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Dean took Sam’s virginity in the back of the Impala on the Fourth of July.
He remembers Sammy spread open under him, both of them lying at an awkward angle in the back seat. They smelled like smoke and gunpowder, sweaty in 103 degrees, musky in a way that smelled completely them. He remembers that while they were out in that field, their dad was sitting at a motel, blissfully unaware that his oldest son was deflowering his youngest in a field off Route 40.
He remembers mentioning that to Sam, and he remembers Sam’s breathy laugh. Sam's lips on his skin. Sam’s fingers tracing idle patterns across his skin after the fact, as they still sat tangled together, naked and cramped and soaking in the air of sex and leather around them. He remembers how Sam shifted and sent Dean rolling into the floorboards, cursing and glaring and laughing. How he leaned up to capture Sam in another slow, lingering kiss. He remembers, with a smirk, that Sam hadn’t walked completely straight for two days after.
He remembers now because it’s the Fourth again, more than 10 years later, and Sammy’s spread out over his lap, naked in the back seat. He’s mouthing at Dean’s neck and breathing heavy and sweaty and hazy and sated as hell.
And here Sam is murmuring into his throat about that night, about the stars and the smoke and the gunpowder, about silly things like love and need and want and god, Dean, the sky was damn beautiful, wasn’t it? And yeah, he remembers, it was.