Dean's mouth tastes like green tea, wet and sweet and warm when it slides against Sam's. His hand is on Sam's face, now, palm cradling the bolt of Sam's jaw, and the smoky, earthy smell of the weed clings to his fingers. His other hand, Sam knows, is lax on the dirty motel carpet, the joint smouldered down to nothing. The carpet is standard issue brown, the same ugly stuff they've seen in a hundred different towns over the years, a hundred different rooms that were, somehow, all the same. But the way Dean's teeth close gently on Sam's lower lip and tug - the way his thumb rubs insistently at the corner of Sam's mouth, warm and gentle - the way his body is angled firmly into Sam's, loose from smoking - all of these things are different. These things are new.
Sam's chest feels tight, like there's something all bundled up in it with all the smoke and bitten-back laughter and the smell of Dean's fresh sweat. He's warm here, safe, but the something thrumming inside him seems to walk some edge of danger, Dean's hip snugged up against his, Dean's tongue stroking languidly over his.
What're we doing, Dean? he'd asked, minutes and minutes and half a joint ago, and Dean had grinned around a wink; said, "Gettin' high, little brother." As if it was normal, his mouth on Sam's making a tunnel for the smoke to travel; as if it didn't make Sam's chest kick strange and wrong and good. But there's no getting high any longer, now. They're there, Sam's head spinning with it, and Dean's mouth is still on his, hollowing around Sam's tongue, sucking on it until it sparks a path of slow heat all the way to Sam's cock, heavy between his legs.
Minutes and minutes and half a joint ago, Sam might have stopped this. Minutes and minutes and half a joint ago, the part of Sam that reminds him why there's always something wrong in every good, warm feeling he has would have been waving its arms around by now, jerking him away from Dean, tucking him back into his own bed to hump the mattress surreptitiously and hope Dean wouldn't notice.
Dean's good at this, fingers skimming circles on Sam's warm skin, raising goosepimples. He kisses wet and deep, mouth opening filthy wide against Sam's, and when Sam nips at the swell of his mouth, he moans in the back of his throat. Sam exhales shaky into the space between their lips; thinks hazily that he wouldn't stop for the world. Can't stand to pull back long enough to breathe properly, when he could have his mouth on Dean's, his tongue tracing the ridges of his soft palate, learning the sharp shapes of his teeth.
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Sam's chest feels tight, like there's something all bundled up in it with all the smoke and bitten-back laughter and the smell of Dean's fresh sweat. He's warm here, safe, but the something thrumming inside him seems to walk some edge of danger, Dean's hip snugged up against his, Dean's tongue stroking languidly over his.
What're we doing, Dean? he'd asked, minutes and minutes and half a joint ago, and Dean had grinned around a wink; said, "Gettin' high, little brother." As if it was normal, his mouth on Sam's making a tunnel for the smoke to travel; as if it didn't make Sam's chest kick strange and wrong and good. But there's no getting high any longer, now. They're there, Sam's head spinning with it, and Dean's mouth is still on his, hollowing around Sam's tongue, sucking on it until it sparks a path of slow heat all the way to Sam's cock, heavy between his legs.
Minutes and minutes and half a joint ago, Sam might have stopped this. Minutes and minutes and half a joint ago, the part of Sam that reminds him why there's always something wrong in every good, warm feeling he has would have been waving its arms around by now, jerking him away from Dean, tucking him back into his own bed to hump the mattress surreptitiously and hope Dean wouldn't notice.
Dean's good at this, fingers skimming circles on Sam's warm skin, raising goosepimples. He kisses wet and deep, mouth opening filthy wide against Sam's, and when Sam nips at the swell of his mouth, he moans in the back of his throat. Sam exhales shaky into the space between their lips; thinks hazily that he wouldn't stop for the world. Can't stand to pull back long enough to breathe properly, when he could have his mouth on Dean's, his tongue tracing the ridges of his soft palate, learning the sharp shapes of his teeth.
Half a joint, it seems, makes all the difference.