A/N: I heard there's going to be a car wash scene in season 11, and it did things to my brain.

"Deaaaaannn," Sam whines. "I'm bored."

Dean looks away from the TV screen to survey him, sprawled out on the other side of the couch. His eyes are all wide and puppyish, and even at fifteen years old he can still pout as effectively as any toddler. Normally a bored Sam would be draping himself all over Dean, begging for attention, but it's summer and they're in Arizona in a dumpy motel with five floors and no A/C, and it's way too hot for that. They've both been lazing around all day in just their shorts, but Dean can still see a fine sheen of sweat glistening on Sam's skin, over his chest and stomach and long coltish legs, as Sam extends one foot to bump insistently against Dean's thigh.

Dean supposes he can't blame Sam for being bored. School doesn't start up again for another month, so he doesn't have homework to distract him, and they're between hunts, so there's no research to do, and it's Sunday, so they can't even cool off at the library, which is just about the only air-conditioned public space in this little one-stop town.

"Why don't you watch TV with me?" he says.

"That's what I've been doing," Sam points out, digging in with his foot. "It's boring."

"Then go for a walk or something."

"It's too hot."

"Why don't you boys take the Impala to the car wash?" their father calls from where he's sitting at the breakfast table behind them, poring through the newspapers for a new lead.

At this, Sam sits up eagerly, a smile breaking out over his face, so it's decided. Dean drags himself off the couch, collects the car keys and a roll of quarters from John, pulls a shirt on, and insists that Sam put one on too before they leave. Then they make the trek down the motel's stuffy, enclosed stairwell and out to the Impala.

The leather seats are scorching when they get in, and Dean thinks the steering wheel might actually be blistering his hands, but thankfully it's only a five minute drive to the gas station. Dean pulls into the first bay of the self-service car wash. The whole place is deserted; everyone else, at least everyone who doesn't have a bored little brother, is staying inside and out of the heat.

It's actually something of a relief to step back outside the car. It seems marginally cooler under the shade of the car wash bay. Dean tosses the roll of quarters to Sam, and bends down to pull the Impala's floor mats out to be washed as well, listening to the clink-clink-clink of Sam feeding coins into the machine.

"Hey Dean," says Sam, behind him.

"Yeah, Sammy," says Dean, turning around from arranging the floor mats on the ground beside the Impala—only to receive a powerful jet of cold water in the face from the car wash hose.

"You little bitch!" Dean sputters, gasping and dripping.

Sam is laughing so hard he has to brace his hands on his knees, letting the hose fall from his grasp. Dean takes it and places the nozzle directly on top of his brother's head, completely soaking his shaggy hair in a matter of seconds. Sam yelps and ducks out from under the spray, still laughing, and Dean chases after him, grinning too. He gets a sharp poke in the ribs for his trouble, and Sam seizes the hose and drenches him again.

It's as he's wresting the hose back from Sam that a thought strikes Dean so hard he has to stop and stare. Sam is soaked, his t-shirt clinging to his shoulders and chest, bright hazel eyes peeking out from under wild wet spikes of hair, cheeks flushed pink from the cold water, dimples framing his broad white smile. Beautiful, Dean realizes. He wonders how it took him so long to arrive at that conclusion.

Sam has stopped, too, the hose held loosely in his hand, his head tilted curiously as he stares back at Dean.

"Dean?" he asks, and the paralysis breaks. Without pausing to think, Dean reaches out, grabs Sam's shoulders, spins him around, pushes him up against the Impala door, and kisses him.

Sam gives a soft squeak of surprise, and the hose slips from his fingers to clatter on the ground. For a moment Dean freezes, his brain catching up to him, and he wonders if Sam is about to push him away—but then Sam's mouth is opening under his, his arms twining around Dean's waist, and it's so hot Dean doesn't care that the hose is still spraying cold water over their feet. He presses his mouth down harder over Sam's, sucks on his lower lip, curls his tongue behind Sam's teeth.

They kiss until the time on the car wash runs out, and then they kiss some more.

"Hey Dean," Sam murmurs, after the bay has been silent for several long moments.

"Yeah, Sammy." Dean nips along Sam's jaw towards his earlobe, just to make him squirm.

"We should probably put some more quarters in the machine."

"Mmm," hums Dean, his mouth hovering just over Sam's. "Go ahead, then."

But the only move Sam makes is to close the distance between their lips. It's quite a while before the car gets washed.