells exactly like Rebecca’s perfume - his bed smells exactly like Rebecca’s perfume - but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t want to give Dean the satisfaction. Dean rolls up against him in the night and whispers in his ear, “Sammy, you jealous?” and Sam elbows him in the stomach, so hard that Dean yelps and Dad wakes up.
Then one day they’re in Nevada and Sam and Dean are eating burgers. Sam is sitting at the table and Dean is on the bed, wrapper lying greasy on the sheets, even though Sam told him he was an asshole for doing it. Ten bucks says it’s Sam who ends up on the dirty spot later.
Dad comes out of the bathroom with a fresh shirt on. When he got in earlier he was covered with goo and guts, mud caked in his hair. Now he’s clean. Sam picks up the third burger, waves it at him. “You have it,” Dad tells him. “I’m going out.”
“Hey,” Dean says, wounded, and Sam isn’t sure if he’s mad that Sam got the extra burger or mad that Dad’s heading out solo.
“Share with your brother,” Dad says, and closes the door behind him.
They’re in bed by the time Sam hears the car roll in, the engine growl to a halt. Dean’s asleep, lying on his back, snoring faintly. It's hot and the air conditioning is shitty like always so they're not wearing much. The hamburger grease spot is directly under Sam’s bare chest.
He waits for the click of the door, the smell of alcohol and smoke and the cold night air. It doesn’t come. Instead, there are noises in the next-door room. Dad must have got another. He hears the low tones of his father’s voice; someone else, a woman. He can’t hear what they’re saying, of course. The walls are thin but they’re not that thin.
He’s almost dozing when a knock right by his head jerks him wide awake. Beside him, Dean startles, eyes glinting in the darkness. There’s a creak, another knock, a rhythm setting up.
“Oh my God,” Sam breathes. He hears Dad’s voice again, sees Dean hear it too. The woman yelps, uh-uh-uh, staccato sharp. Sam’s dick hardens and swells against the mattress. He grinds his hips down, not thinking really. The darkness makes everything feel unreal. It doesn’t count.
More creaks from next door; a grunt from Dad; the woman crying out, loud and uninhibited, almost a scream. She doesn’t stop. Sam’s never had a girl do that, even when he’s made them come. They’re always soft and hushed, wary of parents downstairs or the other teenagers in the next tent, the next car over, the seats in front. He’d bet Dean has done it, though, fucked a girl so she can’t help but yell.
There’s a slick, wet sound beside him and the blankets shift and Sam realizes with a shiver that goes right through him that Dean is jerking off; his hand moving in parallel with the rhythm coming through the wall. Sam can feel the mattress move underneath him, shifting infinitesimally against his hips, against the hard length of his dick.
“You jealous, Dean?” he says, and Dean stills. The mattress stops moving. Sam’s dick throbs, almost painfully.
Dean turns his head and looks at Sam. Their faces are close, less than a pillow’s length apart.
“Fuck me,” says the woman through the wall, suddenly clear, “fuck me harder,” and Sam can’t help it, flexes his back and rolls his hips again, damp flesh against damp cotton against the mattress’s worn-out springs.
“Don’t think it’s just me, Sammy,” says Dean. His voice is raw, the way it gets in the morning sometimes. Sam doesn’t know what to say. For a long moment, he just lies there, tingling. He shouldn’t move. He’s so hard. He wants to come.
Then Dean is moving, rolling over, and the weight of his brother’s body pushes Sam down into the mattress. Dean’s chest presses against his back, both of them sweaty, their skin sticking. Dean’s legs slot inside his; spread, pushing them apart. Dean’s hard dick presses up against the crack of Sam’s ass.
Sam moans. He can’t help it. He wasn’t prepared. And Dean feels so good, it feels so good to have contact all over when he’s wound up like this, his skin prickly and sensitive.
“C’mon, Sam,” Dean says, and moves his hips just like Sam did before. Dean’s groin crushes Sam’s against the bed, sending a pulse of pressure up his dick and a shot of pleasure through his nervous system, up his spine, down to the tips of his toes. “C’mon.”
Sam starts moving. He thrusts his hips in time with his brother, in time with the creaks and knocks coming through from next door. Now that they’re both doing it the bed starts to move properly. The headboard rattles, bumps the wall. Dad could hear it. He won’t hear it. He’s railing some woman, hard enough that she’s still squawking, hard enough that she doesn’t care who hears. Sam doesn’t care either. He opens his mouth, lets the sound shake out of it. Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh.
“Oh, fuck, Sammy,” Dean says, strangled. His thrusts speed up and Sam matches his pace, rutting frantically against the bed. Dean stiffens against him, pushes up on his hands, and there’s wet all over Sam’s back, down his ass, sticky and warm. “Oh fuck,” Dean says again. Drops of sweat fall from his chest onto Sam’s back, cooler than Sam would have expected, soft as a fingertip.
Sam isn’t there yet, is still trembling on the edge. Dean's palm slides under his chest and urges him over, rolling him into the spot where Dean was lying when they went to bed. The jizz on his back squishes against the sheets, disgusting. Dean gets a hand around Sam’s dick and Sam shouts, can’t help it, loud and incoherent. Another hand smashes down over his mouth, painful, the fingers pressing his upper lip into his teeth.
“Shut up.” Dean is panting. His hand grips Sam’s cock, tight, and he tugs up and up, five times, six, and then Sam is coming, his whole body shaking, spurting over Dean’s hand, over his own stomach, hot and wet and good. It feels like his mind whites out - like he’s nowhere - anywhere - only here. Floating back down, he gulps in air, tries to steady his breathing. Then he hears it; or doesn’t. The noises next door have stopped.
A chill runs through him. Fuck. Dad couldn’t have -
“They came,” Dean says. “Pretty much when you did. I don’t think they heard.”
Sam breathes out, long and slow. “Fuck,” he says.
Dean leans over and switches on the bedside lamp. Sam closes his eyes, dazzled. When he opens them Dean is standing, using a t-shirt - Sam’s t shirt - to mop the mess at his crotch. Sam sits up. The sheets peel away from his back with a sticky, unpleasant crackle. He looks down at the mess they’ve made.
“Dad’s bed,” says Dean, and when Sam looks up he jerks his head sideways, gesturing. “Don’t think he’s going to be using it.”