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For a minute, standing there with his dick in hand, Sam can't even make the piss come.
His head is killing him. It’s the headache that’s followed them through six states and an equal number of visions, one after another with little or no respite between them. It’s the headache of not enough sleep and too little to eat because even the smell of food makes him nauseous. It’s the headache of too many miles with his head pressed to cold and vibrating glass or smashed into ribbed vinyl until it prints on your skin and you can feel every line like a scar.
He fights the impulse to put his head against the tile in front of him. The change in temperature would not be worth picking up whatever nastiness lives on the walls of rest stop bathrooms. He's unsteady enough, though, that he puts his hand gingerly on the wall and rests his head on his arm, trying to will his bladder to empty. It's not working. The tandem relentless and steady throb in his groin and temples is almost enough to make him cry, except that he's not going to do that in a truck stop bathroom or in front of Dean.
He looks up and back as the bathroom door opens, a sharp reflexive gesture that radiates lightning bolts of agony down his neck, into his back and—fuck!—into his groin. It's just Dean. Sam bites down on a sob and catches his tongue, tasting blood before he turns away and goes back to his non-piss, grimly willing his body to cooperate. Dean stands there for a while and Sam—in between bouts of annoyance and blinding pain—waits for the inevitable wisecrack.
It doesn't come. After a weirdly long pause, there's only the sound and echo of Dean's boots crossing the tile. Sam's about ready to pack it up in defeat, and screw his bladder, when suddenly Dean looms behind him—too close—and his hand pushes Sam's aside to take hold of Sam's dick.
Sam's hips stutter forward of their own volition and thrust into that loose grip. He yelps, "Dean!" and at that moment—completely perverse—his bladder decides this is the stimulus it needs and lets go in a hot flooding rush so fast it tingles down his skin. Sam cries out in mingled pain and relief, head falling forward on his neck like the nerves are cut.
"Shh," Dean says. His cheek is pressed in the space between Sam's scapula and shoulder and the warmth of him radiates into Sam even through three layers. Sam breathes through his mouth, soft pants, very conscious of the feel of each of Dean's fingers and the barest trace of palm as he empties.
When it's over, Sam's breath goes out of him. He doesn't move and neither does Dean.
And then suddenly Dean does, stroking light and speculative from Sam's balls to his cock head and back.
Sam shivers. "Dean," he says again, and puts his hand over his brother's.
"Shh," Dean murmurs a second time. His fingers are trapped under Sam's, but his thumb continues to stroke in warm lazy arcs over Sam's shaft.
Whatever Sam thinks about it, Sam's cock seems to decide that it likes this. A lot. And—looking down at his and Dean's fingers tangled over his hardening cock—Sam's not so inclined to disagree. He sucks in a breath and gradually, slowly, peels his fingers away.
Dean shifts a little, resettling his feet, fitting tighter against Sam's taller form, altering his grip to enclose Sam more closely. Sam closes his teeth on a gasp as Dean's encircling fingers start to move. Sam shuts his eyes, feeling a trembling excitement start up in his legs as Dean's skin and callouses—so like and different from his own—slide over him, an alternating current of rough-smooth, rough-smooth.
Sam makes a noise deep in his throat, whimpering and high pitched, and his fingers twitch, at his side on the tile, but he doesn't move, doesn't look, sweat breaking out all across his body. Fuck. Fuck, he thinks, but he doesn't say anything aloud, swaying slightly into the tight slick grip on his cock.
After a moment, Dean's other hand finds Sam's hip, wadding belt and cloth against skin to hold Sam still. Dean pushes against him again, thrusting, and Sam feels Dean against his ass, hard as a tire iron. One hard twist of Dean's wrist and Sam grunts, hips pistoning again. Dean's fingers tighten and pull Sam back against him. Sam grinds into the touch, into Dean, the only sounds the creak of leather—Dean's coat—and that of Dean's breath and his own, a slithering hissing race.
Oh God. Oh God.
He's fully hard; he thinks he can feel every engorged vein, every molecule of blood that rushes to the tip as Dean's hand drags and slurs over him in all the right places and all the right ways. Of course it is; it's been years, but this isn't the first time for either of them, though never like this, in such a public arena…
As if his thought causes it—and who knows?—Sam hears the squeak of the men's room door again. Oh fuck. He makes a noise, stifled and pained, and absolutely does not look up. He can't, a new sick rush shivering through him at the thought of what they must look like, what this new person must see, looking at them. It's not like it's not completely obvious.
He feels Dean turn, though, to look over his shoulder even as his hand goes on with its work, relentless. He imagines Dean's expression, the cocky half-grin and lewd wink, and that almost brings him over the edge, liquid dripping from the head of his cock like tears. Sam bites his lip and whines. Sweat drips from the ends of his hair.
There's a hasty and embarrassed, "Oh. Sorry," and then the door squeaks again. Sam groans, making small desperate thrusts into Dean's hand. There's not much time now.
Dean turns back to Sam, his forehead against Sam's shoulder, rubbing harder, faster. Sam's hand is pressed so taut against the wall he thinks even his short nails must shatter, every other breath catching on soft breathy moans he can't prevent from escaping over the clamor of his dick: yes god yes dean ah yes please god yesharderahmore dean…
Dean's thumb slips roughly over the head spreading the thick fluid of Sam's pre-come all over and that's it, that's just it; Sam comes in hard shuddering waves all over Dean's hand, so intense that his legs buckle from under him.
The hand Dean has on his hip slides all the way around Sam and holds him up as Sam sobs and spurts his way through it. "Dean," he gasps and Dean says nothing, only waits until Sam can get his feet under him again and stand on his own. Then Dean unwinds his arm and walks out, licking his fingers.
And that… That's just so fucking Dean…
Sam lets out a noise that's half a laugh, half…something else. He feels tired and boneless enough that he thinks he might actually be able to sleep, even if it is just in the Impala. His headache is starting to fade, the knots of tension that held it in place released. Rubber legged he staggers to the sink and washes his hands and then scoops water on his face. The paper towels abrade his aching skin.
He walks out into the too-bright lights of the truck stop, heat burning in his cheeks as he tries to intuit whether the looks he gets are because he looks like twenty miles of bad road or because whoever walked in on them's been talking. He'd had half-formed plans to grab a Snickers and a Mountain Dew, but he drops it now, hastening out to the car instead.
Dean's tapping out the drum section of Suite Sister Mary on the wheel as Sam ducks in and slouches down. "Hey," Dean says, offhanded, and hands Sam a Snickers.
"Hey," Sam replies, and tucks the chocolate bar in his hoodie pocket. "Thanks man."
Dean's gives him a guileless and bland look. "What for?"
Sam snorts, puts his head back and slides slowly and painlessly into sleep.