Know When To Fold ‘Em

For outofmymindbebackshortly, by way of thanks.

It wasn’t until they reached the campsite that Dean realized what he’d done.

“You did WHAT?” Sam barked.

Dean held up his hands. “Look, it’s not my fault it took two extra washes to get all that zombie blood out of your sleeping bag, dude. And then the fucker wouldn’t dry. And we were in a hurry, right, and so I kinda–left it there.”

“In the goddamn dryer,” Sam groaned. “In a laundromat. That’s 500 miles from here! Jesus! It’s gonna be fucking freezing tonight! What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Dean scowled. Reached into his pack and yanked out his flask. Chucked it into Sam’s hand.

“Try this,” he huffed.

Sam glared at him, that teenaged pout Dean thought he’d outgrown. “Fine!” he shouted. “Whatever, Dean. What the FUCK ever.”

Dean watched him stomp away. Called:

“Hey, it’ll toughen you up again, sport! Got too soft, all that time away!”

It was a dick thing to say, and Sam thought so, too, because he gave Dean the finger without turning around and disappeared into the trees.

Great. Just freaking fucking great


Dean got the tent up by dusk, no thanks to Drinky McGee. Got the fire going and dinner on its way towards done before Sam deigned to reappear; he staggered into the firelight, ripped and stupid. Spent the next twenty minutes playing with his food and laughing at jokes only he could hear. Glaring holes in the side of Dean’s face when he thought Dean wasn’t looking.

After dinner, Dean kicked dirt over the embers and booted Sam’s drunk ass into the tent.

And then things went from bad to suck.

“Goddamn it!” Dean barked, swatting Sam’s hands away. “I am not sharing my sleeping bag with you, asshat. Put on another sweater and stop being such a fucking girl!”

Sam reared back and booted Dean in the knee. Got the damn sleeping bag good and muddy, too.

“Hey!” Dean shouted.

“Hpasdfh!” Sam managed, this high drunk howl. He lunged, got all grabby and shit and Dean tried to peel away, but the tent was too small and Sam was too big and Dean was an easy target, snuggled up that goddamn bag.

He was warm, sure, but now he was covered in Sasquatch.

“Dude!” he huffed, pushing at Sam’s shoulders. “Get off me!”

Sam mangled some syllables again, got his fingers under the top of the bag and pulled.

The zipper snapped back and the thing unrolled like a sardine can.

Dean, meet salted fish.

And of course Sam took that as an invite, started worming his way into Dean’s very limited personal space, big drunk sloppy and pissed.

“Fuck,” he groaned against Dean’s shoulder. “Damn it. Move, Dean. Move over! Freezing!”

His long cold paws caught on Dean’s face, like ice cubes under the collar.

“Ugh!” Dean huffed, but he knew he’d already lost.

He knew when to admit defeat.

He stopped struggling and Sam scrambled in, fat muddy boots scraping over Dean’s jeans, catching on his good wool socks. Which, yuck.

Somehow, Dean ended up on his side, Sam slopped against him like a drunken bedspread.

And of course the bastard snored.

Of course he did.

Dean wriggled like a fish on the line. Warm, sure, but now he was almost too hot.

Tried to focus on the silence outside, the calm. The quiet. The crickets. The wind. He closed his eyes.

Sleep took its goddamn time in arriving.

But the universe rewarded him for putting up with all of Sam’s shit. Sent him a good dream with a dark-haired girl, tall and taut like a whip, who liked to tease. She caught his hips in her hands, and yeah, that was alright, blew soft against the back of his neck and he shivered, way down deep, leaned back and let her lick at his neck, tug at his ear with her teeth, and goddamn, that was fucking great.

She curled her hand around his waist, let her fingers slide into home. Petted him a little, bit hot circles under his ear and purred.

“Dean,” she breathed, and wow, she must be smoker, because her voice was–

Oh god, oh what in the actual fuck–!

Dean’s eyes flew up and ok, he wasn’t dreaming now because he was staring at the red nylon of the tent and that meant it was definitely Sam’s hand over his cock and Sam’s mouth marking the fuck out of his neck and that was so not ok, no matter what his cock was trying to say, or what his hips were chanting in their slow steady cant. Or his mouth, which seemed to be moaning Sam’s name at a pretty spectacular volume.

Sam slurred into his skin, his tongue making crazy eights up and over again.

The bastard couldn’t sit up straight, probably couldn’t spell his fucking name right then, but damn if his motor skills weren’t running, if he didn’t flick Dean’s zipper with his wrist and that pull was the longest of Dean’s life because he wanted Sam to touch him so bad it hurt, it freaking hurt until Sam caught him, made a fist around his cock and started to move his hips in time with his hand, groaning something that sounded like “fuckDeanpleaseyes, god, Dean, god! Fuck, Deancomeon, come on–!”

Dean leaned back and bucked up in one go, pinned between Sam and Sam and fuck, was it good, and Sam was so goddamn hot, a freaking whiskey furnace grinding into Dean’s ass, and damn if he didn’t give it up, shudder and shoot like a spark between Sam’s fingers, fly wet and sloppy all over the inside of the goddamn sleeping bag.

Sam funnelled a growl from all the way down. His mouth went slack, his hips got quick, and he worked himself against Dean as Dean drifted back down, and he was almost himself again when Sam moaned a long, sweet note and pressed wet into the back of Dean’s jeans, his limbs going squishy and still.

And somehow, in all that, they slept.


After breakfast, Dean dragged the bag out of the tent and they surveyed the damage.

“Ew,” Sam said around his toothbrush. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

Dean punched his shoulder. “This is all your fault, bitch,” he said, gruff.

He felt Sam eye him. Waiting for Dean to make the call. Because they hadn’t talked about it, no. So. Sam was gonna let him decide.

Dean looked him dead on and huffed: “Next time, take your damn boots off before you come to bed, dude.”

Sam grinned, leaned over and spat. Came right back at him, cold and minty fresh.

“Yeah,” he said, quick cool with a wet kiss. “I’ll remember that. Next time.”

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