Dean knows how to tease Sam, to get him riled up and anxious as a buck during the rut, only to make him simmer and get all twisted up inside. He knows just how desperate Sam can get, and that can only mean one thing. He does this intentionally.

Sam loves the Impala. She's a great girl, even though she's older than both of them. And that age means she needs a little upkeep once in awhile. He understands this. But it doesn't make it any easier to suppress the groan of anticipation and dismay when Dean mentions he's working on the Impala today.

Because it's summer in South Dakota, which means Dean's going to start off in jeans slung low over narrow hips, and a tee-shirt that cuts across thick biceps, collar stretched enough to show the constellations of freckles sneaking off his shoulders and down his chest.

He'll lean over the metal of the classic, jeans pulling taut and displaying, teasing and tempting, the perfect ass hidden underneath. Sam knows that part isn't intentional. Once Dean gets metal in his hands, be it gun or car or wrench, his mind refocuses, and torturing Sam isn't a top priority anymore. But the longer he stays under the heat lamp they call a sun, the darker and wider the stripe along Dean's spine, the V along his chest and the triangles under his arms get. And the wetter Dean's shirt gets, the dryer Sam's mouth gets.

He's tried, in the past, to look away, to face another direction, but the noises that drift over invariably draw his attention back, until he has to shift in jeans that are suddenly too tight.

Oh, but how he itches to pin his brother down and lick him clean again.

If he's lucky, Bobby will holler out soon, calling Sam in for help inside.

If he's lucky, Bobby will forget they're out here, and Dean will wind up stripping off his shirt.

It's hot, after all, but not hot enough to compare to the way the smattering of freckles darken and glisten under the sheen of sweat and sun, and Sam's strong in a physical sense, but extremely weak when it comes to this.

And when Dean makes a curious mrr of noise, standing up and wiping his forehead with his forearm, leaving a smear of oil behind, the sight is enough to break the last of Sam's patience. The startled grunt of surprise as Sam slams him against the hot and black metal is almost instantly buried under the groan when Sam bucks impatiently into the hardness under him, rutting against the lean thigh that's wedged itself between his legs. It's not long before they're shuddering together, and the harsh gasps in his ear isn't enough to distract him from the pretty sight of darkness blooming across the front of Dean's jeans.

This? Dean all sexed out, pupils blown and chest heaving, still glistening under the sun… is Sam's favorite sight, bar none.