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"Did you really need me for this one?"
You huff at your brother. Your hand is hanging out the window, fingers cutting through the warm rush of highway air. Sam hasn't answered yet because he's heard this question nine times already and he's made his peace not dignifying it with another response. He’s done this with you since you first learned how to speak and thus first learned how to annoy him until he was almost brought to tears.
Dean and John never let him get away with being annoying. It was always “speak when your spoken to” when he had too many questions. You on the other hand got away with anything and everything with just the flutter of your eyelashes and as much as Sam wishes he could say he had enough of it, he secretly loved it.
The Impala's turn signal ticks as he takes the exit.
"For the last time," he says, the tone of someone absolutely fed up "yes. I needed you. I would have loved nothing more than for Dean to be here instead, and for you to be back at Bobby's cuddles up with Dom or Dan or whatever that losers name is this week, but Dean broke his wrist. So here we are. Together. Please, I am begging you, stop complaining for ten fucking minutes."
You stick your tongue out at him, turn back to the window, and count to four before doing it again where he can't see.
The whole Buc-ee's thing wasn't your fault. Forty miles back you'd clocked the sign, that enormous, red, cheerful billboard with the beaver, and you'd made a decision. Sam had wanted to stop at some depressing cinder-block shell of a gas station thirty minutes earlier, and you had held your breath until he agreed to wait. Beaver Nuggets. That's what they were called. Not beever balls. You'd known that before you even asked but beever balls was funnier and you liked watching the muscle in his jaw go tight.
He pulls up to one of the five hundred open pumps and steps out to set the nozzle.
You jump out and run to his side, wide-eyed, chin tipped down, one hand behind your back, the other extended toward him with your fingers opening and closing in rapid little grabs.
"Sammyy, Monies, pweasee."
He looks at you for a long moment with the flat, exhausted patience of a man who has been on the road with you for five and a half hours. Then he puts a ten in your hand.
You keep grabbing.
Another sigh. A five joins the ten.
You're gone before he can say anything about it, skirt swishing, already calculating the five-finger discount for whatever the cash won't cover. You're wearing a little pleated skirt and the top that makes your tits completely unavoidable and you've gotten away with significantly worse crimes in this outfit. His text reaches you before you hit the door
“don't take 5 years please”
The bathrooms are, as advertised, legendarily clean.
You'd googled this, and it was true. Buc-ee's bathroom cleanliness had real testimonials from people who cared about that kind of thing. The stall is huge and the lighting is doing you every favor. You're freshly annoyed at Sam and pleasantly wound up from the highway wind and decide to make a little video for Dan while you have the privacy.
You prop your phone against the stall door with your magnetic case and hit record. It starts almost as a joke, you leaning into the camera rolling your shoulders back, squeezing your tits together just to see how it looks, but somewhere between unhooking your bra and lifting your skirt it stops being a joke. You work slowly, performing for an audience of one (Dan, currently at home, about to have a very good afternoon), fingertips dragging over your nipple until they are hard and you genuinely feel it somewhere lower. Your fingers move to your hip, then down to lift your skirt and you make a show of sucking your fingers wet before you do anything else with them, holding eye contact with your own camera.
The audio on the video is a a bit of everything. Toilets flushing. A kid somewhere outside the stall absolutely losing his mind about a beaver keychain. And underneath all of it, once your fingers are where they need to be, the very specific wet sound of you working yourself open.
You let out a small, theatrical moan for the camera. Then your fingers find the right angle and the next moan is entirely for you.. a little too loud, bouncing off clean tile, not demure in the slightest. You ride it out with your foot propped on the little trash can for period waste and you tipped back your head, genuinely surprised by how good it feels, before bringing your fingers back up to your mouth and cleaning them off for the camera. You could make a living off this.
A few photos. Some generous lighting. You compile the full package in your texts, attach everything, hit send, and feel immediately and completely like yourself again.
You're still buzzing a little at the register, Beaver Nuggets and a cold Coke sweating in your hands, and a little beever keychain you carefully placed in your open purse when you felt no one was watching and the camera couldn’t catch the angle. Board waiting you pull up your messages to see if he'd responded yet.
Except Dan's name isn't at the top of your recent messages.
His conversation shows three days of silence.
The conversation at the top of your recent list, the one your phone had helpfully defaulted to, the one you'd sent the full four-minute video and photo set to…
Is Sam's.
You stand completely still in the checkout line until the person behind you taps your shoulder with the energy of someone who has places to be.
“Oh my god” they mumble under their breath, having obviously looked at your phone screen when they leaned in to tap you.
There it was, the video thumbnail. The photos. And beneath them, in small white text on your screen
*Read 2:33 PM.*
"Ma'am, please step forward or step back," says the teenager behind the counter with the complete moral vacancy of someone who stopped caring around hour three of their shift.
You put the snack and the drink down with your cash and you don't look at anyone.
The Impala is parked right out front when you walk out, and it's empty.
When you look back through the store window, Sam is at the register handing his ID to the same dead-eyed cashier. Buying the tallest beer they carry. You watch him walk out, crack it, and finish the entire thing in one uninterrupted pull before tossing it in the trash by the exit. He walks to the car. He doesn't look at you. He unlocks it.
Pulling back onto the interstate Sam tired to have the radio on but it was making things worse.
“Touching me, touching you —“
He changes the station.
“Your sex is on fire —“
He changes the station again.
“Girl, you make it hard to be faithful with the lips of an angel —“
He turns it off with enough force that you're briefly concerned for the knob. The silence that replaces it is somehow louder. You stare at the road ahead with your face burning in waves, hot behind your ears, hot at the back of your neck.
But you couldn’t help but wonder, did he watch the video? Did he close the message the moment he saw the thumbnail? Did the audio exit his phone out loud in the impala while he let it play out? Your mind took you on a crazy string of hypothetical situations that was making you ready for round two of your bathroom stunt.
You spent the last leg of the drive carefully eying your brother. His grip was firm on the wheel and his head never wavered from the road ahead. You were worried he would get in an accident with how he was adamantly refusing to check his sides or back mirror. Straight, only straight.
By the time you made it to the motel your embarrassment had dulled into painful curiosity. Was he angry you did that in public, did he find you repulsive for touching yourself in a bathroom, or was he maybe jealous it wasn’t intended for him?
You physically shook your head. Of course he wasn’t jealous, that’s your brother, he’s probably just disgusted he had to see you exposed like that.
You broke the silences
“Sammy?..”
He put his hand up to hush you.
“I’m going to get the motel keys, and I’m going to go shower. Please don’t talk to me right now. I need space.”
You feel tears well in your eyes, your brother has never been cold to you. He’s been a bully in the way that makes your stomach squeeze in a good way, he has shoved his socks in your mouth to quiet you when you wouldn’t shut up about something silly and stupid and on occasion he has even slapped you upside the head when you have acted out but he never gave you silent treatment or made you feel like he didn’t want you around until this moment.
You fucked up. He didn’t want you in any wrong dirty way like you did. And you may have just permanently ruined your relationship with him. John wasn’t ever around enough and you felt this paternal pull to Sam and the way he treated you. You loved him because he was your brother, you loved him because he was the one person to put you in your place when your father didn’t, and as much as you shoved those feelings away, you wanted him. You now found to be, desperately.
When you get into the motel Sam throws his bag into the far bed and like he said he would goes directly to shower.
After taking down your entire 86oz coke you suddenly realize you have no willpower to hold back your urge to pee so even after all the bullshit that was today you decide you have to now walk in on Sam to use the restroom. You’ve done this countless times before and he had never been an issue. And though the events of today have left you questioning if this is the best time you have no choice it’s that or go on yourself. You hear the shower has been running for a bit so you figure you should be fine to step in real quick.
When you open the door you’ve realized you made a grave mistake as Sam is not even in the shower yet, he’s standing by the sink with your phone propped up watching the video you sent, stroking his cock full speed.
“I-“ your voice gets caught in your throat as you step back into the door and his face is in the most regrettable shock you’ve ever seen on someone and he bends down to pull his pants back up from around his ankles.
You just stood there. No response. No attempt to leave or turn around, you just took in his embarrassment and keep your eyes locked on him.
The problem that faced you not even 5 minutes prior was you thought you permanently ruined your relationship with your brother but now standing with your moans still pouring through the his phone you realized he was enjoying the mistake more than you thought.
Sam finally speaks, “I’m going to actually get in the shower. And we are going to forget this entire day fucking happened..”
The door shut in your face.
You sat on the edge of the motel bed and waited. You thought about Sam biting at the bit to get to the motel and into the bathroom not to get away from you. You smiled.
The shower turns off.
He comes out in a t-shirt and sweats with his hair still damp and before he can say anything you jump right in.
"I'm not going to forget about it," you say.
He stops.
"I've been sitting here and I cannot make myself want to pretend that didn't happen. I felt embarrassed when I first sent those pictures but sitting there, watching you.. I was glad I sent it. Then I was scared because I thought you hated me.. But seeing you in the bathroom..” You keep your voice even. "I'm not going to forget, I don’t want to."
Sam looks at you for a long moment with water still dripping from the ends of his hair. He's very still like he's actually thinking about something rather than just pausing. His embarrassment flushing away.
Then he closes distance deliberately. Not rushed, he comes to sit beside you on the bed and gives you time to reconsider at every step, which is either very gentlemanly or a form of slow torture and honestly right now it's both. His knee is touching yours. His hand comes up and tucks your hair back from your face like he did when you were small.
"This doesn't have to—"
"Sam." You look up at him. "I just got myself off in a Buc-ee's bathroom. I am not fragile. You can stop being careful."
Something shifts in his expression. Like a door opening.
"Can I ask you something first."
"Yes."
"The video." His jaw moves. "You do that often? Just.. for your own enjoyment?"
"I do it because I like being watched."
"Mm." The hand that tucked your hair back hasn't moved, thumb resting just below your ear. "Even when it's an accident."
"Especially when it's an accident, apparently."
He kisses you. His mouth is warm and certain. It’s the kind of kiss you give when you’ve been thinking about it for longer than you meant to. One hand cupping your jaw and the other finding the end of your skirt. You make a sound against his mouth he makes a low, satisfied noise back at you.
You're pulling at his shirt before he's finished kissing you. He lets you drag it off. His hands find your top next, moving it slowly up your ribs with a question in the motion, your head nodded while kissing into him harder.
His mouth finds your neck first, working down slowly while his hands learn the shape of you, and then his lips close over your nipple and you feel your stomach drop. He sucks softly at first, his tongue moving in slow circles, and when you arch into it he does it harder, using the edge of his teeth just slightly, just enough to pull a sound out of you that echoes off the walls.
"Sam—"
He switches to the other side, taking his time, one hand palming the breast his mouth just left like he doesn't want to stop touching it, and you have both your hands in his hair pulling slightly harder than you typically would when hooking up. It wasn’t performative you felt fucking primal.
"Lay down," you manage.
He looks up at you. "What do you want?"
"I want to sit on your face," you say, And then I want you inside me."
He moves back against the headboard and looks at you with dark, hungry eyes. "Then come here."
You pull your skirt off. Leave the panties on long enough that he has to slide them down your legs himself, which he does without being asked, dropping them off the side of the bed and running both hands up the backs of your thighs as you move up over him.
He grabs your hips and guides you forward.
The first contact of his mouth makes you lose your grip on the headboard entirely, you catch yourself on the wall and he takes that as encouragement, pulling you down against him, his tongue moving through you with the kind of focused, unhurried intent that makes it clear he either has very good instincts or he's been paying attention to more than you realized. You rock against him slowly at first, thighs locked to his face, and he makes a sound of approval against you that reverberates through your whole body and makes you push harder.
His hands are on your hips and your ass holding you as tight as he could against him, pinning you then guiding you with force, moving you where he wants you with easy and authority. The way he handles you like he already knows exactly what you need breaks something loose in you.
"Daddy," you breathe, barely intentional, testing the edge of it.
He groans against you.
His grip on your hips tightens. His tongue moves differently, deliberate and deep, and the sound he made vibrates through you like a second answer. He's not confused by it, not thrown, he likes it, and knowing that sends heat flooding down your spine.
"Good girl," he says, pulling back just enough to say it, his voice rough. "Stay right there."
You do. Or you try to.. you're not entirely in control of your hips anymore, grinding down against his mouth in slow, helpless circles while his hands hold you steady and his tongue works you open. You're loud in a way you don't bother softening, a low rolling moan that breaks at the end into something sharper when he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks.
"Oh— oh fuck, Sam—"
He doesn't stop. Doesn't ease up. He takes you apart with the same focused patience he applies to everything, and you come with both hands braced on the wall and his name in your mouth and your whole body shaking.
You're still catching your breath when he moves, guiding you back and down and against him, your back to the headboard, his mouth at your throat.
"Good?" he murmurs against your skin.
"So... So good… I might need a minute."
He laughs low against your neck and holds you while you find your breathing again, one hand moving up your side to cup your breast, thumb absently tracing your nipple like he's still learning it, and you feel him hard against your hip. You realize you don't actually need a minute. Instead you need him in you, now.
"Daddy," you say again, directly this time, watching his face. "Please fuck me," your hips start moving, your pussy aching for something more inside it now. “I need you.”
His eyes go dark and certain.
"Yeah," he says. "I know."