The only thing worse than being in the middle of haunted Minnesota woods in November, Dean discovers, is being in the middle of haunted Minnesota woods in November with one fewer sleeping bag than there are people.

It's all Sam's fault. If he weren't on the hunt, there wouldn't be a problem. But he's twelve now, and Dad's got this idea that Sam needs to start coming along on hunts -- just the easy ones, you understand -- and Dean swears they went over the gear plenty of times, but somehow no one noticed they were short a sleeping bag until they were most of the way to the sight of the supposed haunting, by which point it was too late to turn back, Dad said.

Since it's Sam's fault that they don't have enough sleeping bags, it seems logical that Sam would be the one who has to suck it up and go sleeping-bag-less, but when Dean said so Dad told him to shut up, he wasn't going to have anyone catching hypothermia. So Dean's stuck sharing a sleeping bag with Sam, who, in spite being a good five inches shorter than Dean, is managing to take up way more than his share of the space. It's not that big of a sleeping bag to begin with, and Sam's got his legs all tangled up with Dean's, scrawny elbows digging into Dean's chest. Even though it's the middle of November, they're sleeping in their boxers; with two people in the sleeping bag it'd be too warm otherwise.

It's too warm as it is, even with the sleeping bag half-unzipped. Sam's like a freaking furnace. Dean shifts backwards, trying to get more of his body out of the bag, and Sam shifts with him, snuffling in closer. After a couple more attempts he gives up and leans on his side, curls an arm around Sam's shoulders. Sam shifts closer in towards Dean, nudging his head onto the L of Dean's arm, and Dean settles down to sleep.

If Sam just stayed that way, it'd be fine. But he doesn't. Sam's completely passed out, but he keeps on wriggling. Dean's used to sharing a bed, but it's been a long time since they've had to sleep in anything smaller than a queen-size, and at least then, when Sam's restless, it's not something Dean has to deal with right up against him. Normally Sam can roll all night long if he wants to, but when they're sharing a sleeping bag it's a problem, because Dean is sixteen years old and in a very tight space wearing nothing but his boxers, and with the way Sam's shifting against him, he can't help it, he's hard. Sam needs to stop moving right now.

Dean rolls over onto his back, trying to get away. He isn't hard because of Sam; it's just that he's in such a small space and Sam's been moving against him, that's all. He doesn't have any control over when he gets hard or anything. He lays on his back and wishes his erection would go away. He's hyperaware of how Sam is pressing along the length of his side, of how one of Sam's hands is snaking across his chest, and he wishes he could go jerk off or something. It's freaking cold in the cabin, though, and he doesn't want to wake Sam up by getting out of the sleeping bag. He lies there for a long time, sleepless, Sam's face smushed against his side.

*

It was supposed to be an easy job. It was supposed to be an easy job, or else Dad wouldn't have brought Sam along at all, but it turns out it's a little more complicated than Dad thought. "We're going to have to stay another night at least," Dad says around mid-afternoon. They still haven't figured out just what's going on here, and even if they had, it's too late to hike out today: the sunlight's already beginning to pale towards dusk.

There are all kinds of conflicting clues about what could be haunting the woods. Dad says he has a couple theories, but he's not sharing them with Sam and Dean. They spent the whole day stomping around looking for "anything weird." Unless you count the three-legged rabbit Sam claims to have seen, they didn't have any luck, but Dad spends the whole evening scribbling in his journal while Dean cooks cans of beans over the Coleman Grill and he keeps on writing even while Dean beats the crap out of Sam in three games of War. A little after nine Dad slams his journal shut and says, "Right, time for bed. We're getting up at six tomorrow." Sam scowls and Dad pretends not to notice.

There's nothing weird about sharing a sleeping bag with Sam, Dean tells himself as he strips down. It's no different than sharing a bed with Sam any of the other hundreds of times he's done it before, but there's an odd tension in his stomach that he can't swallow down. Dean gets into the sleeping bag first. Sam slides in after him and lays down on his side, facing him.

"You okay?" Sam asks, propping himself up on his elbow.

"Yeah," Dean whispers. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Sam pitches his voice lower, following Dean's lead. "I don't know. It's like you're nervous or something."

"Good night, boys," Dad says loudly, which Dean takes as his cue to mouth good night to Sam, lie back and close his eyes. Sam lies down a few seconds later, exhaling with a soft huff.

It's been a long day, Dean's tired, and Sam's pretty much keeping to his section of the sleeping bag. Everything is good. After a while the tension in Dean's stomach unfurls and he slides into sleep.

*

Dean can't figure out what woke him up at first. He knows instinctively it isn't time to be awake yet -- it's still the total blackness of the middle of the night -- but he doesn't know why else he would be awake. But then he realizes that Sam's sprawled all over him, one of his legs locked over Dean's. His knee is canted up over Dean's hips, and Dean--

--is hard, is completely and blindingly hard. He can't tell if he was before he woke up, but he for sure is now, and Sam's knee is right on top of his dick. Dean can't move at all, because if he does, Sam's sure to wake up, and Sam's pretty quick on the uptake; he's not going to miss the fact that Dean's hard.

Sam shifts on top of him, presses his knee against Dean's cock, and Dean forgets momentarily how to breathe. There's no way Sam can sleep through this, no way he can have failed to have noticed -- but someone's looking out for Dean after all, it seems like, because apparently Sam can sleep through this, can and is. There's a fine line of drool running down the side of his mouth that Dean wants to wipe away. Sam is sleeping through all of this, and everything is fine. After a while Dean even manages to ignore the press of Sam's body flush against his own long enough to fall back asleep.

*

Around five the next afternoon, when the shadows are beginning to grow long, Dad finds something in the ground that makes his face go pale behind his beard. He won't tell Dean what it is that he found, and he won't let Sam and Dean come with him to camp out for the night. "I'll be back by ten tomorrow morning," he says, swinging his duffel bag over his shoulder.

Sam's mouth is a hard thin line until Dad's out of the cabin. "This is totally stupid," he tells Dean. "Dad makes me miss two days of school for this and then he decides it's too dangerous for me to help?"

"Hey, I'm missing school, too," Dean says.

Sam blows the hair out of his face. "Yeah, but you don't care," he replies.

Dean raises an eyebrow at him. "What, you want to hunt now?"

Sam flushes. "I just think it's retarded for us to be here when we can't do anything," he says, and Dean can't argue with that.

Dean heats up some Cambell's soup for dinner and then clears his throat. "So, you wanna play cards or something?"

Sam exhales. "Sure, whatever."

That can only keep them occupied but for so long, though. Dean beats Sam in four straight games of War and a few rounds of Blackjack, but it's not even eight o'clock by the time Sam starts yawning.

"Dude, seriously, you're not five," Dean says. "You can make it another hour at least. Come on, let's deal again."

Sam stretches, scratching at his stomach. "Nah. You're supposed to go to bed early when you're camping. Can we go to bed?"

Dean swallows, ignoring the way his heart is beating triple-time. "You go for it. I'm going to stay up and play solitaire for a while."

"Fine," Sam says. "G'night." He strips out of his clothes and gets in the sleeping bag. Dean doesn't watch him do it.

Dean plays a couple games of solitaire by the light of the camping lantern, but darn it if he isn't yawning, too, before long. When he slides into the sleeping bag, Sam smirks at him sleepily. "See?" he mumbles.

Dean swats at Sam's shoulder. "I don't want to talk about it."

Sam grins and snuggles against Dean's side. "G'night," he says again.

"Night, Sam," Dean says, stroking Sam's head, and Sam sighs, already asleep.

*

Dean recognizes the weight on his body before he's even fully awake. Sam is sprawled all over him, pressing him down into the floor, and Dean's hard. Of course Dean's hard, and there's no way to get Sam off of him without waking him up, without him noticing--

It's too late. Sam's eyes flick open.

Shit, Dean thinks, shit, shit, shit. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, make a joke out of this, but he can't think of anything. Sam moves against him and there's no way Sam could have failed to notice Dean's hard-on. There should be some kind of emotion on Sam's face, shouldn't there, some kind of horror at the fact that Dean's hard beneath him? Except there's nothing like that. There's something on Sam's face, but it's not horror; it looks a lot more like determination.

"Sam?" Dean says questioningly, voice rough.

"Dean," Sam says. "I -- I want--" And without warning he shoves his hand between them, down Dean's boxers and grabs Dean's cock.

Dean nearly comes in surprise right there. "Sam, what the fuck?"

"Shh," Sam says, "just let me--" He pulls slowly at first, his face screwed up like he's trying to figure out an algebra problem, but then he starts to speed up, and Dean rolls to give him better access. Distantly he's aware that he should be stopping this, that this is Sam, his twelve-year-old brother, but Dean doesn't stop him; he can't. He quits thinking about it at all and instead reaches over and palms Sam's dick through his boxers. Sam gasps, eyes bugging wide, and he stops jerking Dean for a minute.

"Like that, do you, Sammy?" Dean smirks, sliding Sam's boxers down.

"God, Dean," Sam whimpers. "Just keep doing that."

"Kind of hard to concentrate now, huh?" Dean says, but then Sam curls his fingers tighter around Dean's cock, and Dean forgets how to breathe.

Sam grins. "You were saying?"

Dean flicks his wrist a little on the upstroke and that shuts Sam right up. The angle's weird, pulling a dick that isn't his own, but from the way Sam's mouth is falling open, Dean figures he's doing something right. And Sam -- God, Sam's struggling to keep that look of intense concentration on his face; it's about the hottest thing Dean's ever seen.

Sam's not that good at this, but it doesn't matter, it's Sam, and Dean's already so close that when Sam bites out, "Been thinking about this -- God, Dean," Dean convulses, coming in Sam's hand.

A couple more pulls and Sam's coming too, curling up to kiss Dean on the mouth. It's pretty terrible, all sloppy and wet, and Sam's trying to stick his tongue halfway down Dean's throat. It's the worst kiss Dean can remember, but he leans into it anyway. Sam lets Dean take the lead after a while and it gets better; after a while it's even good, it's amazing, Sam nibbling on Dean's bottom lip and running his tongue along Dean's teeth and Dean never wants him to stop.

Dean has no idea how long they've been making out when Sam yawns against his mouth, smiles dopily and says, "Good night, Dean."

Dean should really be thinking about the consequences of this. He should be panicking, he thinks idly, but oddly enough he isn't. He digs around in the sleeping bag and comes up with one of their discarded pairs of boxers, cleans them both up as best he can and tosses the dirty boxers across the room. "Good night, Sammy," he says, pressing a kiss to Sam's forehead.

There'll be plenty of time to panic in the morning, Dean thinks. But for now Dean goes to sleep, Sam nestled in against the crook of his arm.