A/N: I vowed never to write a fic like this. I should probably never trust myself to tell the truth again.

This was inspired entirely by a gifset I found on Tumblr, which cannot be linked here due to the site's link regulations but which can be found in the AO3 posting of this work (story id 1053045). All blame should be directed to those two images and the dirty, dirty things they did to my brain.

Uhrichsville, when you get to it, is pronounced Yer-Icks-Ville.

All motel walls were paper thin. Sam and Dean knew this. They knew to keep quiet when their father was just two slabs of drywall away. Usually, they waited til he'd left for whichever bar, and then they folded in on one another, the ace and jack of hearts. When they even dared coming together with John on the other side of that wall, the sex was a slow burn, soundlessly pressed hot and heavy between cheap sheets. They were skilled enough hunters by sixteen and twenty that at least they knew how to work in silence. The bed barely moved as Dean thrust slowly, lovingly, into Sam's pliant body, Sam's teeth pressing sharp indents into his bottom lip. Or maybe Sam would blow his brother there on the edge of the bed, his skill having improved significantly over the past few years, only to have Dean return the favor with a finger circling back behind. Nothing could stop each of them from showing the other just how much they were needed, not even walls like newsprint.

They knew that.

Third hunt in two and a half weeks, some quaint little shithole north of Canton, Ohio. Dean was bouncing off the walls, so to speak, sick of the marathons all the channels were showing as part of a Summer Movie Showcase. No decent horror or porn to be found, so the young man contented himself with throwing Cheetos at his brother, trying to get one to stick in that ridiculous mop of hair. Sam looked up from his book and scowled. "If you're not gonna eat 'em, give 'em here!"

"Not yet, I'm going for the record." Toss. The orange snack snagged in the curls tumbling over Sam's forehead, and Dean showboated with a little wiggle. The annoyance in his little brother's eyes faded into heat as he watched, and Dean may have moved a little more seductively then, just to smirk when Sam dragged the book over his lap. "Dean," the boy pleaded, "don't do that."

"Why not, Sammy?" Dean sounded like a man when he growled like that. The book gave a little hop, and Sam bit the inside of his cheek. "Dad will be back soon," he whispered. He was hard enough to pound a stake with his dick, and it filled all the available space in his jeans. A little wet spot clung cold and tacky to his skin, growing larger with every move his brother made. Dean wasn't making it any easier with the way his pink tongue flicked to wet plump lips, his green eyes narrowing at Sam as he slid off the bed.

Dean sauntered over all slow and purposeful, and Sam's nerveless hands let the book slide to the floor. It hit with a thunk that was muffled beneath Sam's startled moan when Dean slotted against him, straddling him in that chair. "Why - not - Sammy?" Dean said, punctuated with nips and kisses to Sam's neck. The younger Winchester broke out in a sweat, hips bucking upward, seeking Dean's heat. "Dean," he moaned, hands finding his brother's hips, running up that strong warm back under Dean's shirts and down to cup one toned cheek through thin denim.

They found a grinding rhythm quickly, Dean bearing down on his brother, Sam keening and meeting the friction with violent delight. Dean's grunts were barely audible out in the room, but to Sam they filled his ears, swelled along the veins of his cock. With their father still gone, they didn't have to be quiet, but Dean almost always was - good thing Sam made enough noise for both of them.

Sam being sixteen, it didn't take long for him to slam up and over that edge, teeth clamping down on Dean's collarbone through his shirts. His orgasm roared through him, whiting his vision and filling his boxers with pulse after pulse. When he bit, when he blew, Dean's whole body locked up and with an open-mouthed whine, he came as well and just as hard. He came down from it shaking and slumped against Sam, who mouthed at any skin he could reach - and they heard the telltale roar of the Impala pull in.

If it's one more thing their father taught them well, it was speed and efficiency. They both wore clean underwear and were lounging, looking bored, when John knocked on the door. "Five minutes, boys!"

Sam's eyes flew to meet Dean's, but his brother was already pulling on his boots. Silently, Sam followed suit.

Tonight they would salt and burn what turned out to be not just one poltergeist, but five, working in tandem to bring chaos to the little town of Uhrichsville. The cemetery was vast, old, and smack dab in the middle of a neighborhood that had apparently grown around it. One side butted up to a golf course, which Dean found quietly ridiculous. He snorted, miming a terrible swing. "You think the dead play golf, Sammy?" Sam just punched his brother on the arm, finger to his lips.

The headstones they sought were scattered along the oldest edges, some of them tumbling crumbled into a deep, overgrown gulch. Sam eyed one of them pensively, the jagged edge a fanged tooth jutting up out of the ground. It was sad, but to be expected, that the ravages of the natural world and general uncaring of humanity had destroyed these memorials. The last stand of so many people, now unreadable even by day. Sam wasn't even sure how they were supposed to tell who'd been buried beneath them.

But John knew which ones they wanted, and when the first exhumed lump of remains went up in a gout of flame, the poltergeists caught on, too. Sam got his hair pulled, trying to double him over backwards and he flailed with his iron poker, swirling two of them into gray smoke.

The next – ten? twenty? - minutes were a blur of staying alive. Dean found the next headstone nearly buried by earth and bracken, and his shovel strokes were frantic against the northern earth. It was chilly, even for a night in waning summer, and the Winchesters' breath mingled like fog as they fought to keep each other alive.

Sam got knocked down, or maybe tripped, but John was there, blowing the spirit off of him with a blast of rock salt. The shotgun smoked at his side when he reached down and hauled his youngest to unsteady feet. Sam gave his father a curt nod and briefly wondered, like he did every time, if John regretted bringing him along. He must not have, however, because one appraising look later Sam had his father's backup shotgun in his hands.

Then Dean yelled, he'd found the next one, and his family went to join him. Afterward, Sam took the shovel, and Dean hefted the shotgun over his shoulder in a strong, practiced move that made Sam's mouth water. In dappled, graveyard moonlight, dirty and sweating and focused, his brother was beautiful.

The final grave was a doozy to find, but Sam did find it, sliding down into the dark, pawing past discarded Christmas trees and sneezing out brown needles. His shovel skittered over broken pieces at first, but he dug it in, and had a decent hole before he was yanked up out of it and thrown high against a tree.

Of course, the grave they'd randomly left for last would contain the most powerful of these spirits. It appeared to him as a child, leering and grotesque, wild empty eyes bobbing mere inches from Sam's own. It had a hand sliding into his chest, but his shout echoed all around him and Dean was there at his side, the boom of his shotgun scattering the thing into smoke. Rock salt stung Sam's cheek.

Dean's calloused hand found Sam's, yanking him to his feet. "Run!" he barked, and Sam obeyed - but only so far as to find his shovel and return to the grave to finish what he'd started. John's footfalls sounded, sliding down the side of the gully, and his sharp, "Dean!" froze Sam's blood.

He could hear his family fighting for their lives, the spirit angry now, and doubled his efforts. Sweat stung his eyes, dripping from his hair, and when he ran a careless arm over his face he made grave-dirt mud. There came an alarming, squelching noise from up top, a disgusted shout from Dean that turned high and fearful as it rose away from Sam. The poltergeist has him in the air, Sam's brain informed him calmly, too calmly for the panic clamming his hands and roiling in his belly. He spread the lighter fluid, salt, and lit a match.

Dean wasn't too happy dangling by his foot in the air, dripping ectoplasm that was, goddamnit, getting in his eyes. He was even less pleased when the thing got ganked and dropped him seven feet on his head. He managed to take the brunt of it with a rolling landing off one shoulder, just like John taught him (although those lessons hadn't quite taken into account a landing from that height). When he came to a halt his father was there, hauling him up and checking for broken bones. Dean knew he was lucky that fall hadn't snapped his collarbone and gratefully suffered the rough check-up. Even if his father's probing hands worked the nastiness deeper into his clothes.

Then he blinked, some of it got in his eye, and he swore a blue streak.

Once John was sure his son wasn't badly hurt he stood back, watching Dean sputter and swipe at his face. The young man was covered head to toe in extra-dimensional mucus. "Friggin' poltergeists," he spat, flinging muck into the dirt from both hands.

"Dean," said John, a hint of reproach. Both of his sons had to learn from their mistakes, but he would prefer to lecture a live boy than apologize to a corpse. "What is the most important rule for this kind of spirit?"

His son looked at him, chin raised and proud despite the dripping ichor. "Don't let it catch you off guard." His gruff man's voice held a sullen note, unspoken and I didn't. "I know about these, sir."

His father's face was stern. "A hunter who wants to survive has to be even more careful than that, Dean," he said. "What you know can still kill you stone-dead."

Sam joined them, breathing heavily, streaked in dirt and eyes wide when they lit on Dean. He tried to slow his racing heart, Dean's alive and fine. He heard John's gruff lecture as he might through water, such was his relief - but then, he really looked at Dean, at the way he dripped and oozed, standing there uncomfortably sticking and unsticking his fingers. A loud snort left Sam, a filthy hand clapped to his mouth and he sniggered, bouncing in place with the effort of holding it in. From beneath a veil of slime, Dean glared at him. The glare promised I will take this out of your ass, baby boy, but Sam was too amused even to feel its heat.

Back at the car, blocks away, they listened to the police sirens and waited for Dean to towel off with an extra flannel of John's. He was grumbling wordlessly.

In the back seat of the Impala, when his de-slimed brother slid in wearing a sulk, Sam shot a glance at their father rifling through his tape box and stealthily squeezed Dean's hand. He couldn't help his stupid grin when Dean's soiled face lit up.

"I'll be back in four hours or so," John told them, and Sam nodded. Dean was already in the shower, and the younger brother ached to join him. As soon as the Impala's rumble faded into the steady hum of the world around them, Sam shucked his clothes and opened the bathroom door to blessed steam.

Dean grinned at him from beneath the spray when he stepped in. "Hey, gravedigger," he sang roughly, to the tune of that song about rich men and call girls, and Sam rolled his eyes. "How's it feel to be covered in poltergeist spooge?"

"Eugh, nasty," said his brother, face scrunching and falling and Sam couldn't hold in his laughter. This time there was a slightly hysterical edge to it, even if he muffled it by moving in and pressing his face in the crook of Dean's neck. He mouthed over the prominent clavicle, now clean and hot from the water.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said softly, resting a hand on his brother's wet head, which rolled when Sam decided he'd rather nibble up Dean's neck instead. "Hmm?" the boy hummed in question, but Dean's hips had decided to twitch forward and he didn't want to talk about survival anymore. He rolled them again, grabbing at Sam's ass to haul him closer, nudging his brother's head with his chin til Sam got the message and looked up. Dean swallowed his brother's dazed "Dean..." when their mouths crashed together.

They kissed until they felt pruning on fingertips that brushed across heat-flushed skin. Sam was shivering finely half in, half out of the spray. With a fond look Dean grabbed the soap. "Let's get you cleaned up," he said, like he'd always done when Sam was little, only then it hadn't sent all of Sam's blood south. The first swipe of the cool soap up his feverish skin broke a little moan from between his lips, but Dean just smiled. "I get it, showers are exciting," he said in that same tone of voice, lathering up his brother's skin. "Shut up, Dean," Sam said through chattering teeth.

Alarm flickered through Dean's eyes. "Here, Sammy, get under the water." He slid a hand around to Sam's back and yelped. "Jesus, you're freezing!"

Sam tried to quip back, but it was lost in the flurry of his jaw. He hated that when his body knew he was safe, it let his teeth knock together when he was cold. Just because you think it's safe doesn't mean it is, he told his body rebelliously, clamping his teeth together tight. He allowed Dean to manhandle him under the spray, unable to help looking just a little smug when Dean stepped out of the water and instantly shuddered from tip to toe.

"Let's hurry up and get out of here," the older brother shivered out, continuing to slick Sam's skin with the cheap motel soap bar.

Sam couldn't resist. "Not enjoying yourself?" Facing Dean, he grasped his own cock and stroked, once, twice, and the look on Dean's face had the turgid flesh swelling, Sam gasping in steam. "I could – stay in here – all day," he managed, hand still moving, sensitivity spiking as he watched Dean's pupils dilate.

"Get that goddamn soap off you," Dean growled, and he yanked the shower curtain open. His cock bobbed with the motion, thick and red between his legs. Sam knew how his brother felt. In fact, he had to wrench his hand away from his own treacherous cock before he flew too high, too soon. Besides, he wanted to come with Dean.

He washed his hair and rinsed off in record time.

Dean was waiting for him on his bed, naked atop Sam's sheets, one leg tucked up and the other splayed out dangling over the side. He was six feet of glorious skinbound muscle and sinew. As Sam stood in the doorway, steam billowing out around him, Dean ran a hand down his stomach with a trademark smirk. "See somethin' you like?" he drawled. The sound jolted Sam from his frozen state, propelling him forward into the chill of their room. He was over Dean in seconds, pressing his brother down into the mattress, their mouths slotting gracelessly. Teeth clacked, and Dean laughed, his exhale becoming Sam's inhale when the younger Winchester hauled in a breath.

In a flurry of movement too sudden to track, Dean wrapped his leg around Sam and flipped them. Suddenly Sam was the one being ground into cheap springs, hard line of heat of Dean's cock pressing alongside his. He wiggled, trapped, and the friction sent his hips skyward again, which set off a chain reaction of desire that had him bucking frantically into his brother and cursing. Dean chuckled, Sam could feel it in his chest where Dean was pressed so close, and it was all he could do to find Dean's ass with his hands and hold on.

"Sammy..." Dean moaned, cupping his brother's jaw with both hands, laying trails of peppered kisses down the side of Sam's face, his neck. Sam's grip tightened on his cheeks, blunt nails digging in, and Dean moaned again, long and dirty. The kid got him so goddamn hot, this steady rocking rhythm, grind of holy fuck you could have died and never gonna leave you, Sammy all mixed into one mind-stealing spiral of wantfuckneedloveyou – Dean bit down on Sam's earlobe and listened to him keen, cock swelling at the sound. "I swear to god, you'll be the death of me."

"Fuckin' kill me too, Dean, shit," Sam breathed, such a mouth in bed. He picked up all his big brother's swears, but he never used them, only when he was pissed or frustrated, or being pinned into a shitty mattress by the one person he's always needed.

Dean loved getting Sam like this, flushed with his hazel eyes half-lidded, lips puffy from biting kisses. When he backed up off his little brother, the kid followed him, wanting, tongue flicking out to lick those lips. Dean almost wanted to capture it between his own, suck on it til Sam begged in wet syllables around him. Instead, he growled, "You wanna let me suck you?"

Sam's groaned "God, yes," had him slithering down his brother's body, hands running worshipful over his skin, thumbs catching Sam's nipples just to make him squeak. "Dean!" Dean poised over Sam's cock, which at the proximity bobbed up to lightly brush his lips. The shiver that ran through Sam when they touched was electric, sexy as hell, and Dean couldn't resist a little lick up the slit that had Sam swearing.

"You want my mouth, Sammy?" Dean breathed, hot humid exhale of words on the head of his brother's cock. Sam flailed. "Dean, please," he begged, his voice cracking on the supplication. Dean could never say no to his Sammy.

Every muscle in Sam's body locked when Dean swallowed him down, and he didn't even know how to classify the strangled noise he made. His hands found Dean's hair, raking with purpose through the short strands, and Dean hummed his pleasure at being so handled straight into Sam's dick. His mouth was a miracle, Sam decided, a fucking miracle.

Dean deep-throated, swallowed around him, pulled up with a swirl of his tongue and a twist of his head, then plunged back down to do it all over again. Over and over, and Sam was losing his mind, gasping and keening and writhing beneath his brother's strong hands. Dean held his hips down, didn't let him buck up too hard, but Sam wasn't going to complain with his cock down that gorgeous throat. He roughly stroked Dean's face, straining to see him down there. "Dean..." he whispered. Dean looked up.

Their eyes met and suddenly Sam's orgasm was right there, and he grappled with Dean's head. "Dean, stop, or I'm gonna -"

His brother pulled off, slow enough to drive him crazy, and propped up on his elbows with a grin. Sam returned the grin a little ruefully, constantly mindful of his age and the way he couldn't seem to match Dean for stamina no matter what he tried. Dean seemed to sense this, or maybe he just knew Sam that well, because he pulled himself up on his knees as he said, "Don't worry, kid, you've got all the time in the world." Then he stuck a leg off to find the floor and stood, the bed protesting, Sam bouncing with the mattress as it gave. He had the strangest sense of abandonment, lying there with his cock neglected and dripping, but he shoved that feeling away and watched his brother bend to retrieve lube from his duffel. Dean's slim hips, perfect ass, and thighs strengthened by this life they led did nothing to stop the steady flow of precome; in fact, Sam had to grip the base of his cock to keep from unexpectedly coming untouched due to the walking pile of sex that was his brother.

They could technically fuck through three of Sam's orgasms before either one of them tired – they'd done that on several occasions – but they didn't know when John would be back and in the interest of them both getting off tonight, some sacrifices had to be made.

Not that Sam would protest the way Dean eased on to the bed, shuffled forward on his knees til they were side by side, and dropped down on to all fours. He turned his head Sam's way and once more, the younger Winchester was blinded by his brother's easy charm.

There was a hand placing a cold bottle of lube on his chest, Dean resting his head on the other elbow. Sam looked at him, another blurt of precome running down the length of his shaft. The unspoken question and undeniable answer flew between them.

Sam sat up.

When he nudged Dean's little entrance with the tip of his index finger, Dean gasped into the comforter, hole flexing against potential intrusion. Sam shushed him absently, toying with the wrinkled skin, dipping against the resistance. He slid in to the first knuckle, waited til his brother's body adjusted, then angled his finger and bottomed it out with little effort. Dean's body had excellent muscle memory, as evidenced by his abilities as a hunter, and it remembered this.

Still, he had to ask. "You okay?" God, was that his voice? Broken and husky, he sounded ten years older. Apparently Dean agreed, a little whimper escaping him as his hips torqued down helplessly. "I'm okay, I'm fine, get in there," he said, strained, and Sam could hear his lust, feel it in the rhythmic rolling of his hips. He pulled the finger out to the first knuckle, and slid it back in. Dean breathed out a sound, and Sam did it again.

"Mm, you just gobble my finger up, man," Sam said wonderingly, not even paying attention to the words coming out of his mouth, entranced by the pull and play of skin. Dean felt impossibly tight, channel constricting every time Sam moved. In answer Dean grunted, shoved back, taking Sam deeper. It's like he can't resist, Sam thought absently, leaning down to lick around where Dean's body has claimed his finger. Dean's noises, shocked and wanton, echoed sharply around the room, and Sam lost himself in the musk and feel and reaction of Dean for just a little bit.

He knew he couldn't resist his brother, either.

This thing they had, there was no clear definition for it, and most of the time they didn't even talk about it. Sam wanted to, but he knew that Dean was the last person he could ever expect to partake in healthy communication. Dean talked all the time, but he never said much of anything. Not about what mattered. Not about this.

But they understood one another, at least, and Sam could be content with that for now. He licked Dean's hole sloppy and let every one of his brother's noises go to his dick, even more so with the knowledge that the tight heat encasing his finger would soon devour his cock.

Dean took his brother's finger harder, harder, trying to reach his prostate. Sam was always so gentle with him when he bottomed, like Dean became some fragile flower blossom too precious to be roughed up. Maybe Dean liked it a little rough, sometimes. Maybe – but see, he knew Sam knew that. He knew that Sam could give him what he needed, too, and probably would once he got so wrapped up in the spice of sex that he forgot he cared about hurting Dean. And that was the thing: it didn't hurt Dean, not in a bad way, and certainly not with any lasting damage. Anal sex was supposed to hurt a little bit, as typically one-way flesh adapted to a more adroit use of its space.

Sam was lost in the push-pull down there, again, his distraction as much a tradition of their coupling as switching off and hair-pulling. Dean knew his brother's kinks inside and out, knew exactly what it took to get him screaming toward release and what would put him there, in outer space, coming his brains out.

They both knew that in public awareness, what they had together was wrong – but here in a sparsely lit room that looked exactly like all the others they'd grown up within, it was theirs, and it was the best fucking thing that had ever happened to either of them. There was no way they'd give this up, not for anyone, because this was the longest term relationship either of them had ever had. This love would only grow stronger with time.

That much, they knew like the backs of their hands, like the freckles and moles they mapped into constellations on each other's skin.

What they didn't know, was this:

Eighteen days ago, John Winchester had discovered his boys' secret.

The day started out innocuous enough, just a casual jaunt through the suburbs of Portland. John and Dean wore their serious investigator suits, and Sam was dropped off at the local library. They were looking into the deaths of three people, who were found with their throats clawed in a very distinctive manner.

Four loved ones, two witnesses, and one angry spirit guide later, John and the boys shared dinner at a local diner. Nobody said much of anything; it had been a typical job, with typical results, and not one of them had come even close to almost dying. John considered that a day that was well on its way to being good.

He watched his sons eat their dinner, in a series of nonchalant glances that were for all intents and purposes directed around the diner itself. Dean ate seriously, large bites that he chewed with a thorough intensity, enjoying and ingesting with an alacrity that might be alarming to an outsider. To John, it made sense. His eldest was a hunter, and took his enjoyment with his sustenance. He didn't linger. There was no point.

Sam didn't linger, either, but he ate with a different kind of speed. Sam was growing, shooting up toward the stars, so quickly that his clothes never fit him long enough anymore and he ate everything in sight. He was skinny, but there was lean muscle there, and just the other day he'd thrown and pinned Dean three times during practice.

John was proud of his sons, though he would never say it aloud. They didn't need coddling. They had needed a strong mentor and protector in this hunters' world, someone who could teach them how to dodge claws and stitch their skin when they weren't fast enough – someone to encourage them to be fast enough, then faster – but it was getting to where they didn't even need that anymore.

He didn't like to think about that, so he squashed it down inside himself and paid their bill with an appreciative smile at their waitress. John had briefly entertained the idea of charming her further, maybe getting a number, but she looked tired. Let no one say he wasn't somewhat of a gentleman.

The boys were quiet in the back of the car, each of them staring out their respective windows, the entire ride back to their dreary motel. John saw the place coming up on the left and grimaced, then realized he had no reason to sit alone in his separate room and watch pay-per-view til he passed out. He could go to a bar and do that with dozens of other people. Maybe, if he were to get lucky, he could bring someone back to the dreary, separate room.

By the time they pulled up, he'd decided.

When Sam opened the door to his knock, so he could tell them he was going out, Dean was engrossed in some old horror flick and didn't even look up. Sam nodded, yessired to the same old orders of stay inside, salt and iron. He said he'd be back around midnight, or later.

The door closed with a kind of finality that didn't sit right with John, but that he decided to ignore.

The Impala felt bigger, more imposing as the sun slipped below the trees and shadows lengthened. Street lights painted her in electric rouge, caressing her sleek black frame. As John drove, his confidence rose, knowing he looked good and his car looked better. Led Zeppelin serenaded his way to the bar, with an altogether appropriate song that's not really about a lemon tree.

Half an hour and three whiskeys later, John was entertaining the idea of eschewing a fourth and just going back to the room. He could sleep, maybe, or clean his guns, anything seemed better than watching drunken sluts parade around in dresses that didn't quite flatter the evidence of childbirth, poor diet, and in one unfortunate case a breast augmentation gone awry.

The bartender herself had seemed a hopeful case until John tried it, and then she shut down on him, and his drinks were delivered with a little less in them every time. He was too tired to say anything about it, especially when he was pretty sure he was somehow in the wrong. When he slid back into the Impala with much less finesse than he'd left her, he turned the music down low and let her sidle down the road. They were almost going the speed limit.

Motel parking was usually the least of his worries, but he could see from blocks away that there were vehicles everywhere, most likely spillover from whatever that black-tie function was across the street. The idea to join that party in his FBI suit was overridden by a sudden and gaping yawn, not to mention the grate of stubble against his calluses when he rubbed over his face, so John parked two and a half blocks away in the first available space and ambled his way down the sidewalk.

His room when he let himself in with a sigh was so quiet, in the way that struck him sometimes, ever since his boys grew old enough to have their own beds. It was so quiet, in fact, that the next sound he heard ripped through the air and burrowed into his ear, spreading shock and numb disbelief down his entire body.

It was a moan, and it had come from his right. From the boys' room.

John blinked in the darkness. He hadn't gotten but three steps in, no closer to reaching out for the lights. He stood stock-still, concentrating, knowing he'd hear it again and he'd be able to tell which one of the boys had brought a woman back to their shared room. It was probably Dean, John surmised, the boy was a shark at everything to do with bars and not the least of which the women he found in bars. The sound came again, another on its heels, then another, and John's body was doused with a chill that felt molten hot.

Then again, a higher, louder sound, a keening wail, and that was Sam, and the one before it had been Dean, and there was Dean again, and – and –

John listened to his sons fucking in the next room because he couldn't move, he couldn't mute it out, he couldn't believe it and he couldn't goddamn breathe.

Sam let out another feral shriek, and there was the headboard, John thought, far removed. He'd wondered why there wasn't any banging. Dean's grunts rose in higher and higher pitch, and John was starting to sweat beneath his leather jacket, so he slid it off, tossing it somewhere in the room and rolling his shoulders. He was still there by the door, still couldn't take another step. The brothers' moans entwined now, a duet of passion, and John felt a bead of perspiration roll down his spine. It tickled, fuck, it tickled, and he wriggled a bit as it passed beneath his waistband and disappeared.

His jeans felt tight, so he loosened his belt. He meant to put it on the next hole down, but those sounds. John Winchester was only human, and right then he felt small, insignificant and tossed aside by this world that had made it okay for his boys to fuck each other. From the way they were carrying on, this wasn't the first time this had happened, they knew he wouldn't be back for hours and they just –

John's hand was over his zipper before he knew what he was doing, and he yanked it away as though the metal and fabric had scalded him. The instant the warmth of his hand fell away, though, his cock pulsed and precome soaked into his drawers. He closed his eyes when his stomach lurched, oh, he was going to be sick.

The headboard slammed against the wall unforgiving, Sam begging his brother to touch him, finish it, Dean, I'm so fucking close. John's mouth hung open, he panted for air, not enough oxygen in the world he now shared with this. Dean growled his brother's name, over and over, in a crescendo -

Sam screamed as he came, the headboard slammed, and John shoved his zipper down, taking himself in hand. Dean was still ramming into Sam, from the sound of things, and John stroked furiously to the rhythm of those grunts. He could imagine them falling from Dean's lips, those green eyes clouded in arousal and concentration, Sam melting beneath him as his lax body jolts up and up and up, hands that still belong to a boy and not yet a man reaching up shakily to brace against the headboard -

John stripped his cock with tears in his eyes, and when Dean came with a roar, John did too.

Immediately after which he fled to the bathroom with his pants around his ankles and threw up all that whiskey.

Never again, he gasped silently as he heaved up everything he'd ingested that whole last week. Guiltily, cowardly, when he'd settled enough to stand and clothe himself for sleep, John rooted through his duffel for their first-aid tranquilizers and knocked himself the fuck out.

Somehow, surprisingly, when he met the boys for breakfast he could look them in the eye, and be their militant father. Even if his gut clawed in on itself every time he was reminded of their mutual sin. He had no idea how to broach the subject, if he even could, and midway through breakfast when Dean put his straw wrapper in Sam's hair, John decided he'd just try to live with it. Avoid it, and never do – that – again.

However, three jobs, five motels, countless diners and witnesses later, here he was. The Impala idled purring three blocks from their motel, the neon sign a pinprick in the distance. Neon signs from various businesses reflected within her, stinging John's eyes.

Maybe it wasn't the lights, but he wasn't looking too closely.

Sickness flooded his gut, not entirely from all the whiskey he'd just spent the better part of the hour imbibing. The boys weren't expecting him for a long while yet, and John himself had sworn to stay away for at least three hours, yet here he was sliding the gearshift into neutral and opening his door to get out, so he could walk the Impala back to the motel without his little soldiers hearing her damning roar.

Either the two hadn't fucked, or they'd been more silent than he'd thought possible in the last few places they'd stayed. There was no guarantee they'd be doing it now. If he went back, he could just go to sleep. They were probably watching a movie. They were probably asleep themselves.

Still trying to convince himself of something, anything, John slipped into his room in the dark and didn't even let himself heave a sigh. He couldn't. For a minute, he couldn't even move. He heard, as the door snicked closed, the creak of bedsprings and a long, low moan.

Dean, that was Dean. He only let himself go like that when the only one who could hear him was Sam. John's teeth found the inside of his cheek and ground down. He shed his jacket and palmed his dick through thick denim, hissing at the pressure and locking his disgrace away before it could ruin this. It seeped poison around the edges of his resolve, but that was nothing new.

John Winchester was certainly no stranger to guilt.

"Dean, please," he could hear Sam beg, voice completely wrecked, and John's lips parted. He was panting, panting, hearing his boys. Shame flushed his face more than the drink, more than the lust that blew out his pupils as he stared at himself in the huge wall mirror. More muffled noises from next door, and John could see his cock bulging obscenely below his belt. This - he couldn't - he wasn't going to last long, he knew, and the vermillion crawl of disgust did nothing to alleviate the rush of heat toward completion. He had amazing stamina with a partner, but alone with the wrongness like this, it was like he was Sam's age all over again. Eyes prickling, head and heart pounding, he toed off his boots and slipped toward the bathroom.

Here, as in most of their motels thus far, the bathroom jutted in just so and the walls were their thinnest there. The cheap tile's acoustics amplified every groan, every gasp. He could only hear Sam just then, and knew Dean was going down on his brother, and had to bite down on a moan of his own hard enough to draw blood. Somehow John found the side of the tub and sat, gingerly, pressing the heel of his hand into his crotch hard enough that he hissed, biting his lip. The weight of his palm and a few choice thoughts about Margaret Thatcher naked brought the raging heat down to a simmer.

In the other room, Sam gasped, keened, and his father's mouth dropped open.

This is so fucking wrong. John couldn't shut his brain up but he could ignore it, find something better, and he leaned back. At some point between Sam crying for Dean to stop or I'm gonna and the raucous creak of bedsprings that signified one of them getting up – probably for lube, he thought – the hand that had been applying pressure had started massaging, instead. John almost gasped when he grasped the damning bulge, but he held it in. He'd been at the hunting game too long to make an unconscious sound, even if he almost couldn't help it.

You made your bed, now lie in it, he told himself, and slid backwards carefully into the tub.

There was room to brace in there. There was nothing that made an undue amount of noise, not with the curtain tucked out of the way in the corner, the cubicle as yet unused. John let his head loll back and rest against the side, breathing slow and steady despite the roaring of his blood. He heard the his boys' bed creak again, a chuckle almost too low to be heard, and then –

Rustling, shifting. Dean's voice, higher than usual, telling his brother "I'm okay, I'm fine, get in there."

The heat was too much, it surged and bit, and John lost the game with the hand that then decided to slip below his waistband. When he grasped himself, it was a shock, and he actually did gasp – but it was lost in the murmurs of his sons, and the wanton shout that escaped Dean when (presumably) Sam's finger glossed over his prostate.

Precome dripped down John's hand, seeped into his shorts. He bit his lip, eyes squeezed shut, fully focused on every nuance of sound from the other room.

Sam had two fingers in his brother's tight enveloping heat, and he was loving the way Dean tossed his head every time the longer one brushed his prostate. "Sammy.." Dean whined, heels and fingertips scrabbling against the sheets. He clenched around Sam and in response Sam scissored open his fingers, just a little, and Dean's body translated the pain into something overwhelmingly pleasurable.

He needed Sam in him, now, and told him so. Sam's mouth formed a little o, his pupils widened and encompassed the blue-green-brown until there was nothing left but a hint of color. Dean let his head fall back, heard the click of the lube bottle opening, and then the slick slide of Sam's hand on his cock. Dean's own erection fought against the bed beneath him, like it could punch straight through. His hips worked against it a little, the friction a welcome distraction from the gaping emptiness in his ass –

The blunt head of Sam's cock probed between his cheeks, and fuck if Dean had forgotten how big his little brother could get. "Sammy -" he said, and he probably wasn't going to tell him to stop, but whatever it was it got lost in the drag-out groan that Sam's monster cock forced up out of his lungs.

John, in the dark of his bathroom, let Dean's groan sing up his spine, each touch of his fingers on his aching flesh seeming to correspond with Sam's exclamation, "Fuck, Dean, so tight," in a very strained voice, and then the slow build of rhythm. Funny, John thought in a haze, he would have thought that as a teenager Sam would have been more eager, almost jumping the gun.

Straight on the heels of that thought came a scarier one: they have been doing this a long time.

How fucking long? he screamed into nothingness, before he was swept up and lost in the sea of his sons' grunts and moans.

Dean loved it when Sam fucked him. He could admit that, in his own head, while he was out of his mind with the way the head of Sam's cock scraped along his insides, the shaft that supported it filling him up in the best possible way. Every time they did this, Sam seemed to have gotten stronger, and this time he folded Dean up like it was nothing and torqued his hips hard, a punishing pace, the spurs of them digging deeper and deeper into the meat of Dean's thighs.

And Dean fucking loved it. "Harder, Sammy," he sobbed, because here he could. Here, no one could hear him but Sam.

His brother had built up stamina over the years, as well, but nothing got him closer to the razor edge of orgasm than the sound of Dean pleading, and Dean knew it. That little hitch of desperation in Sam's thrusts told him he was on the right track, and so he fucked back to meet every single one, plunging Sam deeper, babbling senselessly a litany of please and Sammy and fuck yeah right there god, that's good.

John's hips snapped up to meet his hand and his eyes flew wide to fix on nothing, his mouth hanging open. His breaths sounded so loud to him, in the small space, but he knew there was no way the boys could hear him over that racket Dean was making. Was he hamming it up, or did his little brother really pack that great of a wallop? John tread the edge of sickness and licentious curiosity, his mind flickering over the faces and bodies of those two, wondering so many terrible things. And his fucking libido ate it up, feeding it down the lines of his nerves, the swirl of his veins, curling down to his toes and nesting up in his taut ballsac.

He wasn't going to last much longer, and he didn't know if he could be quiet when he lost it, not this time. Not with Dean begging his brother to let him come, wanton filth spilling from his mouth, and John could picture it perfectly. Dean on his hands and knees, because that gave him control over the depth of the – John briefly remembered past dark encounters and shoved them away. No. Sam and Dean, Sam was fucking his brother, he was gripping Dean's slender hips and pulling him back, his own hips like pistons. Both of them were sweating, John knew what that looked like, the sheen of it standing out on golden and paler skin alike.

Dean buried his face in the comforter, biting down on it. Sam was pounding so fucking deep, like he would split Dean apart and just burrow inside, and Dean had no say on what was coming out of his mouth anymore. Sharp, high animal noises, bouncing off the walls, in concert with Sam's grunts.

"Dean, Dean, I'm – I'm gonna -"

"Fuck yeah, Sammy," Dean turned his head and bit out, ramming himself back harder on to his brother's swelling cock. So tight, so fucking tight – he clenched all the muscles down there as tightly as he could, vibrating with the effort, and when Sam gasped Dean could tell it was through an ecstatic grin. The intake of air sounded lighter. He was grinning himself, manically, and he shoved a hand beneath his jolting body to grasp his steel and stone erection, wincing at the amount of precome and sweat he slid through.

One of Sam's hands left his hip and batted his hand away from his cock, grasping it and stripping it with hard, quick strokes in a counterpoint rhythm that quickly lost all semblance of order when Dean clenched around him again. Sam let out a shriek and came, flooding Dean's insides with heat and stretching him even further with each pulse. The stretch and the heat and the sound of his brother sucking in sobbing breaths as he shook out the last of his orgasm sent Dean reeling over the edge, with a sort of groaning howl he was sure they could hear entire states away.

In the bathroom next door, John's whole body seized up with Sam's sharp cry, and he didn't stop twitching and coming and letting out a steady soft hunh – hunh – hunh until Dean's last groan was fading away. The amount of semen in his underwear was astonishing and disgusting, and John had to just lie there and breathe, and will himself not to vomit. Waste of the whiskey, goddamnit, he thought in despair, as though that of all things would override his absolute loathing of himself in that moment.

He crawled out of the tub spider-like and hunched over the toilet, but all he spat was excess saliva. It seemed his body was growing complacent with the horror, even though his mind wanted to scream and cry and puke and knock itself unconscious in the most painful way possible. Head hung so low he was breathing toilet-scented air, John wondered how easy it would be to pick a fight here, maybe even find someone with a knife.

If he got himself stabbed, he wouldn't be able to fold into bathtubs and get off on forbidden, incestuous sounds.

He wasn't even about to examine just why he felt this way. Why he liked this. Someday, perhaps, when it faded and the boys were off hunting on their own, John could look at this objectively. For now, though, he just needed something of which to convince himself, a believable lie.

The nausea hadn't passed, but it wasn't being very proactive either, so John hauled himself up and staggered as quietly as he knew how out to the king bed. Soiled clothes dropped at the foot and he crawled nude over the ugly patterned coverlet. The polyester felt like a marble counter top beneath his oversensitive dick, so he lay on his side and watched headlights cruise lazily past his drawn curtains. Yellow, yellow, white, yellow, blue. He hated those new blue headlights, they always blinded him on the road.

There in the semi-dark, he could lie to himself about why he found this appalling situation to be, in a way, appealing. Why he could picture his sons having sex and find it hot, despite the nausea and warning bells and wrong wrong wrong. John could tell himself it was because they both held some of their mother's wild beauty, and the strength she'd used to bolster her husband, who was so weak, and now bereft had barely the strength to stand. He could tell himself that his time as a hunter had changed him, that this wasn't who he was but simply a by-product of the life he'd been forced to live since Mary was killed. He could even tell himself, somewhat ludicrously, that this was all the product of some long-term spell or curse, that he wasn't really attracted to this, that some witch or other conniving wretch had poisoned his mind and blood.

He could tell himself any or all of those things, but the truth of it was he was sick. He should march over there and scream at them, if not now then next time, oh holy fuck there will be a next time if you don't stop it, he realized, horrified. And for the first time in a long time, John Winchester had no idea what to do.

Thoroughly sunk in the wet spot and completely uncaring, Sam lounged in Dean's arms, tracing a rivulet of sweat down his brother's temple. "When do you think Dad'll be back?"

Dean disguised snuggling closer to his brother as a shrug. "Dunno," he mumbled into Sam's skin, breathed deep the sweat-and-sex scent of him. He loved that he made Sam smell like that, and that he was the only one who could - Sam wasn't yet old enough to trawl bars for hookups, like the rest of his family.

He's not old enough for you, either, his brain sneered unfairly, and Dean latched his teeth on to Sam's neck just a little to shut it up.

"Let's just enjoy this while we're alone."

*FIN