Chemical High (Sam/Dean, E, 9000 words)
Title: Chemical High
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: E
Word Count: ~9000 (!)
Tags: established relationship, semi-public sex, exhibitionism, rough sex, oral sex, irresponsible administration of medication, bottom!Dean
AO3 link
Summary: 'Partly, it’s just opportunity. It’s been a few weeks since he swiped the little tub from the old folks’ home, and it’s been burning a hole in his pocket ever since. Partly, it’s curiosity; he doesn’t really know what this stuff does, not exactly, beyond a vague idea that it’ll turn Sam into some kind of Energizer bunny of fucking. No way that’s not gonna be fun.' - Dean doses Sam with the Viagra that he stole in 11x11. It only sort-of goes to plan.
Notes: This is a birthday fic for my very dear friend Becky (boysinthedrift) but I have to apologise because 1) it's over two months late and 2) I then demanded that she beta it for me so I didn't even deliver her a completed story. Becky, I'm sorry but I'm glad that you like the fic and I'm extra glad that you generously improved it with your time and wise thoughts. It's also my March fic for the smpc.
Dean would be hard pushed to explain exactly what prompts him to slip the pill into Sam’s burger. Partly, it’s just opportunity. It’s been a few weeks since he swiped the little tub from the old folks’ home, and it’s been burning a hole in his pocket ever since. Partly, it’s curiosity; he doesn’t really know what this stuff does, not exactly, beyond a vague idea that it’ll turn Sam into some kind of Energizer bunny of fucking. No way that’s not gonna be fun. Mostly, though, it reflects his growing concern that their romantic life is becoming just a tiny bit routine. Not in a terrible way, not at all; Dean’s routinely reduced to an incoherent mess thanks to Sam’s talented fingers and tongue, routinely delighted to encounter Sam’s spectacular dick up close and personal for his own private show. It’s not performance that’s the issue. But… well, they haven’t had sex anywhere but the bunker since Dean got rid of the Mark.
Dean remembers a time, back when they first got together, when they’d go at it anywhere, any chance they had. He’s done (and been done by) Sam in more squalid roadside bathrooms than he’d like to put a figure on; had his hands down Sam’s pants in cinemas, diners, changing rooms and closets; got down at roadside hook-up spots and out in the forest, under the stars. One time they had stifled, giggly sex in the pink-tiled bathroom of a witness’s house, the old lady downstairs having tea with her grandkids and her cat pawing plaintively at the door outside.
All Dean’s saying is that there used to be a certain spirit of adventure, a gung-ho enthusiasm that he thinks it might be nice to reclaim. Sam’s still hands-down the hottest thing Dean can imagine, no question. But he misses the dangerous look that Sam used to get in his eyes; the blotchy flush that would climb his cheeks and the way he’d touch Dean, faux-casual but determined, big hands on the back of Dean’s neck or his waist or just grazing his ass. He misses seeing Sam scan the landscape for opportunities; how he’d jerk his head and saunter oh-so-casually towards the deserted stacks of the library or the dark back room of a bar. He misses the heady adrenaline of following his brother, heart in his mouth, thud thud thud in the back of his throat with the knowledge that they might get caught.
It’s not that there aren’t advantages to having sex in the bunker. It’s nice to have a solid bed underneath them, one that they’re certain won’t collapse with a screech and a billow of dust. It’s nice being able to take his time; to map out Sam’s body with his mouth, real thorough and slow. It’s nice that they don’t have to keep it quiet, that Dean can babble as much filthy talk as he likes and that he can have Sam thrashing and wailing with no fear of being interrupted, arrested, turfed out. It’s nice, too, that some of the desperation is gone; because, yeah, all too frequently it fed off an undercurrent of fear. There was always one of them on a countdown, always one of them slipping away. Now, they feel more firmly tethered. Secure.
Still, Dean wouldn’t mind branching out again, just a little. They’re still young. Right? They’re still very definitely young, and there’s no reason why they shouldn’t be out and about having young, athletic, creatively-positioned sex like the virile, flexible men they are. That isn’t too exotic a desire. And whatever Sam might have implied, laughing off the tentative advances Dean’s made lately in that direction, it’s got nothing to do with any kind of ‘complex’ or ‘crisis’ or… or any of that shit. Dean doesn’t have anything to prove . He just likes what he likes, goddammit.
So, yeah. He’s been thinking along these lines for a while, and when he picks up the Viagra, all the pieces start to come together in his mind. Okay. So okay, Sam’s able now, apparently, to brush Dean off ‘until we’re back in our bed’. But maybe all he needs is a little encouragement; a reminder of the giddy thrill that comes with gratifying an urgent lust. Once Sam gets going, he’s like a freight train, unstoppable. Dean just needs to get the engine firing. Maybe a little chemical help is exactly what he needs.
His opportunity comes in a diner outside of Scranton, when Sam steps out to make a call after they order their food. The dishes hit the table while he’s still outside. Without stopping to second-guess himself, Dean seizes the moment, impulse taking over. He slips the plastic bottle from his pocket, crushes a pill into crumbly pieces with the flat of his knife, and tucks it under the patty of Sam’s burger, inside the bun. Looking at it, lumpy blue powder on the soft white dough, he starts to wonder about the ethics of this whole endeavour; but Sam looms into view and it’s too late to do anything. Dean sits on his hands and watches.
“Dude, I’m starving,” Sam announces as he sits back down; grabs the burger in both hands and chows down on it with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. It’s fair enough. They’ve been strung out on a long hunt over the past few days, a family of ghouls terrorising a Philadelphia neighbourhood who’d killed off two teenagers before Sam and Dean caught up with them. They hadn’t had a lot of time to do anything but hunt. Not much time for eating; certainly no time for fooling around. Leaving Kansas, Dean had thought he might coax Sam into a motel hookup, at least; but an encounter with the kids’ weeping families had pushed that stuff to the backburner. They’d crashed late every night and got up early, focused on the job.
Still, that’s over, finally; the monsters are dead, and things are looking up. Here they are in this perfectly adequate diner, and here he is watching Sam munch away on his Viagra burger. The evening’s only gonna get better from here.
Dean might be watching a little too closely, though, because Sam’s maybe three-quarters done when he stops, looks hard across the table and says “Do you want some, or something?”
“No,” Dean says, too fast.
Sam looks down at his burger, suspicious.
“It’s just good to see you eat,” says Dean, grasping for something, anything. A frown flits across Sam’s face. But when he lifts his head again, his expression is softer. His mouth is screwed sideways in a particular way that usually means he’s keeping some strong emotion in check.
“I eat fine now, you know,” he says. “But thanks."
Dean shrugs, half-guilty, half-relieved, and watches with interest as Sam finishes the burger. He’s not sure how long the pill will take to kick in, so he makes sure to take his time with his own food; insists on ordering an enormous ice-cream sundae and consuming it slowly, with as much relish as he can display. Conscious of his purpose, he sucks on the long spoon intently, sliding it in and out of his mouth. When Sam rewards him with nothing more than a sideways glance and a lopsided smile, Dean amps up, licking the sticky-sweet residue of chocolate sauce deliberately, lasciviously off his lips.
Sam starts to laugh. “Such a Lolita, Dean. Oh God.”
“Hey,” says Dean. Sam shakes his head, schools his features.
“I’m sorry. It was very sexy. Do it again.”
“No,” Dean says, offended. “No show if you can’t appreciate it, Sammy.” Jeez. What’s a guy gotta do?
He’s distracted from his huff by catching sight of the clock. Thirty minutes have gone by since Sam took the pill. Dean sneaks a quick glance at his brother’s crotch; they’re sat kitty-corner in a booth, so he’s able to assess the situation with a reasonable amount of subtlety. Nothing. Not so much as a twitch. In fact, the only discernible difference is that Sam’s gone kind of red in the face; which is unreasonably endearing, sure, but it’s not quite what Dean is after.
Well, that’s fine. Dean will just have to be a little more hands-on. He slides along the seat and around the corner, snugging close up against Sam’s side. The plastic covers squeak under his ass as he moves, but Dean plays it cool. He drops a hand to his brother’s knee.
Sam looks down immediately at where Dean’s touching him; looks up, eyebrow raised. “You alright there, Dean?” he says.
“I’m peachy,” says Dean. He starts to massage gently with his fingers, slow firm up-and-down movements. He slides his hand higher, up towards the warmth of Sam’s crotch. And then he feels it - already - feels the fabric tighten on Sam’s jeans as Sam’s cock starts to swell, stiffening against Dean’s wrist where his forearm rests over Sam’s thigh.
Sam doesn’t say anything, but Dean hears the hitch in his breath. Maintaining a firm hold on Sam’s leg, he leans backward and kisses his brother on the neck; light pressure of his lips below the angular corner of Sam’s jaw.
“Dude,” says Sam, low and heated. “We’re in public.”
“I know,” Dean says. He leans again, drops another kiss just under the first. “Nobody’s looking.” It’s true. The diner isn’t quiet - there are two big family groups chattering noisily towards the front of the room - but the tables immediately around them are empty; and their waitress, elderly and lethargic, is leant away from them over the counter, staring gloomily out of the window.
Dean kisses lower, grazing his teeth against Sam’s skin. “C’mon, Sammy,” he mumbles into Sam’s neck.
Sam hesitates a moment longer, but then he begins to respond: twisting his torso towards Dean, lifting Dean’s chin with the slightest pressure of a fingertip, and leaning in for a kiss on the mouth. It’s a thoughtful kiss, exploratory and gentle and sweet. Sam’s left hand cups Dean’s face, big and soft, the ends of his fingers in the hair behind Dean’s ears and his thumb tucked under Dean’s chin. His tongue slides careful into Dean’s mouth, pushes forward as Sam presses into it with his jaw. Dean leans in and Sam’s other hand drops down, slides under Dean’s jacket.
Dean waits for the warm dry brush of Sam’s fingers at the skin of his waist. It doesn’t come.
Instead, Dean feels his jacket tug against his shoulder. There’s a rattle of plastic and Sam pulls away, sits back. The bottle of Viagra, retrieved from Dean’s inside pocket, hangs accusingly between his forefinger and thumb.
Oh, fuck.
“You absolute dick,” Sam says. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
Cornered, caught out, Dean smiles as big and friendly as he’s able and raises his hands in surrender. “I thought it might be fun,” he says, feebly.
Sam closes his eyes, breathes in deep. When he opens them, he starts speaking in a slow, clear tone that makes Dean feel about five years old.
“It is not a good idea,” Sam says, “in fact it is not morally acceptable, to give somebody medication without telling them. That is not OK.”
Dean lifts a shoulder. “C’mon, man,” he says. “Don’t pretend you haven’t ever slipped me a painkiller before.”
“OK,” says Sam. “OK, yeah. Maybe. Maybe on occasions where, like, your whole guts are actually spilling out of your side and you’re trying to let me sew you back up on nothing more than a bottle of Jack. OK. But are you telling me that my getting a fucking embarrassing, unwanted boner in the middle of a diner is somehow necessary in the same way as I’ve found it necessary from time to time to override your dumbass macho bullshit and feed you a goddamn painkiller before you pass out cold?!”
Dean chews on his lip.
“Have you contracted some kind of curse,” Sam says, “which involves my dick? Is it somehow vital that you should be surrounded by erect penises at all times?”
“No,” says Dean.
“No,” says Sam. He sighs. “Apart from anything else, it’s fucking dangerous, man. You have no idea what medication I might be on. You can’t just… you can’t just give people pills whenever you feel like it because, newsflash, some stuff actually is not supposed to be taken together. But I guess you didn’t think about that.”
“What do you mean, you’re on medication?” says Dean. “What kind of medication? What’s wrong?” This is so fucking typical. Of course. Of course Sam has some godawful, terminal disease and he’s just decided not to mention it to Dean. Until one day he’s going to keel over dead and it’s Dean who’s going to have to pick up the pieces. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not actually my point,” he says. After a beat, he starts digging in his pocket for his phone. “It’s probably fine. It was just Viagra you gave me, right?”
“Yeah,” says Dean. “Is it cancer?” Do you take pills for cancer? How the fuck should Dean know? Of all the people he’s loved and lost, he’s not sure there’s one amongst them who actually died of natural causes.
“No, Dean, I do not have cancer,” Sam says. He’s looking at his phone, tapping in a query with his thumbs, and Dean waits breathless as Sam skims down the page. Eventually, Sam swipes the screen and puts the phone down on the table. “We’re good,” he says. “No thanks to you.”
“Is it your heart?” Dean says. He knows he ought to leave it, should just be grateful that he hasn’t accidentally hospitalised Sam himself, but now he’s got the thought in his head he’s not gonna be functional until he finds out what’s wrong. “Is it your blood pressure? Are you gonna have a stroke?” Maybe it’s something else, another organ, kidneys or liver or lungs. Dean has kidneys. Sam only has to ask.
“Christ,” Sam says. “Calm down.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, down around his jaw. He’s not looking at Dean. “It’s just stuff for my anxiety. That’s all. Okay?”
Dean has a fucking lot that he wants to say about this, but he can recognise that this isn’t the moment. “Okay,” he says instead.
“Okay,” says Sam, clipped and unhappy. He stares out across the restaurant. His hands, resting on the table, creep together; and his right thumb tucks careful into his left palm, presses close for a long few seconds until Sam seems to realise what he’s doing. He brings his thumb up to his mouth instead, chewing on his already bitten-off nail.
“Sorry,” Dean says into the silence. Sam doesn’t respond. At a loss, Dean picks up his spoon, scrapes it noisily in the bottom of the sundae glass.
“I think it’s empty,” Sam says.
Dean puts the spoon down. He looks around the room, reads all the menus off the wall above the counter. He hums the intro to Smoke on the Water in his head. Eventually, he takes another peek at Sam’s crotch. Huh. Seems like the situation there hasn’t changed, despite the alarming rapidity with which everything else has careened off-course.
Dean clears his throat. “You, uh…” he says, flexing his fingers.
Sam looks at him confused for a beat or two, then fixes Dean with a grade-A withering look, eyes narrowed and mouth drawn into a sour little line. “You must be delusional,” he says, “if you think I’m letting you anywhere near my dick after this."
“Well, what are you gonna do about it, then?” Dean asks.
Sam closes his eyes, screws them up tight, opens them. He deflates, shoulders slumping. “Well, I guess I can rule out ‘bad dream’,” he says.
“You should probably take care of it,” Dean says. “You know, in the bathroom.”
“Fuck off,” says Sam.
“It’s a lot closer than the door, man.” Dean looks pointedly over to the loud groups of parents and children clustered at the front of the room. “You wanna walk through all of them with, uh…?”
Sam drops his head into his hands, tugs his hair back tight against his scalp. “Right,” he says flatly. He takes a deep breath, slides out of the booth, stands up.
“Sure you don’t want company?” Dean says.
Sam scowls at him and hobbles off, conspicuous, toward the bathroom just around the corner from where they’re sat.
“Well,” says Dean to himself. He cracks his fingers, drums them on the tabletop. Then he gets out his phone.
Twenty minutes later, Sam’s still locked in the bathroom and Dean’s getting legitimately worried. He’s possibly been delving a little too deep (too late) into the internet literature on Viagra and its possible side-effects.
‘U OK DUDE?’ he texts.
His phone buzzes almost immediately. ‘YEAH AWESOME,’ Sam says. ‘THAT’S WHY I’M STILL IN THE BATHROOM.’
Dean’s about to text back and tell his brother not to be rude, but then he thinks about what he’s just been reading - thinks also, if he’s honest, about the beautiful boner being wasted on a Sasquatch too grumpy to appreciate it - and decides to go in person instead. Darting a quick look around the room, he sidles over to the bathroom door and knocks on it, three short raps.
“It’s busy!” Sam’s voice is strained and thin.
“It’s me, dude,” Dean hisses. The door creaks open, Sam’s hazel eye peering suspiciously through the crack. “Come on,” Dean says. “Let me in.”
There’s a pause, but eventually the door edges wider, just enough to let him squeeze through. Sam shuts it behind him.
The bathroom is a single stall, wastefully large, its walls and floor both watermarked concrete with blooms of green in the corners where mould has grown and been removed. The toilet huddles small in one corner, and the sink in the other, a chipped mirror hanging above it. On the wall by the door is a battered metal box, a condom dispenser. It’s not particularly salubrious, but they’ve fucked in worse places.
Now, though, Sam’s standing close to the door, the bottom of his shirt tented out over his dick and an expression of intense misery on his face.
“What’s going on?” says Dean.
Sam jabs an impatient hand towards his crotch. “I’m not… I’m not getting anywhere,” he says.
“Okay,” says Dean. “And you’ve…”
“Yes!” Sam hisses. “Or no, Dean, I’ve just been standing here contemplating life for 20 minutes. It’s like… I don’t know, it’s fucked-up. I’m not even in control of it. I’m not... horny, I’m just really pissed off. But it’s like my dick isn’t listening. It won’t go down, and I can’t get off.”
“So do you want me to… help… out?” Dean’s trying to be cautious in his phrasing, but really there are only so many ways to put it; and when Sam still dithers, reluctant, he decides to bring out the big guns. “Really, dude, it’s not good for you to just let it be,” he says. “I looked it up online. It’s a side-effect of the, um, stuff. Priapism. When you’ve got a hard-on that won’t go down. It actually, this one website says it’s a medical emergency, y’know?”
Dean’s joking, mostly, stringing out a specious argument; but then again, the more he says it, the more he starts to wonder if it might be true. After all, it’s not like Sam generally has any issues when it comes to… pneumatics. Maybe giving him the pill will have tipped things off balance. Maybe this is a serious medical issue in the making. Maybe he should -
“Let me see that,” Sam says, snatching Dean’s phone. “Dude,” he says. “Come on. It says you gotta… it’s gotta be four hours for it to count.”
“Well, it’s been an hour already,” Dean says.
“Has not,” says Sam. “It’s been about thirty-five minutes."
“Oh, I’m sorry,” says Dean. “Do you want me to wait outside for the next three hours and twenty-five minutes? Or shall I go find a motel room so I can take a nap while you hang out here?”
Sam sighs. “This is so unfair.”
“Come on, dude,” Dean says, and he grins a little, he can’t help it. “Let me give you a BJ in the bathroom. For old times’ sake.”
Sam’s still shaking his head; but his hips sway forward easily enough when Dean slips a finger through Sam’s belt loop and pulls. His dick, jutting out from his unzipped pants, brushes up against Dean’s stomach; and Dean can’t resist touching it, running his thumb so lightly over the head.
Sam breathes out slowly, just loud enough to be almost a moan. He drops his head onto Dean’s shoulder, and Dean knows it’s gonna be okay. “I hate you,” Sam says muffled.
“I know,” Dean says. He turns his head, and his lips catch the curled edge of Sam’s ear. Sam’s hair brushes over his nose, soft and shampoo-sweet.
Dean inhales. Then “alright,” he says, “come on.” He puts his hands flat on his brother’s chest, savouring Sam’s solidity just for a second, then slides them up to Sam’s shoulders and guides him gently back against the bathroom wall.
Sam’s still looking down, dejected, so Dean dips his head and catches his brother’s mouth in a kiss. Sam holds back, initially, closed-mouthed and reluctant, but Dean presses kisses on him soft and sweet as possible, and eventually he gives in and opens up. Dean moves carefully, takes it slow: he’s conscious of the need to win Sam over, to show him that he’s sorry. Beyond that, he needs this to get Sam in the mood, revved up; there’d be limited fun in blowing him while he’s still grumpy and morose. So, yeah, Dean starts out coaxing and slow; but as Sam starts to respond he deepens the kiss, biting hungry into his brother’s mouth, sucking filthy on Sam’s tongue. It seems to work. Sam starts to get interested, twisting his fingers into Dean’s shirtfront and hauling him close. They wind up grinding together as Sam leans back into the wall; Sam gasping and Dean hard now too, rutting against Sam’s leg.
Eventually, they break apart, catching breath.
“Yeah, okay,” says Sam, chest heaving. “Yeah, I think maybe I’m…”
“Okay,” says Dean. “Yeah.” He kisses Sam again, for luck, for sorry, just for the hell of it, then falls to his knees with what he hopes is suave nonchalance. In actual fact, he can almost hear his bones creak, the kneecap he shattered a couple years back protesting with a sharp shot of pain up his thigh. It’s enough to make his eyes water, but he grits his teeth and ignores it. He’s fine.
Sam’s dick bobs heavy in his eyeline, straining and swollen, and Dean takes it in hand, cups his fingers around it as he licks wet and broad from base to tip. Above him, he hears Sam’s skull thunk back into the concrete wall. Sam’s fingers ghost around Dean’s ears, settle light in the hollow at the back of his neck. Dean shifts forward on his knees, wriggles his hips. He tilts Sam’s cock towards him and plunges his mouth down over the head, soft and sucking, working careful pulses with his tongue.
“Yeah,” says Sam, quiet. “Yeah yeah yeah yeah.”
Dean jacks the base of Sam’s cock with his hand as he bobs, rhythmic, deliberate, forward and back. He’s breathing through his nose, suffused with Sam’s smell, sweaty and ripe and a little musky. He’s breathing Sam.
In the ten or so years since they first hooked up, Dean’s done this a hell of a lot, enough to know exactly what buttons to push to get Sam shaking. It’s a far cry from the first time. Back then, he’d been shaky himself at the thought of what they were doing; desperate scared and so overwhelmed by Sam’s absolute, ready surrender that he’d come in his pants while he was sucking Sam off. He can still remember Sam’s face as he realised what’d happened, Sam gazing down at him, mouth open and pupils huge, cheeks flush-pink as he’d brushed trembling fingers over Dean’s mouth and jaw: “oh fuck, Dean, so beautiful, Dean, fuck.” It had been that which had sent Sam over the edge, leaving Dean unprepared, choking and coughing on his brother’s load. He’s better at it now, better at the whole thing, better at keeping control. But Sam still likes to see that he’s enjoying it: so he’s careful to show off, palming a hand down over himself as he moans.
“Yeah,” says Sam, “oh yeah, Dean, so good.” He’s making the right movements, the right noises: but he still isn’t coming and Dean’s been at this for a little while now. That’s okay. Dean’s experienced. He just needs to draw on his expertise. He slides off, mouths at Sam’s balls - still jacking him - then dips back on and makes his movements more vigorous, pushing his tongue under the head of Sam’s cock before teasing delicate at the slit.
Still nothing, and Dean can’t help his reproachful expression as he sits back on his heels and looks up at Sam’s face. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth.
“Sorry,” Sam says. “It’s good, it’s really good but I just… ugh, I don’t know, this stuff makes me feel kinda numb. Like I’m wearing three condoms at once.”
“I can do it,” Dean says, licking his lips with renewed determination. Jesus. He had better. What’s the good of getting Sam into this, if he can’t get them out? More to the point, what the fuck have they been up to for the past ten years if he isn’t able now to do what it takes to get Sam off? Dean’s a good hunter. He can eat for America. He can make a car start in the filthiest weather and with only a dribble of gas in the tank. But if there’s one thing he’s good at - one thing on which he really, actually prides himself - it’s sex, and specifically it’s sex with Sam. He’s the master at making Sam come; can bring him off in minutes flat, have him begging for it again and again. So this? This whole situation is seriously fucking Dean up.
On top of which, he’s got this ridiculous priapism thing worrying now at the back of his mind. It’s stupid. But what if he’s, what if he’s permanently broken Sam’s dick? Dean’s not sure he can live in a world where Sam’s dick doesn’t work.
Such is his introspective panic at the prospect that his attention wavers. It’s not until he feels gentle fingers at the sides of his face, pushing him backward, that he realises he’s just been kneeling with Sam’s cock in his mouth, unmoving.
“Look, it’s fine,” Sam says. “This is crazy. I’ll just, um… I’ll figure it out.”
“It’s not going to go away!” says Dean.
“We can’t stay in here forever,” Sam says.
This is terrible. This is an emergency. If Sam walks out of this bathroom without an orgasm behind him, Dean will never be able to look him in the face again.
“Okay”, he says. “Okay, you’re gonna have to fuck me.”
Sam, incredulous, starts to laugh, but Dean fixes him with a glare and he dries up pretty quick. “You’re - what, you’re serious.”
“Fucking right!”
“Dude. We don’t even have any lube, or at least I don’t. Unless you squirrelled some away as part of your sinister Viagra masterplan.”
Dean hasn’t (and isn’t that testimony to how long it’s been since they last did this), but it’s not gonna… there’s gotta be some kind of solution. For a lunatic moment, he contemplates the possibility of running out to the car to retrieve it, sprinting dishevelled past the gaping array of juvenile diners and their parents out front. Then he catches sight of that condom machine, rusting away on the wall.
He hauls himself upright with a hand on the sink (which groans alarmingly under his weight) and shuffles over. Interesting.
“Out of condoms,” he says. “But lube’s 50 cents a pop. You got any quarters?”
“Oh my God,” says Sam, but when Dean glances back he’s already rifling through his pockets.
One dollar later, Dean’s possessed of two small foil packets and he really, yeah, ok, he feels like the evening is kinda getting back on track. Wasn’t this the whole idea? Let go. Live young. Hump each other in a mouldy old bathroom and find their lube where they may.
“Right,” says Dean, and he strips off his shirts, because if this is gonna get serious then they might as well be fucking naked. He’s stepping out of his pants when he looks back at Sam; who’s standing watching him, leant against the wall, hand dragging lazy over his cock and his face lit with a look of such undisguised appreciation that it makes Dean blush. Shaking it off, he turns back around, grabs the lube off the sink and tears open a packet. It spills cold over his fingers. He doesn’t wait for it to warm up; just grips one hand onto the edge of the porcelain and reaches back with the other, pressing a finger up inside his ass.
It’s fine, Dean’s a pro at this and the lube is doing its job, but the angle’s kind of awkward and he’s conscious now of Sam’s gaze. He doesn’t want to contort himself into too stupid a position: he’s still trying to seduce. So he presses his finger in a little way, far as it will go without his having to bend ungainly back on himself. It’s only half-effective.
After a few minutes of this, “Hey,” says Sam, “let me.” Suddenly he’s right there and he’s shirtless now too, his whole body radiating heat over Dean’s chill skin. He reaches around Dean with both arms, half an embrace; snags the other packet and opens it in front of Dean’s waist. Dean watches as Sam slicks up his long, elegant fingers and only realises as Sam steps back behind him that he’s been holding his breath.
“Okay ,” says Sam, and the pads of his fingers rub over Dean’s asshole before a long digit pushes carefully inside.
Dean moans low, because why the fuck shouldn’t he, clings onto the sink and closes his eyes and just feels it as Sam opens him up. He rocks back onto Sam’s hand, encouraging, circles his hips to try and force the angle of entry just right.
“Easy,” Sam says. “It’s okay.” He’s got two fingers inside now, pushes in a third, and Dean opens his eyes to watch his reflection, heavy-lidded, as Sam works three fingers in and out of his ass. He’s a sight, he supposes; pale skin with a dusting of freckles, his cock chubby and red and brushing wet against his belly. But Sam, half-glimpsed in the mirror behind him, is another thing entirely: Adonis-chiselled and golden brown, cat-eyes gleaming in the bathroom’s dim light. When he catches Dean looking, he smiles, presses a kiss to Dean’s shoulder.
“Looking good,” he says.
“Feeling better,” says Dean.
Finally, “okay,” says Sam, “ready?” and he settles his feet just outside Dean’s, lands his hands on Dean’s hips. “If you lean forward,” he says, and shifts his hand to Dean’s stomach, presses the other down between Dean’s shoulderblades, “and hang onto the sink.”
“I don’t think it’ll survive it,” Dean says honestly.
“We can be careful,” Sam says, but Dean’s not having that.
“It’s no good,” he says. “We need to be on the floor.” Sam looks uncomfortable. “What?” says Dean.
Sam opens his mouth, closes it again. Finally he says, “your knee.”
What the fuck. “Are you serious?” Dean can’t believe this. This is outrageous. “I’m not… you don’t have to plan around my aches and pains, Sam, fuck.”
“I’m not - it’s not a slight on your manhood, Dean,” Sam says. “I’m just trying to be considerate.”
“Fuck considerate!” says Dean, high-pitched. “I know what I’m okay with, Sam, come on. It’s not fair. I trust you with your stuff.” This isn’t exactly true. Dean would like to trust Sam with his stuff. He’s just awful at actually doing it.
But “okay,” says Sam slowly, and Dean drops to the floor, settles himself on hands and knees and ignores the aching throb of his muscles. He looks over his shoulder.
“Come on, cowboy,” he says.
Sam smiles, shakes his head, and joins him, tugging off his jeans. Warm fingertips probe careful around Dean’s ass one more time, hot breath blowing damp across his lower back. “You ready?” Sam says.
“Yeah,” says Dean, and wiggles his butt. “Hit me, baby.”
Sam pushes in on a chuckle, his laughter turning into a stuttery exhale as he presses up inside Dean, steady and slow. “Fuck,” he says in a choked-off voice. “You okay?”
Dean focuses on relaxing his muscles, bearing down on the solid bulk of Sam’s cock. Yeah, he’s okay. He’s great. How could he not be good, like this? “Awesome,” he tells Sam, “awesome, keep going, okay?” It is awesome, shaky-reassuring, centring in how it aligns Sam’s place in Dean’s mind with his place in reality. It’s okay, in this moment, to focus on Sam and nothing else.
Once Sam’s buried deep as he’s gonna go, he runs his hand flat across Dean’s stomach and up around the base of Dean’s spine. Then he settles his hands over Dean’s hips and starts to move; a long drag out and a barely faster thrust back in, real gentle and cautious.
He’s just getting going, Dean thinks; but Sam makes no movement to increase his speed, carries on in his slow rhythm. Dean looks back over his shoulder.
“What the fuck,” he says.
Sam’s the picture of innocence; if innocence were on its knees in a roadside diner, holed up in the bathroom with its dick in its brother’s ass. “What?”
“Come on,” says Dean, pushing back. “We’re supposed to be fucking, not falling asleep.”
“Do you want your lower back to be seized up for the next two weeks?” Sam asks him.
“I want you to throw me about a bit, man,” says Dean. “Come on. What’s the point of all that muscle if you’re not gonna make me feel it?”
“I think you think you like that more than you do,” says Sam drily.
“I think you think I like that less than I do,” says Dean, “because you think, I dunno, I’m some kinda special princess, and actually -” and then he has to stop talking, because Sam’s seized him tight around the waist and is fucking hard into him in double-quick time.
It’s awesome, of course, because Dean knows about this shit; Sam’s dick bumping sparks inside him, force of Sam’s movements rocking through his whole body and all he can do is make himself soft and succumb to Sam’s pounding beat. He doesn’t touch himself, not yet: this is about Sam getting his. Instead, he lets it all flow through him, rides the movement, rides the gradually climbing high. He’s losing himself in it, fully caught in the moment, prickling hot all over with pleasure.
Then there’s a knock on the door, rat-tat-tat, and a guy yells “Hey, asshole! Other people need to piss!”
Sam slams to a halt inside him, curls forward close over Dean’s back; and Dean freezes, horror creeping tingly over his skin. Here he is, on all fours, buckass naked and clammy with sweat, Sam’s monster cock buried deep in his ass and his own dick solid and weighty between his legs. He’s too old for this shit. He knows the door’s locked, but he can’t help doubting it; can’t help picturing the guy busting in, exposing them not only to his own shocked vision but to the whole crowd in the diner outside.
“Shi-” he starts to say.
Sam’s hand clamps down hard over his mouth, dry and solid and sure. It’s pressing hard enough to force Dean’s mouth a little open; to jam his bottom lip up against the sharp edge of his teeth. He can feel Sam breathing, Sam’s chest contracting and expanding damp against his back.
“Shhh,” Sam says, close in his ear. Then Sam’s other hand is patting low over his stomach; is finding its way and settling firm around his cock.
Dean can’t help the noise he makes, a panicked, squeaky intake of breath. He feels the judder of his brother’s silent laughter; and then Sam starts to jerk him off, long twisting tugs accompanied by the slow roll of Sam’s hips against his ass, slow shifting of Sam’s cock inside him. Oh God.
The punk outside hammers on the door again. “Hey!”
Dean wants to gasp for breath but the hand over his mouth is stopping him. Terrified and so fucking hot for it, he starts to tremble. Sam’s movements don’t stop, coaxing and regular. They’d be almost soothing if they weren’t winding Dean up so tightly. As it is, they’re slow torture, melting Dean’s bones like he’s made of butter. He’s liquefying.
When Sam speaks, suddenly loud, it makes Dean jump.
“Sorry, dude,” Sam calls to the man outside the door. “My brother’s throwing up in here. It’s kind of gross.”
Without warning, he drops the hand covering Dean’s mouth; and with the other starts jacking him faster, harsher, jagged and quick. Right on cue, Dean groans; a long, helpless, drawn-out noise.
“That’s right,” breathes Sam; and brings his palm back up over Dean’s lips. “You wanna try the women’s,” he yells out to the guy outside the door. “We might be in here a while.” While he’s talking, his right hand keeps up its relentless rhythm over Dean’s dick, stripping him so fast and good and Dean can feel what’s about to happen, feels it building but is powerless to stop it, humiliated and afraid and turned on.
“Whatever, jerk,” says the man outside; but he sounds less certain. A couple seconds later, Dean hears the click-slam of the door on the women’s bathroom, beside them. He should be relieved, but he’s still buzzing, nauseous with adrenaline. He can’t be rational. The only thing he can really process, the only thing that his brain has room for, is the sweet slick drag of Sam’s fingers on his cock.
“Come on,” Sam says, low, and pulls back just a little, half-out; sinks back in and pushes forward with his hips as if he’s trying to get even deeper inside. His hand is flying, moving rapid; and then he switches rhythm, three sharp jerks up up up . Caught, Dean coughs, cries out muffled in Sam’s hand, and comes. He’s struggling to be silent, gasping for air, trapped against Sam’s body by the hands on his mouth and his cock. With nowhere to go, the release of tension leaves him shaking, his arms vibrating where they’re braced, elbows locked, flat-palmed against the floor; the muscles in his thighs and belly twitching and quivering and his dick pulsing wet sticky stripes onto the concrete.
“Mmmnnnhh,” says Sam, satisfied, into the back of his neck. His chest bears down heavy, pushing Dean’s hands and knees into the floor. “Mmm,” he says again, and presses kisses all down the top of Dean’s spine.
Dean lets himself savour the moment for a minute; or more accurately, takes a moment to orient himself, to pull together the shattered scraps of his self-possession. He feels wrecked, shaken apart. How smug he’d been, planning this seduction. He’d forgotten what Sam’s like when he really lets rip: the tiger strength of him, the unmerciful focus, the edge of unpredictable danger. This is what Dean’s wanted. But it’s breathtaking, overpowering, almost too much.
It’s a challenge.
“Okay,” Dean says, pushing back against Sam’s hips, “okay, your turn now, come on.”
Sam starts moving, but he’s cautious again, careful like he was before.
“Come on, ” says Dean. “I’m not an old man, Sam, Christ.”
“Mm,” says Sam. His movements acquire a little more conviction, but it’s all still way too slow for Dean’s liking.
“Fuck sake,” he says, goading. “How many pills do I gotta slip you to get a proper fucking, Sam? Come on.”
“Oh you fucker,” says Sam: but the taunt gets him going at last (“this what you want?”), pounding fast and hard, his hands on Dean’s hips dragging them together. The walls echo with Sam’s breath, panting ragged, heaving over the thuck thuck thuck of flesh where the hard muscles of his quads snap-slap into the back of Dean’s thighs.
Dean lets himself go floppy. He doesn’t even try to hold himself up, too wrung out by orgasm, his muscles still fizzy and weak. Instead he lets his elbows and his palms take the brunt of it, drops his head and feels the cold scrape of the concrete floor against his cheek. It’s pretty rank, it should be disgusting, but he can’t be bothered to care. Sam’s fucking him so hard and it’s just what he wanted, what he asked for, even though it hurts. He feels bruised, raked raw, ragdoll-loose and peach-soft in Sam’s strong arms.
“Fuck,” Sam says eventually, through gritted teeth. He doesn’t stop moving; but even through the fog of pleasure and pain in which Dean’s currently swimming, he can hear the sharp scratch of frustration in Sam’s voice. Dean looks up, sideways, back over his shoulder. Sam’s bright red, his hair hanging sweaty in his face, and his brows are folded in a particular, anxious expression which often signals tears.
“Hey,” says Dean, cautious.
“I can’t, fucking…” Sam drops a hand from Dean’s waist, runs his fingers back through his hair. He stops moving and sits backward, his cock dragging slow and painful out of Dean’s ass; and stops with the head still just inside, Dean’s rim stretched and aching around him. “I can’t,” Sam says again, wobbly with frustration. “This fucking stuff you gave me, I can’t…”
“Oh, man,” Dean says. “Hey. It’s okay.” He pushes himself up so he’s on all fours again, shifts forward and off Sam’s cock. Christ but he’s sore. He sits up on his knees, turns to face Sam, and leans in to kiss him; on the mouth at first, deep dipped and tender, and then up high on Sam’s cheek where the tears are threatening to spill over. “I got you,” he says.
He sets his hands on the concrete behind him and leans backward, all the way until he’s lying supine on the floor, his knees bent and spread wide. “Let’s try it this way,” he says. Sam doesn’t say anything - is obviously thinking hard - but he nods obediently and shuffles forward, lifting Dean with his hands cupped around Dean’s butt and settling him so his ass is elevated, resting on Sam’s kneeling thighs.
“You sure?” Sam says, peering down between his legs. “You look kind of sore.”
“Oh come on,” Dean says. “If you can dish it out, I can take it.”
Sam smiles, grinning despite himself. “You’re an idiot,” he says. But he pushes in, guiding his cock careful and steady back into Dean’s ass and then lifting him by the hips, pumping forward, settling back into the punishing rhythm they’d been moving in before.
It’s better this way. Dean can see Sam, can catch the drip drip of Sam’s sweaty hair on his chest; and as he watches, he sees Sam watching him right back, darting his eyes all over Dean’s body from his mouth to his throat to his soft spent dick.
“Yeah, Sammy,” says Dean. He lets a hand drift over his torso, scratching lightly at his nipples one at a time, down to rub over his stomach and grasp lazy at his balls and his cock. He doesn’t take his eyes off Sam’s face; watching the subtle shifts of expression, the dark space of his open mouth. “So good,” Dean says, and Sam allows himself the flash of a smile. “So good, Sam, come on, give it to me, I can take it, come on.” He’s still hurting, rubbed raw and sore but it’s a good hurt and Sam like this is consuming, hypnotic, giddy-making like a drug. Dean shifts, trying to angle upward, trying to meet Sam’s thrusts. “Doing so good, baby,” he says.
“Fuck,” says Sam, clutching at Dean’s sides, hands sliding damp with effort. His fingertips gouge hard into the muscles, promising bruises. “Fuck,” he says again, and his rhythm is faltering, “fuck, Dean, I’m close, I’m so close. Dean, please.”
He leans forward, his arms braced against the floor; and Dean lifts himself, just a little, his stomach muscles straining, and buries his hand in the wet curls at the back of Sam’s neck. He grips tight, sliding his other hand up under Sam’s armpit to grasp the back of his shoulder. Then he sets his fingers firm in both positions and pulls , dragging himself upright and close against Sam’s chest. His mouth brushes against Sam’s shoulder, and Sam shudders beneath him, his arms brought up to clasp around Dean’s back and his hips still stuttering. Dean opens his mouth and bites down hard into Sam’s muscle, using the full force of his jaw. He tastes blood, feels the give of the skin beneath his teeth.
“Oh thank Christ,” says Sam, soft and surprised, and stills; coming shuddery with his head tucked into the crook of Dean’s neck, their chests crammed together slippy and sweaty, his fingers digging into Dean’s shoulders and his thighs solid underneath Dean’s ass. Sam chokes tiny noises all through it, quiet little shaky incredulous gasps, and fuck, Dean loves him. He loves his brother so much, okay.
Eventually, Sam judders down into silence, and the two of them are left stuck together, clammy in the bathroom’s rapidly cooling air. With the heat of the moment passed, the position becomes uncomfortable; and as their breathing slows, steadies, Sam walks his hands down Dean’s back, lowering him slowly down onto the floor. He eases away, dragging out of Dean’s ass careful as he can, but the movement is still enough to send a shiver of pain right through Dean’s body.
“Sorry,” says Sam. His hand runs soothing over Dean’s flank, big soft circles that Dean wants to curl into like a cat. As he starts to move, though, his muscles start seizing, and in the end Sam has to help him jerkily up to a sitting position. “Sorry,” Sam says again, close against his face, and kisses him. He draws back, stands upright. “You did ask for it, though.”
“I did,” says Dean. He looks around for his clothes. As he shifts over to reach them, a cold breeze gusts across his skin. Apparently, he’d managed to lie right over the place where he’d been crouching while Sam jerked him off. Now he’s got smears of his own jizz all up his back, to match the sticky remnants of Sam’s come on his stomach. “Ew,” he says, twisting backward, dabbing at himself with his scrunched-up shirt. “Yeuuuch.”
“Let me,” says Sam, leaning over and grabbing the bundle of fabric, scrubbing away at Dean’s back. “This is what you forget,” he says to Dean, “when you’re harassing me about being more adventurous. You like to have clean sex in a clean bed.”
“Hmmph,” says Dean. “I don’t know. This was pretty good.”
“Yeah,” says Sam, “not bad.” He’s beaming, dishevelled, his hair sticking up in all directions. “I guess maybe we could do it again some time.”
They’re standing and zipping up their pants when Dean realises that he’s used not only his overshirt, but his T-shirt too, to clean the both of them off. He unfolds the T-shirt, holds it up. It’s filthy.
“You can’t wear that,” Sam says, and his lips slide into a half-smile that makes his dimples flicker. He shrugs out of his plaid. “I’ve got my T-shirt. You take this.”
Sam’s shirt turns out to be surprisingly large. For some reason, Dean always expects his own clothes to be bigger; the legacy of twenty years of growing up. But actually, this hangs loose over his shoulders, runs a little long in the arms. It makes Dean feel kind of dainty.
“Hey, baby,” says Sam, faux-gruff and purring. “Look good in my clothes.”
“Shut up,” says Dean, and opens the door.
It’s patently obvious that every adult in the diner knows what they’ve been doing. Come on . They’ve been in there for like an hour making god only knows what noises, and now here they are shuffling out sweaty and rumpled, Dean swimming in his brother’s shirt, his clothes clutched guilty in his hands. There’s nothing for it but to hurry past and try not to look anybody in the eye.
They’re almost out when Dean catches sight of a heavy-set bearded dude who he identifies irresistibly with the jerk who came knocking on the bathroom door. Dean smiles, can’t help it. “Afternoon,” he drawls.
The guy’s face contorts in a frown and Sam tugs at Dean’s sleeve, yanks him bodily out of the diner.
“What the fuck was that?” he says.
“Should have thanked him for the fucking mindblowing orgasm,” says Dean, and starts to laugh.
“You’re an idiot,” says Sam, and pushes Dean forward, steering him across the parking lot until they’re standing beside the car.
“Um,” says Sam when they get there. “You want me to drive? You could, uh…” his eyes drop to waist level. “You could lie in the back seat.”
“I can drive,” says Dean. Jesus. He’s not a pussy. That said, when he slides into the seat, he does think just for a second that perhaps his brother might have been right. He shifts around, trying to get comfortable, but then he catches Sam looking and stops. He’s fine. It’s actually, um. It’s not altogether a bad feeling. Well-fucked.
They’re a good couple miles down the road and Dean’s running over what just happened in his head, savouring the highlights, when he realises that there’s something he should probably say. How to… maybe he should… but best just to get on with it, he decides.
“I don’t wanna police you, or whatever,” he tells Sam. “But I should probably know what medications you’re on. Just in case. We could… you know how easy it would be for us to end up in hospital, and if I told them you weren’t taking anything and... I don’t know. I don’t wanna be responsible for poisoning you. You know, Sammy. You could fucking die if I got that shit wrong."
“Yeah,” says Sam. Dean glances over. He’s looking out the window, bearing down hard with the heel of his hand into his thigh. “I know. You’re right.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Dean says. “You can - you could write it down, and I’ll put the paper in my wallet and not look at it. But at least I’ll have it then, in case.”
“No,” says Sam, “you should… you know, you might not have your wallet. At the hospital. In this scenario.” He sighs, and looks over at Dean. “It’s just embarrassing,” he says. “I should be able to deal with this stuff. I’m not a kid.”
“Hey,” says Dean. “Dude. I self-medicate for my shit with alcohol. I’m pretty sure you’re the grown-up one here.”
It’s a pretty lame point, but it’s enough to earn him a half-hearted smile, which he counts a win when it comes to talking about this stuff with Sam. He drops his hand from the wheel for a moment, sets it over Sam’s, squeezes; and then leans over and turns up the radio. Metallica blares out loud.
Dean intends to leave Sam some conversational space to relax, but then something strikes him irresistibly and he has to turn down the music only one-and-a-half songs later. “Do you know what today reminded me of?” he says.
“Oklahoma City,” says Sam instantly. “2007.”
“Yeahhhh,” says Dean, long and appreciative. “Fucking sex pollen, dude.” It had been a florist, of all places; run by a witch, who was using the shop as a front to sell unsavoury ingredients to unsavoury people. They’d dealt with her but then when they were clearing out her stuff they’d both of them caught a faceful of sickly-sweet orange dust. The effect had been immediate; they’d fucked on the floor of the shop, behind the counter where the passers-by couldn’t see. Then they’d fucked against the wall of the alley where they’d parked the car; again by the side of the road before they made it to the motel. After that they’d holed up in their room for the next two days, waiting for the stuff to wear off, copulating in every position they could think of and one or two that Dean’s pretty sure that they actually invented for the occasion. It had left the pair of them sore enough that they hadn’t had sex for the next three weeks; hadn’t been able to, hadn’t wanted to, their dicks and their asses too aching and raw. But fuck, it’s still one of Dean’s all-time greatest memories; a 72-hour erection and Sam willing on the end of it, mouth and ass and hands and muscles so good, under and over and around his cock.
“Good times, Sammy,” Dean says. “Good times.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, hoarse. He rubs a hand over his chin; and then he stills, frozen just at the edge of Dean’s peripheral vision.
“What is it?” Dean says.
Sam coughs. “Um.”
Dean looks over and follows Sam’s gaze, down to his brother’s crotch where - oh hell - Sam’s fucking treacherous, nostalgia-happy cock is standing out, solid and hard, against the seam of his jeans.
“Not again,” says Dean. “Already, Sam, Christ.”
“Pretty sure that’s your fault, dude,” says Sam. “I heard Viagra makes for a shorter refractory period.” He shakes his head, shrugs. He’s smirking. “Whatcha gonna do?”
“Oh God,” says Dean. His ass is just so sore.
“It would be a shame,” says Sam to the windshield, “if somebody were to write a check that his body couldn’t cash.”
“My body cashes all the checks,” says Dean, defiant; and then, thinking about it, “fuck, though, Sam, I don’t know if I can go again.”
Sam starts to laugh. “Did you know that priapism is a medical emergency?” he says.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: E
Word Count: ~9000 (!)
Tags: established relationship, semi-public sex, exhibitionism, rough sex, oral sex, irresponsible administration of medication, bottom!Dean
AO3 link
Summary: 'Partly, it’s just opportunity. It’s been a few weeks since he swiped the little tub from the old folks’ home, and it’s been burning a hole in his pocket ever since. Partly, it’s curiosity; he doesn’t really know what this stuff does, not exactly, beyond a vague idea that it’ll turn Sam into some kind of Energizer bunny of fucking. No way that’s not gonna be fun.' - Dean doses Sam with the Viagra that he stole in 11x11. It only sort-of goes to plan.
Notes: This is a birthday fic for my very dear friend Becky (boysinthedrift) but I have to apologise because 1) it's over two months late and 2) I then demanded that she beta it for me so I didn't even deliver her a completed story. Becky, I'm sorry but I'm glad that you like the fic and I'm extra glad that you generously improved it with your time and wise thoughts. It's also my March fic for the smpc.
Dean would be hard pushed to explain exactly what prompts him to slip the pill into Sam’s burger. Partly, it’s just opportunity. It’s been a few weeks since he swiped the little tub from the old folks’ home, and it’s been burning a hole in his pocket ever since. Partly, it’s curiosity; he doesn’t really know what this stuff does, not exactly, beyond a vague idea that it’ll turn Sam into some kind of Energizer bunny of fucking. No way that’s not gonna be fun. Mostly, though, it reflects his growing concern that their romantic life is becoming just a tiny bit routine. Not in a terrible way, not at all; Dean’s routinely reduced to an incoherent mess thanks to Sam’s talented fingers and tongue, routinely delighted to encounter Sam’s spectacular dick up close and personal for his own private show. It’s not performance that’s the issue. But… well, they haven’t had sex anywhere but the bunker since Dean got rid of the Mark.
Dean remembers a time, back when they first got together, when they’d go at it anywhere, any chance they had. He’s done (and been done by) Sam in more squalid roadside bathrooms than he’d like to put a figure on; had his hands down Sam’s pants in cinemas, diners, changing rooms and closets; got down at roadside hook-up spots and out in the forest, under the stars. One time they had stifled, giggly sex in the pink-tiled bathroom of a witness’s house, the old lady downstairs having tea with her grandkids and her cat pawing plaintively at the door outside.
All Dean’s saying is that there used to be a certain spirit of adventure, a gung-ho enthusiasm that he thinks it might be nice to reclaim. Sam’s still hands-down the hottest thing Dean can imagine, no question. But he misses the dangerous look that Sam used to get in his eyes; the blotchy flush that would climb his cheeks and the way he’d touch Dean, faux-casual but determined, big hands on the back of Dean’s neck or his waist or just grazing his ass. He misses seeing Sam scan the landscape for opportunities; how he’d jerk his head and saunter oh-so-casually towards the deserted stacks of the library or the dark back room of a bar. He misses the heady adrenaline of following his brother, heart in his mouth, thud thud thud in the back of his throat with the knowledge that they might get caught.
It’s not that there aren’t advantages to having sex in the bunker. It’s nice to have a solid bed underneath them, one that they’re certain won’t collapse with a screech and a billow of dust. It’s nice being able to take his time; to map out Sam’s body with his mouth, real thorough and slow. It’s nice that they don’t have to keep it quiet, that Dean can babble as much filthy talk as he likes and that he can have Sam thrashing and wailing with no fear of being interrupted, arrested, turfed out. It’s nice, too, that some of the desperation is gone; because, yeah, all too frequently it fed off an undercurrent of fear. There was always one of them on a countdown, always one of them slipping away. Now, they feel more firmly tethered. Secure.
Still, Dean wouldn’t mind branching out again, just a little. They’re still young. Right? They’re still very definitely young, and there’s no reason why they shouldn’t be out and about having young, athletic, creatively-positioned sex like the virile, flexible men they are. That isn’t too exotic a desire. And whatever Sam might have implied, laughing off the tentative advances Dean’s made lately in that direction, it’s got nothing to do with any kind of ‘complex’ or ‘crisis’ or… or any of that shit. Dean doesn’t have anything to prove . He just likes what he likes, goddammit.
So, yeah. He’s been thinking along these lines for a while, and when he picks up the Viagra, all the pieces start to come together in his mind. Okay. So okay, Sam’s able now, apparently, to brush Dean off ‘until we’re back in our bed’. But maybe all he needs is a little encouragement; a reminder of the giddy thrill that comes with gratifying an urgent lust. Once Sam gets going, he’s like a freight train, unstoppable. Dean just needs to get the engine firing. Maybe a little chemical help is exactly what he needs.
His opportunity comes in a diner outside of Scranton, when Sam steps out to make a call after they order their food. The dishes hit the table while he’s still outside. Without stopping to second-guess himself, Dean seizes the moment, impulse taking over. He slips the plastic bottle from his pocket, crushes a pill into crumbly pieces with the flat of his knife, and tucks it under the patty of Sam’s burger, inside the bun. Looking at it, lumpy blue powder on the soft white dough, he starts to wonder about the ethics of this whole endeavour; but Sam looms into view and it’s too late to do anything. Dean sits on his hands and watches.
“Dude, I’m starving,” Sam announces as he sits back down; grabs the burger in both hands and chows down on it with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. It’s fair enough. They’ve been strung out on a long hunt over the past few days, a family of ghouls terrorising a Philadelphia neighbourhood who’d killed off two teenagers before Sam and Dean caught up with them. They hadn’t had a lot of time to do anything but hunt. Not much time for eating; certainly no time for fooling around. Leaving Kansas, Dean had thought he might coax Sam into a motel hookup, at least; but an encounter with the kids’ weeping families had pushed that stuff to the backburner. They’d crashed late every night and got up early, focused on the job.
Still, that’s over, finally; the monsters are dead, and things are looking up. Here they are in this perfectly adequate diner, and here he is watching Sam munch away on his Viagra burger. The evening’s only gonna get better from here.
Dean might be watching a little too closely, though, because Sam’s maybe three-quarters done when he stops, looks hard across the table and says “Do you want some, or something?”
“No,” Dean says, too fast.
Sam looks down at his burger, suspicious.
“It’s just good to see you eat,” says Dean, grasping for something, anything. A frown flits across Sam’s face. But when he lifts his head again, his expression is softer. His mouth is screwed sideways in a particular way that usually means he’s keeping some strong emotion in check.
“I eat fine now, you know,” he says. “But thanks."
Dean shrugs, half-guilty, half-relieved, and watches with interest as Sam finishes the burger. He’s not sure how long the pill will take to kick in, so he makes sure to take his time with his own food; insists on ordering an enormous ice-cream sundae and consuming it slowly, with as much relish as he can display. Conscious of his purpose, he sucks on the long spoon intently, sliding it in and out of his mouth. When Sam rewards him with nothing more than a sideways glance and a lopsided smile, Dean amps up, licking the sticky-sweet residue of chocolate sauce deliberately, lasciviously off his lips.
Sam starts to laugh. “Such a Lolita, Dean. Oh God.”
“Hey,” says Dean. Sam shakes his head, schools his features.
“I’m sorry. It was very sexy. Do it again.”
“No,” Dean says, offended. “No show if you can’t appreciate it, Sammy.” Jeez. What’s a guy gotta do?
He’s distracted from his huff by catching sight of the clock. Thirty minutes have gone by since Sam took the pill. Dean sneaks a quick glance at his brother’s crotch; they’re sat kitty-corner in a booth, so he’s able to assess the situation with a reasonable amount of subtlety. Nothing. Not so much as a twitch. In fact, the only discernible difference is that Sam’s gone kind of red in the face; which is unreasonably endearing, sure, but it’s not quite what Dean is after.
Well, that’s fine. Dean will just have to be a little more hands-on. He slides along the seat and around the corner, snugging close up against Sam’s side. The plastic covers squeak under his ass as he moves, but Dean plays it cool. He drops a hand to his brother’s knee.
Sam looks down immediately at where Dean’s touching him; looks up, eyebrow raised. “You alright there, Dean?” he says.
“I’m peachy,” says Dean. He starts to massage gently with his fingers, slow firm up-and-down movements. He slides his hand higher, up towards the warmth of Sam’s crotch. And then he feels it - already - feels the fabric tighten on Sam’s jeans as Sam’s cock starts to swell, stiffening against Dean’s wrist where his forearm rests over Sam’s thigh.
Sam doesn’t say anything, but Dean hears the hitch in his breath. Maintaining a firm hold on Sam’s leg, he leans backward and kisses his brother on the neck; light pressure of his lips below the angular corner of Sam’s jaw.
“Dude,” says Sam, low and heated. “We’re in public.”
“I know,” Dean says. He leans again, drops another kiss just under the first. “Nobody’s looking.” It’s true. The diner isn’t quiet - there are two big family groups chattering noisily towards the front of the room - but the tables immediately around them are empty; and their waitress, elderly and lethargic, is leant away from them over the counter, staring gloomily out of the window.
Dean kisses lower, grazing his teeth against Sam’s skin. “C’mon, Sammy,” he mumbles into Sam’s neck.
Sam hesitates a moment longer, but then he begins to respond: twisting his torso towards Dean, lifting Dean’s chin with the slightest pressure of a fingertip, and leaning in for a kiss on the mouth. It’s a thoughtful kiss, exploratory and gentle and sweet. Sam’s left hand cups Dean’s face, big and soft, the ends of his fingers in the hair behind Dean’s ears and his thumb tucked under Dean’s chin. His tongue slides careful into Dean’s mouth, pushes forward as Sam presses into it with his jaw. Dean leans in and Sam’s other hand drops down, slides under Dean’s jacket.
Dean waits for the warm dry brush of Sam’s fingers at the skin of his waist. It doesn’t come.
Instead, Dean feels his jacket tug against his shoulder. There’s a rattle of plastic and Sam pulls away, sits back. The bottle of Viagra, retrieved from Dean’s inside pocket, hangs accusingly between his forefinger and thumb.
Oh, fuck.
“You absolute dick,” Sam says. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
Cornered, caught out, Dean smiles as big and friendly as he’s able and raises his hands in surrender. “I thought it might be fun,” he says, feebly.
Sam closes his eyes, breathes in deep. When he opens them, he starts speaking in a slow, clear tone that makes Dean feel about five years old.
“It is not a good idea,” Sam says, “in fact it is not morally acceptable, to give somebody medication without telling them. That is not OK.”
Dean lifts a shoulder. “C’mon, man,” he says. “Don’t pretend you haven’t ever slipped me a painkiller before.”
“OK,” says Sam. “OK, yeah. Maybe. Maybe on occasions where, like, your whole guts are actually spilling out of your side and you’re trying to let me sew you back up on nothing more than a bottle of Jack. OK. But are you telling me that my getting a fucking embarrassing, unwanted boner in the middle of a diner is somehow necessary in the same way as I’ve found it necessary from time to time to override your dumbass macho bullshit and feed you a goddamn painkiller before you pass out cold?!”
Dean chews on his lip.
“Have you contracted some kind of curse,” Sam says, “which involves my dick? Is it somehow vital that you should be surrounded by erect penises at all times?”
“No,” says Dean.
“No,” says Sam. He sighs. “Apart from anything else, it’s fucking dangerous, man. You have no idea what medication I might be on. You can’t just… you can’t just give people pills whenever you feel like it because, newsflash, some stuff actually is not supposed to be taken together. But I guess you didn’t think about that.”
“What do you mean, you’re on medication?” says Dean. “What kind of medication? What’s wrong?” This is so fucking typical. Of course. Of course Sam has some godawful, terminal disease and he’s just decided not to mention it to Dean. Until one day he’s going to keel over dead and it’s Dean who’s going to have to pick up the pieces. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not actually my point,” he says. After a beat, he starts digging in his pocket for his phone. “It’s probably fine. It was just Viagra you gave me, right?”
“Yeah,” says Dean. “Is it cancer?” Do you take pills for cancer? How the fuck should Dean know? Of all the people he’s loved and lost, he’s not sure there’s one amongst them who actually died of natural causes.
“No, Dean, I do not have cancer,” Sam says. He’s looking at his phone, tapping in a query with his thumbs, and Dean waits breathless as Sam skims down the page. Eventually, Sam swipes the screen and puts the phone down on the table. “We’re good,” he says. “No thanks to you.”
“Is it your heart?” Dean says. He knows he ought to leave it, should just be grateful that he hasn’t accidentally hospitalised Sam himself, but now he’s got the thought in his head he’s not gonna be functional until he finds out what’s wrong. “Is it your blood pressure? Are you gonna have a stroke?” Maybe it’s something else, another organ, kidneys or liver or lungs. Dean has kidneys. Sam only has to ask.
“Christ,” Sam says. “Calm down.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, down around his jaw. He’s not looking at Dean. “It’s just stuff for my anxiety. That’s all. Okay?”
Dean has a fucking lot that he wants to say about this, but he can recognise that this isn’t the moment. “Okay,” he says instead.
“Okay,” says Sam, clipped and unhappy. He stares out across the restaurant. His hands, resting on the table, creep together; and his right thumb tucks careful into his left palm, presses close for a long few seconds until Sam seems to realise what he’s doing. He brings his thumb up to his mouth instead, chewing on his already bitten-off nail.
“Sorry,” Dean says into the silence. Sam doesn’t respond. At a loss, Dean picks up his spoon, scrapes it noisily in the bottom of the sundae glass.
“I think it’s empty,” Sam says.
Dean puts the spoon down. He looks around the room, reads all the menus off the wall above the counter. He hums the intro to Smoke on the Water in his head. Eventually, he takes another peek at Sam’s crotch. Huh. Seems like the situation there hasn’t changed, despite the alarming rapidity with which everything else has careened off-course.
Dean clears his throat. “You, uh…” he says, flexing his fingers.
Sam looks at him confused for a beat or two, then fixes Dean with a grade-A withering look, eyes narrowed and mouth drawn into a sour little line. “You must be delusional,” he says, “if you think I’m letting you anywhere near my dick after this."
“Well, what are you gonna do about it, then?” Dean asks.
Sam closes his eyes, screws them up tight, opens them. He deflates, shoulders slumping. “Well, I guess I can rule out ‘bad dream’,” he says.
“You should probably take care of it,” Dean says. “You know, in the bathroom.”
“Fuck off,” says Sam.
“It’s a lot closer than the door, man.” Dean looks pointedly over to the loud groups of parents and children clustered at the front of the room. “You wanna walk through all of them with, uh…?”
Sam drops his head into his hands, tugs his hair back tight against his scalp. “Right,” he says flatly. He takes a deep breath, slides out of the booth, stands up.
“Sure you don’t want company?” Dean says.
Sam scowls at him and hobbles off, conspicuous, toward the bathroom just around the corner from where they’re sat.
“Well,” says Dean to himself. He cracks his fingers, drums them on the tabletop. Then he gets out his phone.
Twenty minutes later, Sam’s still locked in the bathroom and Dean’s getting legitimately worried. He’s possibly been delving a little too deep (too late) into the internet literature on Viagra and its possible side-effects.
‘U OK DUDE?’ he texts.
His phone buzzes almost immediately. ‘YEAH AWESOME,’ Sam says. ‘THAT’S WHY I’M STILL IN THE BATHROOM.’
Dean’s about to text back and tell his brother not to be rude, but then he thinks about what he’s just been reading - thinks also, if he’s honest, about the beautiful boner being wasted on a Sasquatch too grumpy to appreciate it - and decides to go in person instead. Darting a quick look around the room, he sidles over to the bathroom door and knocks on it, three short raps.
“It’s busy!” Sam’s voice is strained and thin.
“It’s me, dude,” Dean hisses. The door creaks open, Sam’s hazel eye peering suspiciously through the crack. “Come on,” Dean says. “Let me in.”
There’s a pause, but eventually the door edges wider, just enough to let him squeeze through. Sam shuts it behind him.
The bathroom is a single stall, wastefully large, its walls and floor both watermarked concrete with blooms of green in the corners where mould has grown and been removed. The toilet huddles small in one corner, and the sink in the other, a chipped mirror hanging above it. On the wall by the door is a battered metal box, a condom dispenser. It’s not particularly salubrious, but they’ve fucked in worse places.
Now, though, Sam’s standing close to the door, the bottom of his shirt tented out over his dick and an expression of intense misery on his face.
“What’s going on?” says Dean.
Sam jabs an impatient hand towards his crotch. “I’m not… I’m not getting anywhere,” he says.
“Okay,” says Dean. “And you’ve…”
“Yes!” Sam hisses. “Or no, Dean, I’ve just been standing here contemplating life for 20 minutes. It’s like… I don’t know, it’s fucked-up. I’m not even in control of it. I’m not... horny, I’m just really pissed off. But it’s like my dick isn’t listening. It won’t go down, and I can’t get off.”
“So do you want me to… help… out?” Dean’s trying to be cautious in his phrasing, but really there are only so many ways to put it; and when Sam still dithers, reluctant, he decides to bring out the big guns. “Really, dude, it’s not good for you to just let it be,” he says. “I looked it up online. It’s a side-effect of the, um, stuff. Priapism. When you’ve got a hard-on that won’t go down. It actually, this one website says it’s a medical emergency, y’know?”
Dean’s joking, mostly, stringing out a specious argument; but then again, the more he says it, the more he starts to wonder if it might be true. After all, it’s not like Sam generally has any issues when it comes to… pneumatics. Maybe giving him the pill will have tipped things off balance. Maybe this is a serious medical issue in the making. Maybe he should -
“Let me see that,” Sam says, snatching Dean’s phone. “Dude,” he says. “Come on. It says you gotta… it’s gotta be four hours for it to count.”
“Well, it’s been an hour already,” Dean says.
“Has not,” says Sam. “It’s been about thirty-five minutes."
“Oh, I’m sorry,” says Dean. “Do you want me to wait outside for the next three hours and twenty-five minutes? Or shall I go find a motel room so I can take a nap while you hang out here?”
Sam sighs. “This is so unfair.”
“Come on, dude,” Dean says, and he grins a little, he can’t help it. “Let me give you a BJ in the bathroom. For old times’ sake.”
Sam’s still shaking his head; but his hips sway forward easily enough when Dean slips a finger through Sam’s belt loop and pulls. His dick, jutting out from his unzipped pants, brushes up against Dean’s stomach; and Dean can’t resist touching it, running his thumb so lightly over the head.
Sam breathes out slowly, just loud enough to be almost a moan. He drops his head onto Dean’s shoulder, and Dean knows it’s gonna be okay. “I hate you,” Sam says muffled.
“I know,” Dean says. He turns his head, and his lips catch the curled edge of Sam’s ear. Sam’s hair brushes over his nose, soft and shampoo-sweet.
Dean inhales. Then “alright,” he says, “come on.” He puts his hands flat on his brother’s chest, savouring Sam’s solidity just for a second, then slides them up to Sam’s shoulders and guides him gently back against the bathroom wall.
Sam’s still looking down, dejected, so Dean dips his head and catches his brother’s mouth in a kiss. Sam holds back, initially, closed-mouthed and reluctant, but Dean presses kisses on him soft and sweet as possible, and eventually he gives in and opens up. Dean moves carefully, takes it slow: he’s conscious of the need to win Sam over, to show him that he’s sorry. Beyond that, he needs this to get Sam in the mood, revved up; there’d be limited fun in blowing him while he’s still grumpy and morose. So, yeah, Dean starts out coaxing and slow; but as Sam starts to respond he deepens the kiss, biting hungry into his brother’s mouth, sucking filthy on Sam’s tongue. It seems to work. Sam starts to get interested, twisting his fingers into Dean’s shirtfront and hauling him close. They wind up grinding together as Sam leans back into the wall; Sam gasping and Dean hard now too, rutting against Sam’s leg.
Eventually, they break apart, catching breath.
“Yeah, okay,” says Sam, chest heaving. “Yeah, I think maybe I’m…”
“Okay,” says Dean. “Yeah.” He kisses Sam again, for luck, for sorry, just for the hell of it, then falls to his knees with what he hopes is suave nonchalance. In actual fact, he can almost hear his bones creak, the kneecap he shattered a couple years back protesting with a sharp shot of pain up his thigh. It’s enough to make his eyes water, but he grits his teeth and ignores it. He’s fine.
Sam’s dick bobs heavy in his eyeline, straining and swollen, and Dean takes it in hand, cups his fingers around it as he licks wet and broad from base to tip. Above him, he hears Sam’s skull thunk back into the concrete wall. Sam’s fingers ghost around Dean’s ears, settle light in the hollow at the back of his neck. Dean shifts forward on his knees, wriggles his hips. He tilts Sam’s cock towards him and plunges his mouth down over the head, soft and sucking, working careful pulses with his tongue.
“Yeah,” says Sam, quiet. “Yeah yeah yeah yeah.”
Dean jacks the base of Sam’s cock with his hand as he bobs, rhythmic, deliberate, forward and back. He’s breathing through his nose, suffused with Sam’s smell, sweaty and ripe and a little musky. He’s breathing Sam.
In the ten or so years since they first hooked up, Dean’s done this a hell of a lot, enough to know exactly what buttons to push to get Sam shaking. It’s a far cry from the first time. Back then, he’d been shaky himself at the thought of what they were doing; desperate scared and so overwhelmed by Sam’s absolute, ready surrender that he’d come in his pants while he was sucking Sam off. He can still remember Sam’s face as he realised what’d happened, Sam gazing down at him, mouth open and pupils huge, cheeks flush-pink as he’d brushed trembling fingers over Dean’s mouth and jaw: “oh fuck, Dean, so beautiful, Dean, fuck.” It had been that which had sent Sam over the edge, leaving Dean unprepared, choking and coughing on his brother’s load. He’s better at it now, better at the whole thing, better at keeping control. But Sam still likes to see that he’s enjoying it: so he’s careful to show off, palming a hand down over himself as he moans.
“Yeah,” says Sam, “oh yeah, Dean, so good.” He’s making the right movements, the right noises: but he still isn’t coming and Dean’s been at this for a little while now. That’s okay. Dean’s experienced. He just needs to draw on his expertise. He slides off, mouths at Sam’s balls - still jacking him - then dips back on and makes his movements more vigorous, pushing his tongue under the head of Sam’s cock before teasing delicate at the slit.
Still nothing, and Dean can’t help his reproachful expression as he sits back on his heels and looks up at Sam’s face. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth.
“Sorry,” Sam says. “It’s good, it’s really good but I just… ugh, I don’t know, this stuff makes me feel kinda numb. Like I’m wearing three condoms at once.”
“I can do it,” Dean says, licking his lips with renewed determination. Jesus. He had better. What’s the good of getting Sam into this, if he can’t get them out? More to the point, what the fuck have they been up to for the past ten years if he isn’t able now to do what it takes to get Sam off? Dean’s a good hunter. He can eat for America. He can make a car start in the filthiest weather and with only a dribble of gas in the tank. But if there’s one thing he’s good at - one thing on which he really, actually prides himself - it’s sex, and specifically it’s sex with Sam. He’s the master at making Sam come; can bring him off in minutes flat, have him begging for it again and again. So this? This whole situation is seriously fucking Dean up.
On top of which, he’s got this ridiculous priapism thing worrying now at the back of his mind. It’s stupid. But what if he’s, what if he’s permanently broken Sam’s dick? Dean’s not sure he can live in a world where Sam’s dick doesn’t work.
Such is his introspective panic at the prospect that his attention wavers. It’s not until he feels gentle fingers at the sides of his face, pushing him backward, that he realises he’s just been kneeling with Sam’s cock in his mouth, unmoving.
“Look, it’s fine,” Sam says. “This is crazy. I’ll just, um… I’ll figure it out.”
“It’s not going to go away!” says Dean.
“We can’t stay in here forever,” Sam says.
This is terrible. This is an emergency. If Sam walks out of this bathroom without an orgasm behind him, Dean will never be able to look him in the face again.
“Okay”, he says. “Okay, you’re gonna have to fuck me.”
Sam, incredulous, starts to laugh, but Dean fixes him with a glare and he dries up pretty quick. “You’re - what, you’re serious.”
“Fucking right!”
“Dude. We don’t even have any lube, or at least I don’t. Unless you squirrelled some away as part of your sinister Viagra masterplan.”
Dean hasn’t (and isn’t that testimony to how long it’s been since they last did this), but it’s not gonna… there’s gotta be some kind of solution. For a lunatic moment, he contemplates the possibility of running out to the car to retrieve it, sprinting dishevelled past the gaping array of juvenile diners and their parents out front. Then he catches sight of that condom machine, rusting away on the wall.
He hauls himself upright with a hand on the sink (which groans alarmingly under his weight) and shuffles over. Interesting.
“Out of condoms,” he says. “But lube’s 50 cents a pop. You got any quarters?”
“Oh my God,” says Sam, but when Dean glances back he’s already rifling through his pockets.
One dollar later, Dean’s possessed of two small foil packets and he really, yeah, ok, he feels like the evening is kinda getting back on track. Wasn’t this the whole idea? Let go. Live young. Hump each other in a mouldy old bathroom and find their lube where they may.
“Right,” says Dean, and he strips off his shirts, because if this is gonna get serious then they might as well be fucking naked. He’s stepping out of his pants when he looks back at Sam; who’s standing watching him, leant against the wall, hand dragging lazy over his cock and his face lit with a look of such undisguised appreciation that it makes Dean blush. Shaking it off, he turns back around, grabs the lube off the sink and tears open a packet. It spills cold over his fingers. He doesn’t wait for it to warm up; just grips one hand onto the edge of the porcelain and reaches back with the other, pressing a finger up inside his ass.
It’s fine, Dean’s a pro at this and the lube is doing its job, but the angle’s kind of awkward and he’s conscious now of Sam’s gaze. He doesn’t want to contort himself into too stupid a position: he’s still trying to seduce. So he presses his finger in a little way, far as it will go without his having to bend ungainly back on himself. It’s only half-effective.
After a few minutes of this, “Hey,” says Sam, “let me.” Suddenly he’s right there and he’s shirtless now too, his whole body radiating heat over Dean’s chill skin. He reaches around Dean with both arms, half an embrace; snags the other packet and opens it in front of Dean’s waist. Dean watches as Sam slicks up his long, elegant fingers and only realises as Sam steps back behind him that he’s been holding his breath.
“Okay ,” says Sam, and the pads of his fingers rub over Dean’s asshole before a long digit pushes carefully inside.
Dean moans low, because why the fuck shouldn’t he, clings onto the sink and closes his eyes and just feels it as Sam opens him up. He rocks back onto Sam’s hand, encouraging, circles his hips to try and force the angle of entry just right.
“Easy,” Sam says. “It’s okay.” He’s got two fingers inside now, pushes in a third, and Dean opens his eyes to watch his reflection, heavy-lidded, as Sam works three fingers in and out of his ass. He’s a sight, he supposes; pale skin with a dusting of freckles, his cock chubby and red and brushing wet against his belly. But Sam, half-glimpsed in the mirror behind him, is another thing entirely: Adonis-chiselled and golden brown, cat-eyes gleaming in the bathroom’s dim light. When he catches Dean looking, he smiles, presses a kiss to Dean’s shoulder.
“Looking good,” he says.
“Feeling better,” says Dean.
Finally, “okay,” says Sam, “ready?” and he settles his feet just outside Dean’s, lands his hands on Dean’s hips. “If you lean forward,” he says, and shifts his hand to Dean’s stomach, presses the other down between Dean’s shoulderblades, “and hang onto the sink.”
“I don’t think it’ll survive it,” Dean says honestly.
“We can be careful,” Sam says, but Dean’s not having that.
“It’s no good,” he says. “We need to be on the floor.” Sam looks uncomfortable. “What?” says Dean.
Sam opens his mouth, closes it again. Finally he says, “your knee.”
What the fuck. “Are you serious?” Dean can’t believe this. This is outrageous. “I’m not… you don’t have to plan around my aches and pains, Sam, fuck.”
“I’m not - it’s not a slight on your manhood, Dean,” Sam says. “I’m just trying to be considerate.”
“Fuck considerate!” says Dean, high-pitched. “I know what I’m okay with, Sam, come on. It’s not fair. I trust you with your stuff.” This isn’t exactly true. Dean would like to trust Sam with his stuff. He’s just awful at actually doing it.
But “okay,” says Sam slowly, and Dean drops to the floor, settles himself on hands and knees and ignores the aching throb of his muscles. He looks over his shoulder.
“Come on, cowboy,” he says.
Sam smiles, shakes his head, and joins him, tugging off his jeans. Warm fingertips probe careful around Dean’s ass one more time, hot breath blowing damp across his lower back. “You ready?” Sam says.
“Yeah,” says Dean, and wiggles his butt. “Hit me, baby.”
Sam pushes in on a chuckle, his laughter turning into a stuttery exhale as he presses up inside Dean, steady and slow. “Fuck,” he says in a choked-off voice. “You okay?”
Dean focuses on relaxing his muscles, bearing down on the solid bulk of Sam’s cock. Yeah, he’s okay. He’s great. How could he not be good, like this? “Awesome,” he tells Sam, “awesome, keep going, okay?” It is awesome, shaky-reassuring, centring in how it aligns Sam’s place in Dean’s mind with his place in reality. It’s okay, in this moment, to focus on Sam and nothing else.
Once Sam’s buried deep as he’s gonna go, he runs his hand flat across Dean’s stomach and up around the base of Dean’s spine. Then he settles his hands over Dean’s hips and starts to move; a long drag out and a barely faster thrust back in, real gentle and cautious.
He’s just getting going, Dean thinks; but Sam makes no movement to increase his speed, carries on in his slow rhythm. Dean looks back over his shoulder.
“What the fuck,” he says.
Sam’s the picture of innocence; if innocence were on its knees in a roadside diner, holed up in the bathroom with its dick in its brother’s ass. “What?”
“Come on,” says Dean, pushing back. “We’re supposed to be fucking, not falling asleep.”
“Do you want your lower back to be seized up for the next two weeks?” Sam asks him.
“I want you to throw me about a bit, man,” says Dean. “Come on. What’s the point of all that muscle if you’re not gonna make me feel it?”
“I think you think you like that more than you do,” says Sam drily.
“I think you think I like that less than I do,” says Dean, “because you think, I dunno, I’m some kinda special princess, and actually -” and then he has to stop talking, because Sam’s seized him tight around the waist and is fucking hard into him in double-quick time.
It’s awesome, of course, because Dean knows about this shit; Sam’s dick bumping sparks inside him, force of Sam’s movements rocking through his whole body and all he can do is make himself soft and succumb to Sam’s pounding beat. He doesn’t touch himself, not yet: this is about Sam getting his. Instead, he lets it all flow through him, rides the movement, rides the gradually climbing high. He’s losing himself in it, fully caught in the moment, prickling hot all over with pleasure.
Then there’s a knock on the door, rat-tat-tat, and a guy yells “Hey, asshole! Other people need to piss!”
Sam slams to a halt inside him, curls forward close over Dean’s back; and Dean freezes, horror creeping tingly over his skin. Here he is, on all fours, buckass naked and clammy with sweat, Sam’s monster cock buried deep in his ass and his own dick solid and weighty between his legs. He’s too old for this shit. He knows the door’s locked, but he can’t help doubting it; can’t help picturing the guy busting in, exposing them not only to his own shocked vision but to the whole crowd in the diner outside.
“Shi-” he starts to say.
Sam’s hand clamps down hard over his mouth, dry and solid and sure. It’s pressing hard enough to force Dean’s mouth a little open; to jam his bottom lip up against the sharp edge of his teeth. He can feel Sam breathing, Sam’s chest contracting and expanding damp against his back.
“Shhh,” Sam says, close in his ear. Then Sam’s other hand is patting low over his stomach; is finding its way and settling firm around his cock.
Dean can’t help the noise he makes, a panicked, squeaky intake of breath. He feels the judder of his brother’s silent laughter; and then Sam starts to jerk him off, long twisting tugs accompanied by the slow roll of Sam’s hips against his ass, slow shifting of Sam’s cock inside him. Oh God.
The punk outside hammers on the door again. “Hey!”
Dean wants to gasp for breath but the hand over his mouth is stopping him. Terrified and so fucking hot for it, he starts to tremble. Sam’s movements don’t stop, coaxing and regular. They’d be almost soothing if they weren’t winding Dean up so tightly. As it is, they’re slow torture, melting Dean’s bones like he’s made of butter. He’s liquefying.
When Sam speaks, suddenly loud, it makes Dean jump.
“Sorry, dude,” Sam calls to the man outside the door. “My brother’s throwing up in here. It’s kind of gross.”
Without warning, he drops the hand covering Dean’s mouth; and with the other starts jacking him faster, harsher, jagged and quick. Right on cue, Dean groans; a long, helpless, drawn-out noise.
“That’s right,” breathes Sam; and brings his palm back up over Dean’s lips. “You wanna try the women’s,” he yells out to the guy outside the door. “We might be in here a while.” While he’s talking, his right hand keeps up its relentless rhythm over Dean’s dick, stripping him so fast and good and Dean can feel what’s about to happen, feels it building but is powerless to stop it, humiliated and afraid and turned on.
“Whatever, jerk,” says the man outside; but he sounds less certain. A couple seconds later, Dean hears the click-slam of the door on the women’s bathroom, beside them. He should be relieved, but he’s still buzzing, nauseous with adrenaline. He can’t be rational. The only thing he can really process, the only thing that his brain has room for, is the sweet slick drag of Sam’s fingers on his cock.
“Come on,” Sam says, low, and pulls back just a little, half-out; sinks back in and pushes forward with his hips as if he’s trying to get even deeper inside. His hand is flying, moving rapid; and then he switches rhythm, three sharp jerks up up up . Caught, Dean coughs, cries out muffled in Sam’s hand, and comes. He’s struggling to be silent, gasping for air, trapped against Sam’s body by the hands on his mouth and his cock. With nowhere to go, the release of tension leaves him shaking, his arms vibrating where they’re braced, elbows locked, flat-palmed against the floor; the muscles in his thighs and belly twitching and quivering and his dick pulsing wet sticky stripes onto the concrete.
“Mmmnnnhh,” says Sam, satisfied, into the back of his neck. His chest bears down heavy, pushing Dean’s hands and knees into the floor. “Mmm,” he says again, and presses kisses all down the top of Dean’s spine.
Dean lets himself savour the moment for a minute; or more accurately, takes a moment to orient himself, to pull together the shattered scraps of his self-possession. He feels wrecked, shaken apart. How smug he’d been, planning this seduction. He’d forgotten what Sam’s like when he really lets rip: the tiger strength of him, the unmerciful focus, the edge of unpredictable danger. This is what Dean’s wanted. But it’s breathtaking, overpowering, almost too much.
It’s a challenge.
“Okay,” Dean says, pushing back against Sam’s hips, “okay, your turn now, come on.”
Sam starts moving, but he’s cautious again, careful like he was before.
“Come on, ” says Dean. “I’m not an old man, Sam, Christ.”
“Mm,” says Sam. His movements acquire a little more conviction, but it’s all still way too slow for Dean’s liking.
“Fuck sake,” he says, goading. “How many pills do I gotta slip you to get a proper fucking, Sam? Come on.”
“Oh you fucker,” says Sam: but the taunt gets him going at last (“this what you want?”), pounding fast and hard, his hands on Dean’s hips dragging them together. The walls echo with Sam’s breath, panting ragged, heaving over the thuck thuck thuck of flesh where the hard muscles of his quads snap-slap into the back of Dean’s thighs.
Dean lets himself go floppy. He doesn’t even try to hold himself up, too wrung out by orgasm, his muscles still fizzy and weak. Instead he lets his elbows and his palms take the brunt of it, drops his head and feels the cold scrape of the concrete floor against his cheek. It’s pretty rank, it should be disgusting, but he can’t be bothered to care. Sam’s fucking him so hard and it’s just what he wanted, what he asked for, even though it hurts. He feels bruised, raked raw, ragdoll-loose and peach-soft in Sam’s strong arms.
“Fuck,” Sam says eventually, through gritted teeth. He doesn’t stop moving; but even through the fog of pleasure and pain in which Dean’s currently swimming, he can hear the sharp scratch of frustration in Sam’s voice. Dean looks up, sideways, back over his shoulder. Sam’s bright red, his hair hanging sweaty in his face, and his brows are folded in a particular, anxious expression which often signals tears.
“Hey,” says Dean, cautious.
“I can’t, fucking…” Sam drops a hand from Dean’s waist, runs his fingers back through his hair. He stops moving and sits backward, his cock dragging slow and painful out of Dean’s ass; and stops with the head still just inside, Dean’s rim stretched and aching around him. “I can’t,” Sam says again, wobbly with frustration. “This fucking stuff you gave me, I can’t…”
“Oh, man,” Dean says. “Hey. It’s okay.” He pushes himself up so he’s on all fours again, shifts forward and off Sam’s cock. Christ but he’s sore. He sits up on his knees, turns to face Sam, and leans in to kiss him; on the mouth at first, deep dipped and tender, and then up high on Sam’s cheek where the tears are threatening to spill over. “I got you,” he says.
He sets his hands on the concrete behind him and leans backward, all the way until he’s lying supine on the floor, his knees bent and spread wide. “Let’s try it this way,” he says. Sam doesn’t say anything - is obviously thinking hard - but he nods obediently and shuffles forward, lifting Dean with his hands cupped around Dean’s butt and settling him so his ass is elevated, resting on Sam’s kneeling thighs.
“You sure?” Sam says, peering down between his legs. “You look kind of sore.”
“Oh come on,” Dean says. “If you can dish it out, I can take it.”
Sam smiles, grinning despite himself. “You’re an idiot,” he says. But he pushes in, guiding his cock careful and steady back into Dean’s ass and then lifting him by the hips, pumping forward, settling back into the punishing rhythm they’d been moving in before.
It’s better this way. Dean can see Sam, can catch the drip drip of Sam’s sweaty hair on his chest; and as he watches, he sees Sam watching him right back, darting his eyes all over Dean’s body from his mouth to his throat to his soft spent dick.
“Yeah, Sammy,” says Dean. He lets a hand drift over his torso, scratching lightly at his nipples one at a time, down to rub over his stomach and grasp lazy at his balls and his cock. He doesn’t take his eyes off Sam’s face; watching the subtle shifts of expression, the dark space of his open mouth. “So good,” Dean says, and Sam allows himself the flash of a smile. “So good, Sam, come on, give it to me, I can take it, come on.” He’s still hurting, rubbed raw and sore but it’s a good hurt and Sam like this is consuming, hypnotic, giddy-making like a drug. Dean shifts, trying to angle upward, trying to meet Sam’s thrusts. “Doing so good, baby,” he says.
“Fuck,” says Sam, clutching at Dean’s sides, hands sliding damp with effort. His fingertips gouge hard into the muscles, promising bruises. “Fuck,” he says again, and his rhythm is faltering, “fuck, Dean, I’m close, I’m so close. Dean, please.”
He leans forward, his arms braced against the floor; and Dean lifts himself, just a little, his stomach muscles straining, and buries his hand in the wet curls at the back of Sam’s neck. He grips tight, sliding his other hand up under Sam’s armpit to grasp the back of his shoulder. Then he sets his fingers firm in both positions and pulls , dragging himself upright and close against Sam’s chest. His mouth brushes against Sam’s shoulder, and Sam shudders beneath him, his arms brought up to clasp around Dean’s back and his hips still stuttering. Dean opens his mouth and bites down hard into Sam’s muscle, using the full force of his jaw. He tastes blood, feels the give of the skin beneath his teeth.
“Oh thank Christ,” says Sam, soft and surprised, and stills; coming shuddery with his head tucked into the crook of Dean’s neck, their chests crammed together slippy and sweaty, his fingers digging into Dean’s shoulders and his thighs solid underneath Dean’s ass. Sam chokes tiny noises all through it, quiet little shaky incredulous gasps, and fuck, Dean loves him. He loves his brother so much, okay.
Eventually, Sam judders down into silence, and the two of them are left stuck together, clammy in the bathroom’s rapidly cooling air. With the heat of the moment passed, the position becomes uncomfortable; and as their breathing slows, steadies, Sam walks his hands down Dean’s back, lowering him slowly down onto the floor. He eases away, dragging out of Dean’s ass careful as he can, but the movement is still enough to send a shiver of pain right through Dean’s body.
“Sorry,” says Sam. His hand runs soothing over Dean’s flank, big soft circles that Dean wants to curl into like a cat. As he starts to move, though, his muscles start seizing, and in the end Sam has to help him jerkily up to a sitting position. “Sorry,” Sam says again, close against his face, and kisses him. He draws back, stands upright. “You did ask for it, though.”
“I did,” says Dean. He looks around for his clothes. As he shifts over to reach them, a cold breeze gusts across his skin. Apparently, he’d managed to lie right over the place where he’d been crouching while Sam jerked him off. Now he’s got smears of his own jizz all up his back, to match the sticky remnants of Sam’s come on his stomach. “Ew,” he says, twisting backward, dabbing at himself with his scrunched-up shirt. “Yeuuuch.”
“Let me,” says Sam, leaning over and grabbing the bundle of fabric, scrubbing away at Dean’s back. “This is what you forget,” he says to Dean, “when you’re harassing me about being more adventurous. You like to have clean sex in a clean bed.”
“Hmmph,” says Dean. “I don’t know. This was pretty good.”
“Yeah,” says Sam, “not bad.” He’s beaming, dishevelled, his hair sticking up in all directions. “I guess maybe we could do it again some time.”
They’re standing and zipping up their pants when Dean realises that he’s used not only his overshirt, but his T-shirt too, to clean the both of them off. He unfolds the T-shirt, holds it up. It’s filthy.
“You can’t wear that,” Sam says, and his lips slide into a half-smile that makes his dimples flicker. He shrugs out of his plaid. “I’ve got my T-shirt. You take this.”
Sam’s shirt turns out to be surprisingly large. For some reason, Dean always expects his own clothes to be bigger; the legacy of twenty years of growing up. But actually, this hangs loose over his shoulders, runs a little long in the arms. It makes Dean feel kind of dainty.
“Hey, baby,” says Sam, faux-gruff and purring. “Look good in my clothes.”
“Shut up,” says Dean, and opens the door.
It’s patently obvious that every adult in the diner knows what they’ve been doing. Come on . They’ve been in there for like an hour making god only knows what noises, and now here they are shuffling out sweaty and rumpled, Dean swimming in his brother’s shirt, his clothes clutched guilty in his hands. There’s nothing for it but to hurry past and try not to look anybody in the eye.
They’re almost out when Dean catches sight of a heavy-set bearded dude who he identifies irresistibly with the jerk who came knocking on the bathroom door. Dean smiles, can’t help it. “Afternoon,” he drawls.
The guy’s face contorts in a frown and Sam tugs at Dean’s sleeve, yanks him bodily out of the diner.
“What the fuck was that?” he says.
“Should have thanked him for the fucking mindblowing orgasm,” says Dean, and starts to laugh.
“You’re an idiot,” says Sam, and pushes Dean forward, steering him across the parking lot until they’re standing beside the car.
“Um,” says Sam when they get there. “You want me to drive? You could, uh…” his eyes drop to waist level. “You could lie in the back seat.”
“I can drive,” says Dean. Jesus. He’s not a pussy. That said, when he slides into the seat, he does think just for a second that perhaps his brother might have been right. He shifts around, trying to get comfortable, but then he catches Sam looking and stops. He’s fine. It’s actually, um. It’s not altogether a bad feeling. Well-fucked.
They’re a good couple miles down the road and Dean’s running over what just happened in his head, savouring the highlights, when he realises that there’s something he should probably say. How to… maybe he should… but best just to get on with it, he decides.
“I don’t wanna police you, or whatever,” he tells Sam. “But I should probably know what medications you’re on. Just in case. We could… you know how easy it would be for us to end up in hospital, and if I told them you weren’t taking anything and... I don’t know. I don’t wanna be responsible for poisoning you. You know, Sammy. You could fucking die if I got that shit wrong."
“Yeah,” says Sam. Dean glances over. He’s looking out the window, bearing down hard with the heel of his hand into his thigh. “I know. You’re right.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Dean says. “You can - you could write it down, and I’ll put the paper in my wallet and not look at it. But at least I’ll have it then, in case.”
“No,” says Sam, “you should… you know, you might not have your wallet. At the hospital. In this scenario.” He sighs, and looks over at Dean. “It’s just embarrassing,” he says. “I should be able to deal with this stuff. I’m not a kid.”
“Hey,” says Dean. “Dude. I self-medicate for my shit with alcohol. I’m pretty sure you’re the grown-up one here.”
It’s a pretty lame point, but it’s enough to earn him a half-hearted smile, which he counts a win when it comes to talking about this stuff with Sam. He drops his hand from the wheel for a moment, sets it over Sam’s, squeezes; and then leans over and turns up the radio. Metallica blares out loud.
Dean intends to leave Sam some conversational space to relax, but then something strikes him irresistibly and he has to turn down the music only one-and-a-half songs later. “Do you know what today reminded me of?” he says.
“Oklahoma City,” says Sam instantly. “2007.”
“Yeahhhh,” says Dean, long and appreciative. “Fucking sex pollen, dude.” It had been a florist, of all places; run by a witch, who was using the shop as a front to sell unsavoury ingredients to unsavoury people. They’d dealt with her but then when they were clearing out her stuff they’d both of them caught a faceful of sickly-sweet orange dust. The effect had been immediate; they’d fucked on the floor of the shop, behind the counter where the passers-by couldn’t see. Then they’d fucked against the wall of the alley where they’d parked the car; again by the side of the road before they made it to the motel. After that they’d holed up in their room for the next two days, waiting for the stuff to wear off, copulating in every position they could think of and one or two that Dean’s pretty sure that they actually invented for the occasion. It had left the pair of them sore enough that they hadn’t had sex for the next three weeks; hadn’t been able to, hadn’t wanted to, their dicks and their asses too aching and raw. But fuck, it’s still one of Dean’s all-time greatest memories; a 72-hour erection and Sam willing on the end of it, mouth and ass and hands and muscles so good, under and over and around his cock.
“Good times, Sammy,” Dean says. “Good times.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, hoarse. He rubs a hand over his chin; and then he stills, frozen just at the edge of Dean’s peripheral vision.
“What is it?” Dean says.
Sam coughs. “Um.”
Dean looks over and follows Sam’s gaze, down to his brother’s crotch where - oh hell - Sam’s fucking treacherous, nostalgia-happy cock is standing out, solid and hard, against the seam of his jeans.
“Not again,” says Dean. “Already, Sam, Christ.”
“Pretty sure that’s your fault, dude,” says Sam. “I heard Viagra makes for a shorter refractory period.” He shakes his head, shrugs. He’s smirking. “Whatcha gonna do?”
“Oh God,” says Dean. His ass is just so sore.
“It would be a shame,” says Sam to the windshield, “if somebody were to write a check that his body couldn’t cash.”
“My body cashes all the checks,” says Dean, defiant; and then, thinking about it, “fuck, though, Sam, I don’t know if I can go again.”
Sam starts to laugh. “Did you know that priapism is a medical emergency?” he says.