Title: Highway Star
By: geekwriter143
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warning: incest
Summary: Moonlight bodyshots on the hood of the Impala.


Sam's stretched out across the hood of the Impala grinning at Dean in the moonlight. His back is against the windshield, his legs bent and falling open, his feet planted firmly. Dean doesn't even care if he dents the hood because, shit, they just killed an entire nest of demon spawn in something like five hours. Dean rolls his left shoulder, wincing a little bit. It's going to be dark black and aching in the morning, but the worst part has passed--back in the nest when Sam'd had to wrench it back into place. Not that it had been Sam's fault. Sam's actually really good at putting dislocated joints back where they belong, Dean just hates getting dislocated shoulders. His left tends to pop out of joint more easily than his right, probably because of that fall he took in a quarry just outside of Mason City, Iowa. Damn limestone demon.

"How's your shoulder?" Sam asks.

Dean shrugs. "Gonna hurt like a bitch tomorrow. How's your head?"

Sam reaches up and rubs a little dried blood off his forehead. "Gonna hurt like a bitch tomorrow."

Dean thinks maybe it's weird that they both think that's hilarious, but really, pretty much anything's funny when you've got that much adrenaline pumping through your bloodstream and a nest of dead spawn that won't be eating any more neighborhood babies or kittens.

Sam tips a bottle of tequila to his lips and takes a swig. They were out of rubbing alcohol, and it had been the only thing Dean had to sterilize the needle and thread before stitching up the gash on Sam's scalp. "You gonna share?" Dean asks.

"You gonna drive?"

Dean shakes his head, grips Sam by the ankle and tugs hard, yanking Sam down the hood of the Impala. "We can crash here, I figure," he says. The woods are empty now that the imps are gone, and the Impala's parked far enough away from the road that no one in a passing car will see it and come investigate.

Sam props himself up on his elbows, the tequila bottle dangling from his fingers. His legs are dangling off the edge of the hood, one on either side of Dean's hips. He grins a dirty, smutty grin at Dean and licks his lips.

It's not something they talk about. It just happens, sometimes. They're pumped full of adrenaline and crazy with the end of another hunt and it all bubbles over. Sam wraps his legs around Dean's waist as Dean takes the tequila from him. He transfers the bottle to his left hand, takes a swig and reaches out with his right hand to wrap his fingers around the back of Sam's neck. Once he swallows he leans forward and pulls Sam up and they're kissing, Sam already hard and arching against him.

"Take this off," Dean growls, tugging at Sam's bloody t-shirt. Sam pulls it off and tosses it to the ground, unbuckles his belt and pops the buttons on his fly. His hands are at Dean's fly, next, but Dean places his hand over Sam's and says, "Not yet. Lay back."

Sam bites his lower lip, his eyes burning with heat as he stretches out on the hood of the Impala. He slides one hand beneath the waistband of his boxers and grips his cock. He eases the boxers down with his other hand, then strokes himself slowly. He knows Dean likes to watch.

Dean takes a shaky breath, slides his good hand up and down Sam's hip. He tips the bottle just a little bit, just enough to send a splash of tequila across the hollow of Sam's belly. He leans down to lap it up, letting his tongue sneak out across the head of Sam's cock once or twice. Sam groans and arches his hips up.

"Tastes good," Dean whispers. Sam's fingers are strong against his scalp, pulling his hair. He tips the bottle again, licks the alcohol from Sam's skin.

"Dean," Sam gasps.

Dean licks his way up Sam's chest, stops to bite at Sam's nipples just enough to make Sam moan and pull his hair. He licks his way up Sam's throat to his chin, licks his way into Sam's mouth and tastes tequila and a little bit of blood and Sam, that taste that's like nothing else except the taste of Sam's mouth.

Sam's hands are back on Dean's fly, fumbling with buttons and the zipper before finally he takes Dean's cock in his hand. He pulls Dean closer to him, close enough that he can rub both their cocks together. Dean closes his eyes and moans. He rocks against Sam slowly, feels Sam's hand over his, taking the tequila. When he opens his eyes, Sam's lips are wrapped around the mouth of the bottle and something short-circuits in Dean's brain. He gasps and snaps his hips forward. Sam's startled laughter turns into a groan as Dean rubs against him hard, over and over again.

"Come on," Sam whispers, reaching up to wind his long fingers through Dean's hair. He tips his head up for a kiss, which Dean gives him. Christ. Dean would give him anything, especially when they're like this. "Come on, Dean." Sam rocks his hips up as he urges Dean on.

Dean kisses him again, sloppily, can't think enough to concentrate, can't stay still, has to grind against him, fuck, has to keep moving, so good, so close, "Sam," Dean gasps as he comes.

Sam drops his head back, thumps it against the hood of the Impala. He laughing and then he's jerking and coming, his fingers pulling Dean's hair tight. He relaxes his grip after a minute or so, smoothes his palm over the spot on Dean's scalp where he'd been pulling. "Sorry," he whispers.

"'salright," Dean grunts. His face is pressed between Sam's neck and shoulder. He doesn't want to get up but his own shoulder is starting to ache. He pushes himself up with his right hand and Sam's gazing back up at him, his eyes smoky and half-closed. Sam slides his fingers through the mess of come on his belly, raises his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, never breaking eye contact.

"Fuck," Dean whispers as Sam chases the come with tequila. "Hot little bitch." He laughs softly and stands, not very steady, pulling his jeans up from around his knees. He can feel the alcohol starting to hit him, making his muscles warm and loose. He helps Sam up, kisses him again as Sam pulls up and fastens his own jeans. Their kisses are long and lazy as they stumble to the side of the car, slide into the backseat to sleep. Dean can't stop kissing Sam, can't take his hands away from Sam's bare chest and arms even though he's exhausted from the hunt and the booze and his orgasm.

"You were damn good with the machete," he murmurs against the skin of Sam's neck.

"Mmm," Sam mumbles. His eyes are closed and his breathing is becoming slow and regular. He scoots a bit so he can stretch his legs and settles his cheek on the top of Dean's head. Sam mumbles something else, but he so far towards sleep that it's unintelligible. Dean feels around behind him for the scratchy, gray camp blanket and pulls it over his shoulders, drapes it around Sam. His shotgun is on the floor and he feels for that, too, stretches his arm to grasp it without waking Sam. His fingers close around it and he draws it up, resting it against his shoulder so that he's ready, should anything sneak up on them. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of blood and come and Sam, and after pressing a soft kiss to the underside of Sam's jaw, he finally sleeps.