Accountability

By Weirdnessmagnet
Rating: NC-17, pwp
Paring: Sam/Dean
Warnings: Car sex! Really, there is no plot here, nor spoilers. Established relationship.
Summary: During financial woes, Sam appreciates the way Dean takes care of things.
Disclaimers: The boys belong to Kripke and CW. They aren’t mine, or Impala would see even more action.

**
“Don’t give me that look," Dean growls.

“I’m not giving you any look,” Sam retorts.

"You're giving me that look."

"I am not." Sam pulls his jacket tighter around him. “The car’s just cold, and I’m not looking forward to sleeping in it again.”

It’s too damn cold in the Impala, and Dean has been insisting for the last seventy miles that the poker winnings from three towns back aren’t enough to cover a motel and gas to get them to their next hunt. Sam's tired; he's been tired since two states ago. The idea of cramping into a huddle on the Impala's chilly seats shivering beneath an old Army surplus blanket so he can hunt tomorrow night makes his back ache already.

Dean’s hands flex in irritation around the wheel. “We have to be careful with the credit cards right now.”

“I know.” Sam’s expression slides into a deeper pout.

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” Sam looks out the window and tries to ignore the crease between Dean's eyes he knows is there. He knows it's not Dean's fault they're in this situation. Using the credit cards is always risky, and with the economy gone to hell it’s harder to get new cards. Dean had taken to using the cards they already had sparingly, which meant Dean's pool hustling and poker games between hunts had increased. It meant more late nights in bars, more of Sam falling asleep alone, more of Dean staggering drunk back to the motel and passing out. Occasionally Dean passes out on his own bed.

The times he doesn't, though, Sam almost prefers. Sometimes Sam wakes up to find Dean solidly asleep, face-down and drooling on the pillow. Dean is warm and heavy next to him, and it reminds Sam of when they were little and still physically small enough to share a bed. At times like that, Dean looks younger than he really is, no creases between his eyes and smooth skin marred only by light stubble. At times like that, Sam puts the blankets over Dean, puts a glass of water and two aspirin on the nightstand for the hangover Dean will deny having when he wakes up, but the pills are always gone by the time Sam gets out of the shower.

At times like this, though, Sam has to remind himself to be less of a jerk to his brother. Sam sighs inwardly. It's not Dean's fault they're short on cash, he reminds himself. Hell, they've been "short on cash" since before Sam was old enough to know what money was. There are blankets in the trunk tonight, Sam's conscience says, there will be hot coffee in the morning, and a hunt by the next evening. They always get a motel after a hunt. Sam can hold out.

He glances at Dean and sees circles under his brother's eyes.  "Want me to drive a while?"

"Nah, I'm good."

"You're tired," Sam says.

"You've been up as long as I have."

"But I haven't been driving."

"I'm fine." Dean drums his thumbs on the wheel to a tune that isn't playing on the radio. Enter Sandman, Sam notes.

"Pull over," Sam says.  Dean darts a glare at him.  "I have to take a leak."

Dean rolls his eyes and pulls over at the first tree line they come to. Sam walks into the woods, relieves himself, and waits an extra five minutes before ambling back to the car. It's long enough that the weariness has caught up to Dean. He's leaning against the car rubbing his eyes.

"How about you drive for a while," Dean says.

Works every time. Sam swallows the grin. "Sure." He catches the keys Dean tosses him. Dean moves around the car while Sam opens the trunk. He pulls the blankets out from under the ammo duffle.

Sam hands him the blankets. "Get some sleep," Sam tells him. "I'll pull over when I get tired." Dean looks at him -- one of the many things Dean worries about is Sam falling asleep at the wheel -- but takes the blankets and slides into the back seat. Sam shuts the door behind him.

It's almost two hundred miles later when Sam gets drowsy enough to stop. He finds a decent place to pull over, just past a small billboard on the two-lane highway. There's enough vegetation growing up the sign posts that the Impala isn't easily spotted from the road.

Sam kills the engine and turns around. Dean is curled on the seat, head pressed against the window, snoring softly and cocooned in both blankets. Sam reaches across the seat and tugs at the corner of one. It gives a little, but Dean snorts and murmurs and shifts, yanking the corner out of Sam’s hand.

"C'mon," Sam whispers. "Quit hogging."

Dean murmurs something unintelligible and shifts. Sam sighs and slides the keys into his pocket.

Sam opens the door that Dean isn't sleeping against and slides in beside his brother. When he rolled over, Dean released just enough of one blanket that if Sam hunches he can probably cover his upper body with it. He jerks a little on the blanket to try for more covers. Dean frowns and mumbles and rolls again. He lands half on top of Sam. Dean wriggles until his head is firmly planted against Sam's shoulder. Sam's effectively pinned, wrapped in a cocoon of Dean and blankets that smell of motor oil and gunpowder.

"Dean," Sam says quietly, but he doesn't really know why. He wants to wake Dean up to shove him off, but he doesn't want to wake Dean up because he'll stop doing this. And Dean is warm and the air is cold, and Dean is snuggling into the crook of Sam's neck. Sam shifts and tries to arrange his legs into a position that won't leave him horribly stiff come morning. It's a lost cause, so he gives up and closes his eyes, feeling Dean breathing regularly against his neck.

At least he's warm, Sam concedes.

It's still dark when Sam wakes up. He can't feel his right leg and his left arm is sort of tingly-numb. The regular breathing on his neck isn't regular any more. Dean is awake, but isn't saying anything. Sam doesn't open his eyes.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" Sam still doesn't open his eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"Sleeping."

"No, I mean, what are we doing."

Sam yawns. "Sleeping."

"You're awake," Dean says.

"I wasn't until you woke me up."

"Oh. Right." Dean moves a little and the feeling starts to come back into his arm. "We haven't done this in a while."

"Sleeping?" Sam says.

"No, I mean," Dean shifts against him, "this."

Sam inhales slowly. Dean is warm under the blankets. His hand presses against Sam's ribs, under his shirts, pulls him tighter. Sam tugs Dean closer.

Sam exhales and lowers his head. Dean presses his forehead against Sam's.

"Missed this," he murmurs against Sam's cheek.

"You've been working nights," Sam says. His fingers spasm against Dean's shoulder when Dean bucks against his thigh.

"Don't want to," Dean says softly, and Sam can hear what Dean isn't saying.

"You've been taking care of things. Like always." Sam skims his fingers down the back of Dean's neck. Dean shudders against him. "Don't think I haven't noticed." Sam tilts his head and kisses Dean's forehead.

"Sam," Dean says, and leans in. His tongue is warm and thick in Sam’s mouth, searching and tasting and Sam cups the back of Dean's head the way he likes just to hear Dean groan.

Sam grins in the darkness against Dean’s mouth. The zipper is loud over the sound of the cold wind outside. Dean lifts enough so Sam can push his jeans down his thighs. He can smell Dean's heat now, not just feel it through the cotton layers. "Roll over," Sam says.

Dean's eyes flash but he turns over, leaning on his forearms, one knee on the seat and his other leg braced on the floorboards. Sam kneads Dean's ass, spreading him apart with his thumbs. The kiss he gives Dean's hole is as wet and hot and dirty as he can make it, tongue flicking in and around. Dean stifles a moan against the seat. His thighs fan wider and strain against the jeans trapping them. Sam smiles against Dean's ass, laps it with his tongue a few more times before petting the pucker with his fingertip. Dean's "oh fuck" is muffled.

It takes a while with only spit for lube, but Sam manages to get two fingers deep and scissoring. He licks around his fingers, dipping in and over and the taste of Dean is overwhelming. Dean's hips won't stop moving. He works himself on Sam's fingers, moving back every time Sam thrusts in, exhaling little gasps and half-moans he can't bite back.

"Sam," Dean moans, "Don't -- "

They've had sex in the car enough for Sam to know that Dean doesn't mean don't do that or don't stop but rather don't let me stain the upholstery. Sam pulls out his fingers gently and urges Dean over onto his back.

Dean's mouth is swollen from biting his own lips. Sam runs a thumb over them before leaning in. Dean tastes like the diner coffee from their last stop and kisses like he might never get to do this again.

Sam intends to prove him wrong on that one.

His fingers slip back inside easily even though Dean grunts against his mouth. Sam licks his tongue before letting go and sliding down Dean's body. Salty smell here, and sex smells, and Dean smell, and Sam nuzzles Dean's thatch of curls until Dean digs his fingers into Sam's hair. "Come on."

"Don't complain. I'm still wearing pants," Sam mutters and licks the droplets off the tip of Dean's cock.

Fingers spasm in his hair and Dean half lifts off the seat to get more of Sam's mouth. Sam presses Dean down with his free hand and sets up a rhythm between his mouth and the fingers buried inside his brother. Dean moans on every breath now, gasping and fisting Sam's shirts and trying to spread his legs wider, wider, to get more of this.

"Sammy, god -- "

Sam sucks the head as hard as he can, finds that place inside Dean and rubs, doesn't stop until Dean shouts through clenched teeth and shoots salty into Sam's mouth. Sam keeps licking until Dean's dick stops pulsing, keeps working that bright pleasure lump until Dean pushes him off with a whimper.

Sam wipes his mouth with his shirt sleeve and watches Dean breathing harshly on the seat. Dean looks thoroughly debauched, chest heaving, belly exposed and pants around his feet. Sam rubs the heel of his hand against the bulge in his own jeans. Dean drags him down by the back of the neck and kisses him until Sam can't taste Dean in his mouth any more. "How do you want it?" Dean says.

"Anything," Sam says, and means it.

Dean lets out a growl and shoves Sam back. Attacks his fly and gets him out into the cold air. Dean licks his own palm, wraps it around Sam's dick. Dean's calluses are the best kind of friction, rough and soft on his cock and tease him the way he likes, the way Dean can't stand to have done to him but is perfectly willing to do to Sam. Sam jerks up into the touch, buries his head against Dean's neck and holds on while Dean jerks him off. Firm strokes, lots of attention to the head, occasional roll of Sam's balls between Dean's dexterous fingers. It doesn't take long before Sam's breaths get ragged, before he's shuddering against Dean's body pressed against his side, before he's whimpering and Dean is whispering to him, "Good boy, Sammy, there you go, c'mon -- "

Which just makes something break inside Sam and he's clutching Dean with both hands, face pressed against his neck so hard he's pretty sure his teeth will cut the skin and all the while Dean's hand moving on him, twisting, teasing the head just the right way to make Sam insane --

"Dean -- I'm -- "

"Yeah," Dean breathes, and Sam jerks in his hand.

When he’s finished, Dean wipes his hand on one of the blankets, then pulls the other one over them. Sam can feel how cold it really is, now. He's shivering as he tucks himself away and zips up. Dean raises his butt off the seat and slides his pants up. "Where did that come from?" Dean says.

"What?"

"That." Dean tugs his shirts straight.

"You like car sex."

"I like car sex. You hate car sex."

"I don't hate car sex. I don't like sleeping in the car." Sam burrows further under the blanket. "But it’s okay. I appreciate the way you handle the money situation.”

"And you express your appreciation...with car sex."

Sam feels the heat creeping up his neck. "Well..."

"Car sex, Sam. This is how you say thanks for taking care of things. For looking out for you the way I always do."

"If I said thank you, you'd get embarrassed and pissy and call me Samantha."

"You get mushy over stupid stuff," Dean mutters.

"You can't accept a simple 'thank you'."

"Bitch."

"Jerk." Sam grins at him and drags him back under the blankets. Dean fights until Sam maneuvers Dean’s head against his chest. Dean fits next to Sam’s body the way Jess never did. Sam is cramped and he's too tall to lie back here and Dean is cutting off the circulation to his left arm, and Sam is comfortable. So is Dean, when he finally gives up the fight with a sigh and relaxes against him.

It’s cold but Dean is warm, there are blankets and come morning there will be coffee and a hunt, and later a motel room with a shower and beds. Sam snuggles Dean closer when he hears his brother start to snore, closes his eyes, and waits for tomorrow.

~end