A/N: This is Wincest. Straight up Wincest. Humor/fluff/romance/smexytimes. A good mix of everything. But Wincest. And there are smexytimes in this chapter. You have been warned.

That said, enjoy! It's silly, fluffy (not quite yet but soon), romance (perhaps unrequited perhaps no, you shall see), and smexy. Also my first Supernatural story, but I had my longtime SPN fan girlfriend check it for me and she said my characterization is spot on. I wouldn't go so far as to say that-she is my girlfriend after all, she does have to say nice things to me-but it has been vetted.

All I ask is that if anyone reviews, please don't say any spoilers. I'm currently in the middle of season four and I'm leading a sheltered life. Thank you ^_^

Chapter One

It was late, and Dean wasn't back at the motel yet. Likely, he had been successful in his mission to find the nearest bar and take home the hottest girl—take home meaning her place, the no-one-night-stands-showing-up-in-our-motel-room-past-midnight rule having been firmly put into place several months ago. This meant Sam had the room to himself and, well. That could work in his favor.

Sam didn't pick up girls in bars. He never had and he never would. Occasionally, when Dean was particularly drunk and insistent, he would fake it, but that ended in a laugh and possibly a beer or two in the parking lot while Dean did what he did best. Sometimes also a phone number, which Sam politely refused. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy spending time with the girls, especially the ones who didn't mind spending a few hours camped out in a parking lot pretending to have sex, and it definitely wasn't like he didn't miss sex itself, but it never felt quite right. And he always had the easy fallback of I'm leaving town in a day or two to fall back on when the real reason for staying alone was too close for comfort.

Sometimes literally, depending on when Dean stumbled out to the car.

Or, more concerning, when Dean came out to the car far too sober and looking at Sam like he thought he knew something.

So it wasn't like Sam was going to go find someone to bring back and screw around with, but there were always other ways to enjoy himself.

He turned on the TV and flipped through the stations, settling on something too cliché, too scripted, and likely too plastic to be really enjoyable, but it was all he could find. Apparently one porn station was all the motel thought it needed, and that was without having wifi, free or otherwise. Still, better than nothing, and Sam settled himself back against the pillows, wondering if it was worth attempting to absorb himself in the plot or if he'd rather admit that he was jerking off in a depressing motel room for the thousandth time in a row.

There was both a hardhat and a pizza box lying next to the bed and only one of the two actors—stars, rather—was male, so it seemed easier to focus on the plastic breasts, collagen lips, and oiled abs than try to figure out why someone would be delivering pizza and performing construction work at the same time.

Maybe he answered the door while doing construction, Sam thought absentmindedly as he started palming himself through his jeans. Or she already had the pizza.

Sam decided he was more than ready to admit this was considerably less than engaging, but having it on still made him feel like it was more—allowed?—than if there was nothing. Stupid, he knew, but also irrelevant.

He closed his eyes, listening to the high, breathy cries of oh god yes there yes don't stop ohh and uninspired grunts as he undid his fly, wiggling his jeans down below his ass but no further. Conditioning from living with Dad one room over for most of his teen years. Eyes still closed, now tuning out the noises as well, he focused purely on himself, on the way the cotton of his boxers felt against his cock, the tightness of his hand, how Dean's new jeans—

Sam forced his eyes open and his concentration on the porno. Not that it really mattered, not that he wouldn't be thinking about him anyway, but at least pretending he wasn't jerking off to his brother, at least at the beginning, was probably a better idea. Less guilty.

But god, the actors were so unattractive it was actively turning him off. Who wanted breasts made of plastic? What demographic found that attractive? And the guy's muscles were obviously, literally oiled: Sam had never used oil in his sex life, and never planned on it. Nothing about it was remotely sexy.

Regardless, he did have a hand on himself, and it was difficult not to respond to that. Abandoning the teasing he generally preferred, Sam slid his boxers down to join his pants and started touching himself in earnest. There really wasn't any point in drawing it out when his inspiration consisted of a porno that turned him off or his own brother and so he didn't, instead moving with quick, precise strokes, rubbing over the bundle of nerves beneath his crown, swiping along his slit, wrapping his fingers around himself and tightening his grip as he stroked down.

Not the most satisfying, but absorbing enough that he assumed the sound of a door opening came from the television.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Sam jerked, trying to pull his boxers and jeans up with one hand and get the blankets out from underneath himself with the other, nearly falling off the bed in the process.

"I didn't—what're you doing here?"

"It is my room," Dean said, opening the minifridge and stuffing something in a plastic bag inside. "That I paid for with my hard earned money."

"Gambling money," Sam retorted, still struggling. He couldn't bring his knees up to cover himself without making it impossible to put his clothes on, and he was still having trouble with sitting on the blankets he was trying to be underneath. "It's late. I thought you'd be out."

"Yeah, I thought so too," Dean replied, flopping onto his own bed. The mattress let out a groaning, springing noise at the addition of his weight. "What're we watching?"

"I don't—we?" Sam momentarily stopped fighting with the fabrics. "We aren't watching anything."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. "TV's still on."

"I'm a bit busy here!" Sam exclaimed, suddenly realizing what was causing the majority of his problem. Dean's arrival had—encouraged what was already there, and he was having a very difficult time fitting into his jeans. "The remote's on the table, be my guest."

Dean stayed silent for a moment before saying suddenly, "Oh, the construction-worker-pizza-delivery-boy. I remember this one. Pretty crappy if you ask me. Oh Sam, your poor standards."

"It's all that was on," Sam grumbled, yanking up his boxers and ignoring his pants for now. Also ignoring how little the boxers did to hide the situation. "Crappy motel, crappy selection, crappy timing."

Dean was flipping through the channels, and didn't seem bothered by the accusation. Why was it that Dean had to be impossible to phase while Sam himself was a dark, cherry red, and harder than ever?

"That was your signal to leave," Sam said slowly, like he was talking to a small child. "Along with walking in on me and, I don't know, everything else I've said."

"Tired," Dean said. He arrived back at the porno, heaved a great sigh, and tossed the remote back onto the table, television still on. "It's late, and I had a very unproductive evening."

"Yeah, well, I was doing just fine," Sam snapped. "So if you could kindly leave—leave, um. N-now. Dean, what are you doing?"

Dean glanced over, face entirely innocent except for the fact that it wasn't at all. There was a smirk hiding behind his lips—beautiful lips, perfect lips, made for—his eyes were sparkling—beautiful eyes, perfect eyes, better only if—and he was definitely not stopping undoing his fly with his hands that Sam wouldn't allow himself to even start to consider because good lord, those hands.

"I told you, it was an unproductive evening," he said like nothing was strange, like he wasn't pulling down his pants and boxers and in a second Sam would be able to see— "There weren't any hot chicks at the first bar, the second was filled with couples—" he said the word like a swear "—and the third was a biker bar which isn't inherently a bad thing, but apparently I don't wear enough studded leather to be considered biker material."

An image flashed through Sam's mind and he pushed it away.

"So you're going to kick me out of my own room to take over jerking off," Sam said flatly.

"No," Dean replied lightly. Much too innocently. "Never said you have to leave. By all means, stop being such a prude and go back to business."

Dean had angled himself so that his leg hid his erection, and Sam focused on that instead of his words, which were clearly nonsense.

"Excuse me?"

Dean rolled his head to the side, smirk taking over any feigned innocence. "Sammy, are you embarrassed by a little nighttime indiscretion?"

Sam gaped at him. "Yes! Yes I am! With you in the room, abso-fucking-lutely I am!"

Dean let out a quiet sigh that went straight to Sam's groin, closed his eyes, and turned so he was facing the ceiling again.

"Suit yourself, but I'm not leaving."

"I was here first!" Sam said petulantly, knowing exactly where this line of argument was going but unable to help himself. He didn't have access to higher reasoning, and besides, he shouldn't need any reasoning other than Dean was his brother and no.

Aside from yes.

No.

"I'm older," Dean replied, and Sam realized he could watch his movements by the way his arm flexed, moving muscles highlighted in different ways by an up- or down-stroke, how tightly he was holding himself, when he paused to do Sam-didn't-know-what because he couldn't see.

"I'm bigger," Sam said, then immediately added, "Taller, I mean. I'm taller."

Dean snorted. "Sure that's what you meant. I'm broader—oh. Wait. Through my shoulders. I'm stronger."

"I'm—" What was next? This fight was practically scripted, but between the porno, his erection, and Dean, Sam was completely lost. "I'm better."

"But at what?" Dean asked, shooting another smirk at Sam. "I'm better."

It took Sam a lot longer than it should have to reply. "Jerk."

"Bitch." Dean's breath hitched, and suddenly Sam was aware that his hand was back on his cock, squeezing in time with the rhythm Dean was setting, and he gave up. "Now shut up, I'm busy."

Fine, great, good idea, because Sam was busy too. He positioned himself roughly the way Dean was, blocking his erection from sight, and immediately his hand was below his boxers, shoving them down just enough to pull out his cock, choking back a low moan at finally touching himself again. He was positive he hadn't been this close before, and he was positive having Dean in the room shouldn't help, and he was positive he had long ago given up pretending it didn't.

No. Not him being in the room, that was new. But Dean in general. Thinking about Dean. Dean in the next room while Sam pulled one out in the shower. That one time Dean had left his leather jacket in their room and Sam had buried his face in it.

Dean in the room was better.

Sam was vaguely aware that his breathing was uneven and he was letting out quiet, needy noises, but it wasn't important. The part of his brain that needed a backup plan at all times reminded him that he'd been at it longer than Dean, that he'd had a head start, so it natural that he was closer.

Maybe a little strange that his louder moans came after one of Dean's noises, or that he was looking over at Dean more often than at the movie, but as far as he could tell, Dean's eyes were closed and he wasn't focused on anything but the task at hand.

At.

Hand.

Sam bit his lip, turning the other way, focusing. The sooner this was over the better. It shouldn't have happened in the first place—to be honest, he wasn't completely sure how it had happened—and it needed to be done.

"Jesus."

Sam whimpered. On a bad day, when he was particularly distracted, Dean's voice could get to him no matter what the circumstances were or what he was saying. These circumstances in particular, though. Sam whimpered again, only it was really a moan, and he was dripping precum, not at the edge yet but close. Despite all logic, he didn't really want to be close, didn't particularly need for this to ever end, but given that it would, if Dean would just say that again, say anything, Sam was fairly certain it would be over very, very quickly.

It would be regardless. Sam's cock was slick, his movements easy and fast, his body taking over to provide as much pleasure as possible.

Sam spared a glance at Dean. It wasn't something he couldn't help.

Dean's leg had dropped, and Sam could see everything. Time spun, everything in fast forward and slow motion at once, and it was stupid really, he'd seen Dean naked before, but oh god this was…

Dean was wider but not as long. He was a dusky red, nearly purple at the tip, uncircumcised (of course, so was Sam), unshaved. Leaking almost as much as Sam, thrusting up into his hand rather than stroking himself, no doubt imagining he was fucking some girl. Tendons on the top of his hand stood out, tightening along with the muscles in his arm. Sam had no idea how close Dean was, but he himself was gone, so far gone. He managed to look away, snapping his neck nearly hard enough to give himself whiplash as he turned, riding the edge for a split second before everything turned to a pulsing, bright light, all focus centered on his cock and balls, spurting out through his fingers and onto his shirt and then sliding down his hand. The low moan he let out was unavoidable, but at least it hadn't been Dean's name.

Coming down took longer than usual. For every noise Dean made—and they were getting louder and closer together—a few drops of cum would leak out. Every time Dean's bed creaked—nearly constantly—Sam squeezed himself. Whenever Sam thought he was finally done and started to reach for the tissues—not that they'd be much help on his shirt—a shiver would jolt through him and his hand would be back on his dick.

It wasn't until after Dean came that Sam could finally calm down. The occasional swears turned into a steady litany, and then Dean growled, and Sam bit the inside of his cheek to keep from responding, to stay in reality enough to know that he couldn't roll over and watch. Whatever singular brain cell remained reminded him that he really, really needed to get cleaned off before Dean noticed that he wasn't, and he grabbed a handful of tissues and did just that as Dean's breathing slowly returned to normal.

Sam was working on the spot on his shirt when Dean spoke.

"Toss me the tissues?"

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep, quiet breath. No sound had ever been as sexy as those four words, nothing as unbelievably erotic, and if it weren't for the fact that it was biologically impossible, Sam would have hardened again immediately.

"Ye-yeah, sure," he croaked out, tossing the box, amazed that it actually landed on Dean's bed, given how he was shaking and trying to look and not look at once.

It occurred to him that Dean was still touching himself, just with a layer of tissue separating his hand and cock, and Sam forced the thought away.

He tucked himself back into his boxers, kicked off his jeans, tossed his flannel in a corner, hoping Dean wouldn't see the stain, and finally managed to get beneath the covers. He turned the TV off, leaving the light for Dean, and closed his eyes.

Tired, he thought. It's late and I'm tired and I know what Dean looks like and sounds like when he's jacking off and it's late and I'm tired and goodnight.

A few minutes later Dean's bed creaked, the light in the bathroom switched on, the sounds of Dean's before-bed routine (Sam realized he'd forgotten to brush his teeth and didn't care), the bathroom light went off, and then the overhead. More creaking as Dean got into bed.

"Night, Sammy," he muttered, voice slurred with sleep.

Sam made some sort of affirmative noise, not trusting his voice.

12

Dean fell asleep almost immediately, his deep, even breathing giving him away. Sam, on the other hand, lay in bed for what felt like hours before drifting off, his last conscious thought: never again.

12