FIC: God Made Boston On A Wet Sunday
Title: God Made Boston On A Wet Sunday
Author: balefully
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 8,750
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean are sadly not mine.
Warnings: Sam is 17. There's also some gunplay.
Summary: Sam and Dean live in an apartment in Boston while John is away on a hunt. Money is scarce, so Dean picks up a particularly slutty part-time job. Sam finds out.
Notes: For fluffyllama as part of spn_j2_xmas. I used two of your prompts, the sense-of-place one and the sort-of-hooker!Dean one. PLUS I tried to work in some of your likes, like possessiveness/obsessiveness, wet boys, gunporn, and carporn. I am SO SORRY this is late, OMFG. :( I hope it is at least not awful. Just so you know, though, this is a second attempt at your gift. My first attempt ended up being soooo huge I couldn't even get it properly started by the deadline. It's becoming my Big Bang, though, so. :D You'll get it eventually. Also, title from a quote by Raymond Chandler, and huge thanks to rivers_bend for the read-through!
God Made Boston On A Wet Sunday
They live in an apartment this time, sparsely furnished and molding in the corners where the plaster is cracked and damp. The river rolls by outside their fourth-story walk-up, steel grey and dotted with swift handfuls of brightly colored sculls and skinny white college guys. Dean turns his head into his collar, breathing open-mouthed on the rubbed-smooth leather to warm it. In one hand, he's got a bag full of food just hitting its expiration date, seventy percent off from the C Mart on Commonwealth. In the other, he's got a bottle of Canadian Crest, cheap as dirt and no better tasting. Boston pinches him with slush and freezing rain, so he self-medicates; it's just cause and effect.
"Don't let Dad find that," Sam says, wary, when Dean lets himself in with a flood of cold air and the clinging smell of the Charles. The path through the den to the kitchen is threadbare on the faded brown carpet; Dean thunks the bags down on the counter with a sigh.
"Find what? The boxes of cereal that go bad as of today?" he says with a dumb, mocking tone. "Wouldn't dream of it, Sammy. We all know how riled up Dad gets about freshness." Sarcasm comes easiest when he's wet and cranky.
Sam just frowns, turning back to his textbook. It's falling apart, cracked and taped and glued all along the spine; Sam wouldn't stop pissing and moaning last week when his reading assignment from it included the "current" goings on in East and West Germany. God bless Boston Public. "You know I mean the whiskey."
"I'm twenty-one," Dean says. "What's he gonna do?"
"Drink it all," says Sam, and Dean's chest clenches tight. Sam voice sounds so flat, so resigned. "How much did it cost?"
"He's not gonna be back for a while yet. And anyway, you're not supposed to worry about stuff like that," Dean says, putting the rest of their meager groceries away. "That's my job when Dad's not here."
"It's your job when he is here," Sam mutters. "Not like he ever is."
"Shut up, man," Dean says, exasperated. "We do the best we can, okay?" But the guilt's already taking hold.
"You do the best you can." Sam's smiling a little this time, though-barely. A sweet hint of his dimples shows in the yellow pall of the garage-sale lamp on the end table.
Dean just huffs and pulls off his jacket, then his boots, leaving them all in a slick pile by the kitchen table. Sam watches him, book sliding off his lap, forgotten. "You got that space heater cranked all the way up, huh?" Dean asks, and sits on the couch next to him. Sam's warm and smells incongruously of mothballs, like some stuffy university instead of the shithole high school that wastes his time every day.
"I knew you'd be coming back soon, and that you'd be pissy and cold. So, you know. Always be prepared."
"What a Boy Scout," Dean says, and catches Sam in a headlock. Sam comes too easy, though; he was expecting it, and clearly let Dean grab him.
"Dean, what the hell?" he whines, putting up a token protest. Dean relaxes his grip, but keeps Sam pressed close with his arm around his neck. Sam's sweater is soft under his hands, and Sam's chest hard beneath that.
"Nothing. You're just a geek. Couldn't help myself." He can't keep the fondness from his voice, either. Sam laughs quietly through his nose, hardly more than breath, face pressed into the worn-fuzzy folds of Dean's thermal Henley right above his armpit. It tickles, and Dean snorts, warming up from the inside out.
*
Longfellow Bridge shudders and rumbles with traffic, Boston nothing but a thick curtain of dank grey clouds in Dean's rearview mirror as he heads across the river towards Cambridge.
He follows the rails, passing the half-finished Dr. Seussian insanity of the Stata Center and the huge, gridlocked monolith of Simmons Hall. MIT loves its warped architecture, and Dean loves MIT, if only because it gets him Dr. Claude Swanson, the physicist trying to prove the existence of paranormal phenomena.
The man's probably crazy, but he can provide Dad with eighty-seven hanging file folders of case research and some sort of cross-spectrum multivariate statistical analysis or whatever-the-fuck. In the end, anything that cuts down on library time is a-okay.
Sheets of rain roll off the walls of glass windows in Building 6, heavy sluicing over the stretch of skylights. Dean's steps echo on the stairs, and there's no one in Dr. Swanson's office but a harried physics nerd hardly older than Sam scribbling on the whiteboard.
"Sorry," Dean mumbles, but the guy doesn't even look up, much less offer to help out.
It's that kind of day.
Sam's at school and Dean can't stand sitting in the apartment alone, so he gets back in the car and backs out of the faculty spot he nabbed to go cruise around the universities; there's always a wide variety of bars in college towns, and Boston is nothing if not the world's biggest college town.
Central Square bursts with so much color, it's visible through the wash-out mask of rain: splashes of graffiti, rich red brick, and the pastel-striped tower of an old Necco factory. People mill around in bright raincoats-students, probably, or just the kind of people who like to soak up the edge of a place like this in the middle of the day.
The Cantab Lounge is rough around the edges, dark and thick with smoke. A handful of guys suck down beers at the bar, down on their luck and their hygiene. It's perfect. Dean eyes the pool table in the corner and orders an Old Fashioned with rye whiskey, just for the hell of it.
He knocks it back, follows it up with two fingers of Jameson, and then decides it's time to try his luck.
Playing himself isn't really any fun, but after about fifteen minutes of dicking around, an older guy in a sweater vest comes into the bar and takes a seat. He starts out drinking a beer, and Dean keeps an eye on him for a while, during which he switches to scotch.
"Hey," the guy says, sidling over to the pool table. "You're pretty good."
"Yeah," Dean says, straightening from his shot. He's anticipating an awesome hustle. Rich, cocky, over-educated jerks are always the fastest to fold, especially when he plays them just right. "Had my hands on a lot of cues in my time. Wanna play?"
The guy smirks and shakes his wet hair, probably red and wavy when it's not the mud-dark of rain. "Sure, maybe sometime," he says, and leans his hip against the table. "But first," he gazes around at the rest of the bar, talking without meeting Dean's eyes, "I have a proposition for you."
"Oh, do you?" Dean sets the cue down, crossing his arms.
"You got quite a face, man. Anyone ever tell you that?" One of his eyebrows raises in a neat sneer, and Dean knows exactly where this is going. "You could model. I know about this stuff. You could really get some good cash."
Dean's stomach sinks hard, and he rubs at the back of his neck. Sam, wrapped in blankets on the couch after school because he doesn't want to use up the electricity. Sam, picking through the dented cans on the clearance shelf at the market. Sam, playing soccer with fourth-hand equipment on loan from the school. "Yeah, I heard somethin' like that before. Never really panned out, though, you know?" There's no going back, now.
"You just didn't hook up with the right-agency," the guys says, emphasizing the word by slowing down, drawing it out. "I'm Richard, and I think I'm your new agent." He sounds like a complete tool.
"I'm-Dean." He hesitates, not sure which fake name to use, before deciding not to bother. "So where is this agency, exactly?" Dean asks, weighing options.
"Couple blocks," Richard says. There's a glint of hunger in his eyes, and Dean tries not to have second thoughts.
"And what kind of-compensation we talking about?" Hopefully next time, he and Sam will be able to eat their loaf of Wonderbread before its sell-by date. He tamps down on his nerves, relaxing and opening his shoulders so Richard can get a better look at the merchandise.
"Three hundred," Richard says, giving Dean an unmistakable once-over. It's a lot of money; Sam could buy new shoes and have enough leftover to take the SATs.
"Well, I got time right now, man," Dean says, sliding his hands in his pockets and pulling his jeans tight across the slight bulge of his cock. "You wanna give me the tour? Sign me up?"
"You bet," Richard says, and smacks Dean unceremoniously on the ass.
*
The room they end up in is about the size of any hotel room Dean's ever been in. Outside, there's the metallic drip of rain overflowing the gutters, pattering onto the fire escape. He was expecting seedy, run-down, dark and maybe dangerous. It's really just tacky. Cheap décor, cheap rented space, crude but well-lit. The fluorescent lights give everyone a sickly blue tint, but so far all the people he's seen have looked pretty professional. And/or pretty naked.
"So this is where we'll do your screen test, Dean," Richard says, keeping up the stupid game of make-believe. "We want to see how you'll look on film before we book you any jobs."
"Right." Dean clears his throat. "How do you want-what should I do, here?" He plays it cool, but his blood is pumping hard and his face heats under the gaze of the big, bald guy in the back corner of the room. Dean's arm hair is standing up on end, and the clammy rub of a cold sweat is starting in the dips under his pecs.
He's getting hard, too. These guys are going to pay him money to get naked, to jerk off. Possibly to fuck someone. They're gonna watch, and they're probably gonna get hard, and Dean is going to be showing off for them like he wants it. Like he's the hottest fucking thing they're ever gonna see. They'll tape it, and he'll be there forever, sweating and panting and grunting and giving it to someone-some guy. Nameless, faceless masses of people will see it. Will see him. Will jack it to the sounds of him moaning.
And Sam will never know.
Dean will have it inside him forever; thousands of people will have it inside them forever, this part of him. And Sam will never, ever know.
"Kneel on the bed," says the bald guy as he sets up a camera, and Richard winks, backing towards the door.
"This is Derek, by the way. Don't be nervous-you'll do great. Just relax. Smile pretty for the camera. Look beautiful." He grins, and Dean shivers a little bit. He hasn't had to sign anything. They didn't ask him how old he is. Those seem like important things, especially if he's going to get paid.
"When do I get my money?" he asks, wary.
"Ah," Richard says, and sighs like he was hoping Dean would forget that part. "How about half now, half later?" He holds out a crumpled, dirty wad of cash, and Dean grabs it like starving man handed a scrap of bread. He can tell without counting that it's exactly a hundred and fifty bucks.
"That'll work." He shoves it into his pocket before he knees up onto the bed, his back to the camera. Looking over his shoulder, he tries on an awkward pout, a sort of seductive little smirk. "This is my best side, you know."
"Oh, we know," Richard mutters, leering. He leaves with a nod to Derek the camera guy and the door shuts with a hollow click.
"Go ahead," Derek says. "Show us what you got."
Dean bites at his lips, trying to settle himself in his skin, in his clothes, in the room. The mattress is extra soft, saggy in the middle, and he wobbles on his knees while he gets his bearings. "Slow?" he asks, mostly just trying to buy time.
"However you want." Something clicks, and Dean sets his shoulders. "What's your name?" Derek asks, voice totally innocuous, like it's just a random conversation.
Dean turns around with a shy grin, pushing his dad's leather jacket down his arms. "Dean," he says without thinking. He should've picked a different name, but it's too late now.
"How old're you, Dean?"
He tosses the jacket onto the floor, then starts rubbing his hands down his long-sleeved shirt, slipping the tips of his fingers under his hem. "Twenty-one," he says. Might as well go with the whole truth and nothing but.
"You're really hot, Dean," Derek says. He might as well be telling Dean the weather forecast.
"Thanks." There isn't much to say to that, so he pulls the soft shirt over his head in one long, slow move. He shifts and turns to show his muscles, his skin smooth but for the handful of scars that always make girls wet. Bad boy, they say. Clumsy, Sam says instead. And Sam is the one who had to bandage up every one of those scars. Sam is the one who shook and cried when Dean stumbled in the door bleeding, who ran past Dad to wrap Dean up in his arms and make him promise not to die.
Dean lets out a short huff as the cool air in the room twists at his nipples, and he tries not to think about the smell of his own blood smearing with Sam's tears while he trails his hand down to his waistband, following the shallow grooves of muscle.
Derek lets out a bored sort of, "Yeah, just like that," and gives the universal jerking off signal.
Dean blocks him out, squeezing his eyes shut against the stippled yellow of the ceiling and the splashy blue painting over the headboard. He concentrates on the thrum of his own skin, on the prickly feeling of eyes on him. It thrills along his spine and makes him pull back his shoulder blades, finally getting his fly open and working his hand down the front of his jeans.
His dick is half-hard, so he works his fingers for a while, rubbing and thumbing and getting himself going. He thinks about porn, mostly, about the girls with the huge tits and the spread-open pussies, about the guys with the oiled chests and the thick, veiny cocks.
"Take off your jeans."
They slide easily down his thighs and he manages to shift on the bed without toppling over, kicking them off. Dean's still got his eyes closed and his dick is rubbing at the worn cotton of his briefs, harder and more insistent now. He sucks at his bottom lip and makes a little grunting noise, half on-purpose and half because his hand just feels really fucking good right now when he squeezes the head of his cock through the cotton.
"Take 'em off," Derek says, and Dean is glad to oblige. His cock is flushed purple-red, bobbing against his thigh before he takes it in his hand. He smooths his thumb over his faint circumcision scar, running it over and over the thin, warm skin. Little breathy gasps punctuate each pass of his fingers, and his mouth falls open, thrilling tingles and shivers running up and down his legs.
Sam doesn't have a circumcision scar; Sam has a foreskin. Dean's seen it before, briefly, the result of close quarters and necessary immodesty. It clung soft and smooth to Sam's dick, and Dean can't help wonder what it would feel like to touch. What it would be like, slipping under his hands as he pulled and worked it up over the fat head, down the thick shaft, sliding against the sensitive skin of Sam's-
Dean groans high in the back of his throat and spreads his knees wider, skidding on the comforter, muscles burning along the insides of his thighs. He gets a better grip on his cock and jacks fast and hard, thinking of Sam doing the same in the shower, under the hot spray, soaked and dripping and whimpering.
Precome oozes out of his slit, over his fingers, glazing his dick with wet, smearing slickness. Dean hums and pumps into his fist, the muscles of his ass flexing as he imagines Sam's body, tight and tanned and writhing above him.
He switches hands, sliding his coated fingers between his thighs, rubbing his knuckles up against smooth skin, massaging so deep, so good. Pitching forward, he spreads even wider, loving the stretch and ache in his groin. He works his fingers back to his hole, rubbing over it, then shallowly inside it, the way smoothed with warm precome.
Derek's saying something, but Dean doesn't pay attention. He'd beg to get fucked this very second, if he weren't alone on the bed. He'd be crying for it; there isn't anything he could possibly want more right now than a big fat dick shoving at his hole, prying him open and forcing up inside him, high and hard and fucking huge. He tries not to dwell on Sam's face, on the phantom feel of Sam's body-that was just a fluke; people think of fucked up shit when they jerk of all the time. It lingers, though, and there's nothing to stop him wishing for Sam's big hands to cup his hips, Sam's hard chest pressed flat against his back, his smell and his voice and the feel of him pressing Dean down and filling him up.
Dean presses a finger into his asshole with a gasping sigh, crooking it and curling it over and over until his legs are shaking underneath him and he can barely hold himself up anymore. He rocks back onto it, and moves his other hand from his straining, dripping dick to cup his balls, pulling at them and rolling them and rubbing at them until he can't stand it.
He works the finger in his ass furiously, as fast as he can, and starts jacking his cock in earnest, squelching noises from the dripping mess he's making echoing in his ears. He's close-so close, and he's thinking of Sam in the shower again, doing the same thing, hands on his cock, up his ass, imagining Dean, wishing he were fucking Dean so hard.
He comes like that, Sam's body and voice burned in so he won't be able to stop thinking about it, maybe ever. It's a roaring rush through him, hooks grabbing something deep in him and tearing it out in a spinning wave of relief and white noise, thick ropes of come shooting up his chest, hitting his chin and clinging in white, globby drops.
Dean pants hard, riding it out, eyes barely open as his chest heaves and his fingers shake. The adrenaline is still pumping, the camera still running. He can see Derek, rock-hard in his pants, dick obscenely obvious, and his own spent cock gives a twitch.
"Wow," Derek breathes. "You're a real shooter."
Dean nods, rubbing through the mess he left all over himself, spreading it across his chest, rubbing it in, pretending his hands are Sam's. He sits back on his heels and lets his eyes slip shut again, bringing his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean one by one. It's the camera pointed at him-the tingling thrill of it, of people seeing him doing this.
After his hands are clean, he rolls the taste of his own jizz around on his tongue, pushing away what he wishes he could do with it now. Who he wishes he could kiss, deep and dirty and mixed with the bitter slide of come on their tongues.
"Perfect. Shit, man," Derek says, and the soft beep and click of the camera being turned off punctuates his low groan. "That was so fuckin' hot." He pulls a fold of bills out of his pocket and hands them to Dean, palm lingering against Dean's sticky, saliva-covered fingers.
Dean holds the money, clenches his fist over it and stares for a second, trying to get his brain to kick back into gear. He isn't wearing pants, so he can't put it in his pocket-after a minute, though, he starts coming back from the muzzy afterglow and pulls on his underwear and his jeans, and stuffs the money with the other hundred and fifty already in there.
He's a little weirded out that there isn't anything else-that was it, just a solo jerk-off. "I'm done?" he asks, skeptical.
"Just need a phone number, but other than that, yup, that's it," Derek says, checking something on the camera. "More than enough, if you ask me." He smacks Dean on the bare shoulder, smiling. "Next time you should ask for more, man."
Dean nods absently, scribbling their current number on the piece of paper Derek gives him. Then he pulls on his shirt over the cooling mess on his chest, and makes his way towards the door. "Should I-let myself out?" Derek just waves him off, so Dean leaves and picks his way through the bland, fluorescent-lit halls without a backwards glance.
He's still a little edgy and hyped-up, unsure of where he should go or what he should do when he's back out on the street in front of the-offices. The cold, damp air wraps around him and he wants nothing more than a good hard fuck. They didn't make him fuck anyone, and now that's all he can think about. He's got all this energy, all this careless jumpiness from what he's just done, and nowhere to put it.
He trudges back to his car and drives home, blasting Metallica and tapping his hands incessantly on the wheel. It's after four now, and Sam will be home from school. It's like his body is drawing Dean in; his skin itches for Sam.
Sam is stretched out on the floor of the den when Dean comes in, his soft curls of hair spread in a halo around his head on the worn carpet, the TV left on mute. His sweater is rucked up around his waist, the shadow of his bellybutton just visible above the snug waist of his jeans. His toes are curled and bent where he feet dig awkwardly into the carpet, and his mouth is open on a quiet, breathy sort of snore. He's dead asleep, sweet-skinned and relaxed in the warm glow of the TV.
Dean drops back against the closed front door, pressing his lips together tight and staring at his shoes. He can't pretend the thoughts he had aren't still there. That he's not having them again, seeing Sam here like this. That they haven't been there for a long time now, masquerading as meaningless. He's already getting hard just remembering, even though he came like a geyser less than an hour ago. The money in his pocket crinkles tellingly as his dick tents out his fly.
He goes up to his room to jerk off again, quick and dry and rote, this time. Not thinking of anything at all.
*
It's a week before the phone rings. Dean scrambles to grab it while Sam fabricates some Egg McMuffins out of semi-burned fried eggs with broken yolks, slices of American cheese straight out of the clear plastic singles-wraps, and a couple strips of floppy, microwaved bacon all toasted between two halves of an English muffin.
"Hello?" Dean says, still smiling at Sam's irresistible grumpy face. He's hoping it might be Dad, and Sam asked him for help with school stuff, and they're going for a drive later to hang out at Fenway just because they can.
"Hey, Dean," someone says in a weird, fakey sort of voice.
"Who's this?"
"Richard, man! Richard. Of course. Didn't think we'd just let you get away that easy, huh?" he says, laughing overloud.
"Right," Dean says, eyeing Sam. Sam's eyeing him right back, ignoring the steady drip of melted cheese from the sandwich in his hands in favor of listening in. "You, uh-" Dean tries to think fast. "You got somethin' needs doing?"
Richard laughs again. "Someone, Dean. Can you come in tomorrow at about two? We'll pay you double."
"Sure," Dean says. Derek's voice comes back to him when Sam gives up, reaching for another slice of cheese. There aren't any left, and he huffs in frustration. "How about more, though?"
Richard clears his throat awkwardly. "Okay, let's say a thousand, and you bring your own condoms and lube."
Dean swallows thickly, but he says, "Sure, yeah. It's a deal," and hangs up.
Sam takes a little nibble of his McMuffin, and hands Dean's to him. "What's that all about?" He's got the worried crinkle between his eyes, and Dean can't fucking lie to that.
"Just working a job, Sammy," he says, sighing. "Trying to snag us a little cash to keep you from eating us out of house and home."
Sam rolls his eyes, but leans against the counter next to Dean, sliding their shoulders together. He doesn't move away until they're both done eating, and Dean isn't sure if he's glad or miserable when he does.
*
He fucks a dude named Julian, which Dean would bet his entire "salary" isn't the man's real name. He's pretty hot, kind of on the skinny side, with lots of thick, wavy brown hair and long fingers. His ass isn't as good as-some people's, though. Not that Dean's comparing him to anyone. Nevertheless, he comes hard and long after he snaps off the condom, pumping out over Julian's ass, painting him with spunk, and Julian shoots respectably on the bedcovers, gripping the headboard until his knuckles turn white, moaning Dean's name.
His jeans are on the floor where he ditched them, the pocket bulging with the money he shoved in there earlier. A different guy is filming them, now, not Derek, but he still offers just enough narration to remind Dean that he's there, that Dean is being watched. Mostly, Dean just thinks of that wad of cash, and how he and Sam can pay the gas bill and turn on the heat for real, now.
When he gets home, he goes to watch Sam play soccer, and after they down a couple beers to celebrate, he walks them back to the apartment with his arm slung tight around Sam's waist. Sam's head fits just right in the crook of his neck and shoulder, and that's the thought that gets him hard at night as he listens to Sam toss and turn on the other side of the wall. He can't help wondering if Sam's thinking what he's thinking, or if maybe Sam figured out where he'd been today. What he'd been doing.
Dean imagines Sam finding one of the movies he's been in. One of his tapes. Seeing the cover and blushing with shame, but putting it in and watching it anyway. Watching Dean pull that random guy up onto all fours and spread his legs apart as far as they'll go, pound into him so hard he gets pushed up the bed, hands pressed to the wall. Dean imagines Sam coming hard over his own fist, watching Dean fucking in one of his pornos, knowing he got paid to do it, that countless people have seen it and loved it and jizzed all over themselves because of it. That's what gets Dean off, sending him into a shallow, dreamless sleep.
*
It's only a couple days, this time. Sam and Dean are slumped in a pile on the couch, Sam reading a novel from the library and Dean reading a stolen copy of Maxim, his hand curled loose around the nape of Sam's neck, Sam's head resting on his thigh. The phone on the end table rings right next to Sam's head, shattering the comfortable silence, and Dean answers gruffly when he picks up.
"What?" he huffs.
"Hey, Dean," Richard says, some sort of loud conversation going on in the background. "We need you to come in tomorrow at five, if that's okay." His tone doesn't brook argument.
"Um, okay," Dean says, "I guess that'll work."
"Don't guess, Dean-o. Be there. I'll pay you double last time, which is so much it's stupid. We just really like your face around here, you know."
"Oh I know just the face you like," Dean says, annoyed.
Sam turns over, peering up at Dean, clearly suspicious. What the hell? he mouths.
Dean shakes his head. "See you, then." He hangs up first; it's the only way he can get the last word.
Sam sits up, kicking his book to the floor. "What is going on, man? You join the mob and forget to tell me?"
"No," Dean says, punching Sam's shoulder as hard as he can. "Mind your own freakin' business."
"Since when are you not my business?" Sam clutches at his shoulder and grimaces a little, but other than that he just pretends Dean didn't give him a dead arm. Dean actually feels really shitty about it, and wishes he could take it back.
"Since I said so," he grumbles.
"Oh, wow, Dean. That one really hurt. That was harsh." He kicks Dean's shin really fucking hard, even though they're both sitting at weird angles, and Dean can't grab Sam's boot fast enough to catch him off-balance and yank him off the couch.
He tries anyway, and his hands are locked around Sam's calf, Sam struggling and twisting, when he grunts, "You're such a smart-ass. Can't you just-shit. Can't you just shut up and leave me alone?" His heart is hammering in his chest and the feel of Sam's muscles under his skin is making him itch, his mouth going dry. The thoughts come back to him full-force.
Sam stills suddenly, and Dean's petrified that he figured it out. That Dean popped wood right there on the couch and Sam saw and freaked. "Fine," Sam says, sullen and upset. "Never mind. Why should you tell me where you go or what you do? It's not like you're the only person in my entire life I care about, or anything like that. Fuck you, Dean." His voice is shaky and weird, and he stands and stomps out of the room without so much as a backward glance.
Dean sighs hopelessly, and clutches at a couch cushion, just to have something to squeeze the life out of. It kind of smells like Sam.
*
The next day, it's pouring again. The room they have him in is bigger and nicer than the jerk-off room or the room he used with Julian. This one's got two beds, for one thing, and new wallpaper, and the carpet's plush and unstained. There's a nice big picture window, though the view is primarily of the rusty black fire escape and the brick wall beyond it.
"Really went all-out for me this time, huh?" Dean says, sauntering in, his best I'm an old pro at this face on.
"Well, this'll be a special first for you," Richard says, coming in with Derek.
Dean blinks, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt. "-Oh?" It's pretty obvious what they mean, but he asks anyway.
"We're going to have Adam give you a nice hard fuck," Richard says. "You always did say this was your best side," he adds, smacking Dean heartily on the ass.
Dean tries not to bristle. "Of course," he says, smiling sharply. There's something-wrong, though. It just doesn't feel right, and he doesn't like the room, and he doesn't like how Richard is settling down in a chair in the corner. Like he's going to stay for a while.
Adam comes in next, huge and built, already shirtless and pinching at his own nipples. Dean tries to slide his hands into his pockets, but Adam pushes up into his space and grabs his arm instead, pulling him close, yanking his shirt off in one quick motion, and tipping his head back for a bruising kiss.
Before their lips can even touch, though, there's a crash from the fire escape. Dean starts and jumps back, knees bent and back straight, hand going for a gun that's not tucked in the waistband of his jeans. He left it in the car like an idiot, and he feels naked and unbalanced without it.
A soft thump follows the crash, and Dean would know that shadowy figure jimmying the lock anywhere.
Sam is soaked to the bone, clothes dripping in dark, spreading puddles on the nice carpet. He's heaving, eyes flashing in anger and confusion. "What the fuck are you doing to him?" he says, hoarse, clearly trying not to let his teeth chatter. He's strung tight, though, Dean's Colt in his hand, ready to attack-he must've picked the lock of the car door and swiped it. Dean would be proud if he weren't so piss-his-pants mortified.
"Nothing," Dean says, hurrying forward. "Shit, Sam, stop-they're not. It's not-" He lunges for the gun, and Sam twists away. Dean catches his shoulder, though, and shoves him back into the wall.
Sam's face is wet all over, drips falling from his sharp jaw to land wetly on his drenched jacket. His arm is freezing under Dean's warm, dry hand as he slides his fingers up to intertwine with Sam's on the grip of the gun. "But he was-they were-" Sam starts.
Dean lifts the gun away from him gently, and as soon as he has it tucked away in his jeans, there's the loud clunking of Adam, Richard, and Derek falling over themselves to get out of the room. "Sammy," Dean breathes, and cups Sam's cold face in his palms. "I just wanted to make some cash for us."
"By doing-whatever the fuck this is that you're doing? Are you brain-damaged, Dean? Why the hell would you think-" Sam's sniffs dramatically, nose runny from the cold, eyes wide, and Dean can't tell if he's more angry or terrified.
"It's just some quick cash," Dean says, letting go and stepping back gingerly. "Wanted you to have some heat. Some shoes, you know. Stuff normal kids have. Not a big deal."
"You're selling yourself to buy me shit, Dean. That is a fucking big deal!" Sam's voice cracks and pitches high. Dean's never seen him this upset-not ever. Not even the time Sam had to stitch him back together and beg him not to die. "I don't even know where to start with how fucked up this is. With how much I don't want-this isn't what I want-"
He's blushing bright red, even though his skin is still cold, and Dean's pretty sure there are real tears mixed in with the icy rainwater on Sam's cheeks. He reaches up to brush away the wet with his thumbs before his really thinks it through, and when Sam's eyes flutter closed, Dean's breath catches hard in his throat.
"Sammy, I'm-I just wanted-" The words won't come to him. Can't come to him, he's pretty sure. But Sam just leans his face into Dean's hands, his harsh breaths blowing over Dean's wrists, the hot, damp air bringing goosebumps to Dean's skin.
"It was just for the money?" Sam whispers. He's even shaking now; it could be the cold. Sam has goosebumps, too.
"At-at first," Dean says. There are heavy footsteps in the hall outside the door. "Shit, Sam, please. We'll talk, I promise, but we gotta-"
"Yeah," Sam says, looking up with red eyes. He clutches at Dean's hand, though, and doesn't let go. Not even when they're scrambling down the icy fire escape, rain soaking Dean down to his very bones. He's carrying his shirt and his coat, no time for anything else. His skin feels burnt, it's so cold.
They leap into the car and pull out with a ripping screech of tires. Dean doesn't know where he's going, but he just keeps driving until he doesn't recognize anything, until he's tucked back into Franklin Park, nothing but green trees and grey sheets of freezing rain on all sides.
Sam is staring at him like he doesn't even know him. Like he doesn't recognize the Dean looking back. Dean checks him, head to toe, for any injuries sustained in their escape. He doesn't see anything but the obvious bulge of Sam's dick, pressing hard at the heavy, wet fly of his jeans. "I'm sorry," Dean says, because there's nothing else to say. He's freezing and hot all over at the same time, and he can't take his eyes off his little brother's hard cock. They're so fucked, there's no word for it.
"Did-" Sam says, trembling all over. The heat is blasting, but Dean pulls him in anyway, leaning against the door and tucking Sam to his bare chest. Sam comes willingly, easily, and that's better than Dean could have hoped for. "Did they fuck you?" he manages after a moment. It's mostly muffled in Dean's armpit.
"No," he says, mostly into Sam's dripping-wet hair.
That seems to be the most talking either of them are capable of. The words just dry up on Dean's tongue like they always do, especially whenever Sam looks at him like that. Whenever he wants most to be able to tell Sam exactly what he is for Dean. Everything, he would say. This is enough. Their dad will come home whenever he comes home, leave again just as fast. But the two of them-
Sam presses up and kisses Dean with cold, wet lips, tasting like nothing more than water and tongue and Sam. It's perfect, even though Dean's jeans are chafing him and his eyelashes are clumping together. Sam folded up against his chest, his arms wrapping around Dean's neck to pull him down-it's incongruous sweetness in the middle of something foul and bitter.
Sam sighs into Dean, his lips soft as he parts them, kissing gently around Dean's mouth, then lightly at the corner. He opens a little more and kisses Dean's bottom lip, taking it between his for a brief moment, and Dean reflexively pulls him closer, clutches him tighter.
Sam climbs up onto his knees, pushing Dean back against the driver's door, the back of his head pressed to the cold glass of the window. Dean looks up to meet Sam's eyes, dark and possessive and clearly saying what neither of them could say just seconds ago. Sam cups Dean's face in his hands and kisses him again, deeper this time, longer, his tongue tasting just right. The deafening sound of the rain pattering on the roof of the car fades under Sam's breath, the soft, gentle, wet sounds of their lips and tongues and teeth. Sam's hands trace up Dean's shivery stomach, the broad planes of his chest, and he straddles Dean's lap, knees about to slip off the front seat.
"So glad they didn't," Sam whispers against Dean's ear, half a kiss. He circles his thumbs around Dean's nipples, scrapes them gently with his nails, and holds Dean down when he tries to sit up. "No, no-Dean, you have to let-I need to have-" He kisses harder, rougher, nipping and shoving at Dean with his big hands, touching every part of him he can reach, the water that drips off them conducting everything faster, magnifying it, making it that much more.
Sam leaves warm trails in the wake of his perfect, long fingers, and Dean relaxes when Sam gathers him up, smoothing down his back. The grip of his gun is sticking out of the back of his jeans, still, and Sam grabs it with a slow, careful movement, pulling it out slow inch by inch.
"I thought you might actually-you know," Dean says, barely audible even to himself. Sam nods.
"I thought I would, too. I can't even-the things I thought when I saw them-"
"Don't," Dean starts, but Sam's adjusted his grip on the gun, and it's pointing at Dean now, muzzle right to his heart. He's already pound-nails hard, and only gets harder at the feel of cold metal against his chest.
Sam's not shaking at all anymore. "If they'd hurt you. If I'd seen them touch you-like that. I would've, Dean. Don't you fucking dare think for a second that I'd let anyone do-that. Do anything to you. I don't fucking care if you-if you-" He squeezes his eyes shut, resting his head against Dean's chest, just above the barrel of the gun. His face is warm, now. "I would've. I still want to."
The safety is on, and there's no one in the world Dean will ever trust the way he trusts Sam. He takes deep breaths and calms himself down as Sam trails the freezing metal over Dean's nipples, teasing at them with the hard edge of the muzzle. Dean takes hitching breaths, and his eyes roll back in his head, the cold and the tingling pain and the sick thrill of it buzzing through him like nothing he's ever felt.
Sam takes it down, pressing the barrel into the grooves of Dean's stomach, ever so softly, then down to the dips of muscles from his hips to under the waistband of his jeans. Sam flicks the button open and the fly down with one hand, and Dean gasps when his hard cock springs free. He's not wearing underwear-didn't, after the first time. No point.
Sam swallows with a dry click. "Fuck, Dean," he says, and trails the gun lower, brushing coarse curls and sliding along the thick, desperate length of Dean's dick.
He drops it with a thunk into the footwell after that, and yanks off Dean's boots and jeans with single-minded efficiency. Dean's cold hands fumble with Sam's clothes, but together they both end up naked, warmer in the blasting heat from the vents without their wet clothes than with.
Sam pushes Dean's feet back on the seat, holding them so they don't slide in the puddles of rainwater left on the leather. Dean's spread open and exposed in this position, and his face burns as Sam stares at every inch of him, touching everything. Dean feels owned, in the good way, the way where he's loved and wanted and good enough. It's like the tingling thrill of being watched, of making the movies and knowing where they'd end up, except ten million times better. Ten million times hotter, because it's just Sam. His face, and his eyes, and his hair, and his hands. Sam will be the only one who knows this, who sees it. It's just theirs.
Dean lets himself look, too. Sam is filled out, all lean muscle, browned and so big, so tall and shaped just right. Broad shoulders that will only get broader, perfect, tight little waist, gorgeous, pert ass. His legs and neck stretch out graceful for miles, his soft pink lips everything Dean's been dreaming about for weeks-almost everything.
Sam's cock is perfect. Glistening wet with rain and heavy, slick strings of drooling precome, it stands out from his body, fat and hard and bobbing under its own weight. It curves upwards just a little, veins just as thick as any of the best dicks in any porn. The head is smooth and blunt and dripping from the slit, and Dean's mouth waters desperately when he thinks of sucking it. It would taste sharp and musky with precome, but clean and cold with rain, and he'd bury his nose in Sam's skin when he'd swallowed the whole thing down and just breathe nothing but him forever.
But Sam just leans forward, kissing Dean soundly, running his hands up Dean's shoulders to brush softly at the sides of his neck. "Wanna fuck you, Dean," Sam says, and Dean shudders involuntarily, a delicious shake starting at the nape of his neck and ending way down at his tailbone.
"Please, please," Dean says, gritting it out through his teeth as Sam wraps a hand around his aching cock. He feels his pulse in Sam's hand. "It was all I thought about, Sammy, when I-when I jerked off for them. When I-when I fucked that guy. Was all you, I swear, god-came home and did it again. Touched myself-unf-" Sam twists his hand at the head, thumbing over Dean's slit, and rubs at his balls, milking out thick blurts of precome. "Touched myself and thought about you all the time. What you'd look like-watching it. What you'd look like-doing what I did."
Sam shuts him up with a searing kiss, sliding the hand on Dean's balls back to his hole, pressing at it, rubbing at it, just like Dean did to himself only better-so much better. There's a goopy-cold sensation, then, and Dean groans hard when Sam's finger slips in all the way. "It was in your jeans," Sam murmurs, and works his finger, curling it up, pressing it back, rubbing and massaging until Dean convulses and arches up and moans.
"Shit, yes-theretherethere please, oh fuck, Sammy." He humps back against Sam's finger and stretches wider, hooking one leg up onto the dashboard to open himself up, to feel that satisfying burn. Sam gets it and works in another finger, pushing slow past the tightness and working over and over with the tips of his fingers and his knuckles at that perfect, perfect spot.
"Never knew it could be that good," Sam murmurs, and Dean can't ask about it now, doesn't want to know if Sam's done this before, or something like it. He presses a third finger in, and Dean grips onto the door with both hands to keep himself from jerking his cock hard and fast and just getting it done.
"Fuck me, please, please please fuck me, Sammy," he moans. "Gotta come on your cock. Want to so bad, c'mon c'mon c'mon c'mon get it in me, fuck, please. I'll be so good I swear, fuck fuck fuck-"
And finally, Sam grabs himself with one hand and starts pushing in. He feels enormous, like he'll never fit, the head of his cock pushing blunt at Dean's slicked hole. He finally works Dean open around it, pushing in so, so slow-it's agonizing. "Gotta go slow," Sam says, and it sounds like he's in pain. He's prying Dean open, it feels like-splitting him wide and stuffing him up so full Dean doesn't know if he can even take it. He wants it, wants it so bad, but it's like there won't be any space left in him after this, after he's so full up with Sam there's no room left for him.
It's the best thing he's ever felt in his whole life.
Until Sam really starts to move. He starts off slow, still, but pushing in and pulling out a little bit at a time. He whines, desperate and needy, and starts pumping a little faster, and Dean sucks in choking breath after choking breath as Sam's fucking enormous dick starts working him, hitting him just right and holding him open, shoved in high and tight, all up inside him, then pulling out so fast he hardly has time to miss it before he's full again.
He's making the stupidest sounds known to man; he can hear himself. Hitching, sobbing breaths, stupid grunts punching out of him when Sam rams the fat head of his cock deeper in him, shaking, wavering moans when Sam starts thrusting in earnest, fast and hard, just fucking jackhammering into Dean like only a franticly horny seventeen-year-old could manage.
It's all happening too fast, and Dean tries to reach down to pinch hard around the base of his cock to stave it off, but Sam catches his hand hard and shoves it back up to the door, holding Dean down hard like it's nothing. He presses his face right where it fits in the curve of Dean's neck, kissing and licking there, whispering words into Dean's shoulder. "Not yet, not yet," Sam says. "Do it together, have to do it together, just a-fuck-" and he sobs, wrapping his other hand around Dean's hips, fingers spread to cover Dean's lower back. Sam rears back and pulls Dean with him, supporting him, and Dean slides hard down, jammed down onto Sam's cock, feeling it shove deeper into him than anything he's ever felt, so fucking huge and swelling bigger as Sam pulls Dean's thighs farther apart, pumping up into him.
Dean can't hold it anymore, tears running down his face as he cries out, "Sammy," and comes spectacularly, more than he ever thought he was capable of. He shoots copiously all over Sam's chest, his face, his arms, thick, clinging white stripes of jizz, dripping in wads down Sam's perfect skin. But Dean just can't stop, and Sam moans a broken, sobbing sort of moan, and Dean feels Sam's thudding heartbeat in his cock, impossibly hard, impossibly big as Sam comes, his whole body tight and shaking against Dean.
Dean can't help clenching around Sam's dick, still twitching and shooting and filling him up even as Dean rocks with aftershocks, wrapping his arms around Sam's chest, pressing his face into Sam's shoulder. Sam's babbling some, just whispers against Dean's hair, lips tickling at his scalp as he thrusts through the last of his orgasm. He pulls out as he starts to soften, and Dean still feels wet and sloppy and full, squeezing tight against losing Sam's huge load in his ass. He doesn't say anything, just lets Sam lay him back down on the seat, kiss him full and deep, sucking the taste of sweat and tears from his lips.
"Relax," Sam says, voice gravel-rough. "Wanna see it."
Dean blushes deep, face burning up in the burgeoning warmth of the car, and relaxes. Can't not, when Sam says it. Demands it like that. The thick, dripping jizz trickles out of him and down the crack of his ass, down the crease at the top of his thigh. He feels dirty and messy and used, but all for Sam. Sam trails his fingers through the nasty mess, rubbing it in, pushing it back into Dean's raw-red hole, just playing with it. Fascinated.
Dean watches for a while, embarrassed, still stupidly turned on. But soon he lets his eyes drift closed, lets Sam touch him and rub him all over. He falls asleep warm, but still wet, the sensation of Sam pulling him close and wrapping around him lulling him into sweet dreams of Boston in the summer.
*
He wakes up under a blanket, Sam squeezing his shoulder. "Dean," Sam says, shaking him a little. "Wake up-gotta get inside."
It's biting cold again outside the car, especially since Dean's not wearing anything but a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He can't feel his feet on the concrete of the breezeway, but Sam is propping him up, and they both make it up to the apartment without getting hypothermia.
"You drove us back?"
"Well, I didn't want the cops to find us-like that. In the park."
"You always did have a good head on your shoulders," Dean says, smiling tentatively at Sam. This could be bad. This could be very, very bad. Or it could be unbelievably amazing.
"I learned from the best," Sam says, smiling back. He takes Dean's hand and tugs him back to the bedrooms. "How do we pick which one?"
"Which one what?" Dean says, looking at the doors to their rooms.
"Which one to sleep in. And to try out how good my head is," Sam says, pulling Dean's blanket off and throwing it back down the hall. Dean makes an abortive move to cover himself up, but stops with a wry shake of his head.
"Mine," Dean says. He's got a better view of the river, and he wants to kiss Sam in front of the window, both of them wrapped up in Dean's blanket, the whole city stretching out below them, folded in soft grey fog.
Author: balefully
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 8,750
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean are sadly not mine.
Warnings: Sam is 17. There's also some gunplay.
Summary: Sam and Dean live in an apartment in Boston while John is away on a hunt. Money is scarce, so Dean picks up a particularly slutty part-time job. Sam finds out.
Notes: For fluffyllama as part of spn_j2_xmas. I used two of your prompts, the sense-of-place one and the sort-of-hooker!Dean one. PLUS I tried to work in some of your likes, like possessiveness/obsessiveness, wet boys, gunporn, and carporn. I am SO SORRY this is late, OMFG. :( I hope it is at least not awful. Just so you know, though, this is a second attempt at your gift. My first attempt ended up being soooo huge I couldn't even get it properly started by the deadline. It's becoming my Big Bang, though, so. :D You'll get it eventually. Also, title from a quote by Raymond Chandler, and huge thanks to rivers_bend for the read-through!
God Made Boston On A Wet Sunday
They live in an apartment this time, sparsely furnished and molding in the corners where the plaster is cracked and damp. The river rolls by outside their fourth-story walk-up, steel grey and dotted with swift handfuls of brightly colored sculls and skinny white college guys. Dean turns his head into his collar, breathing open-mouthed on the rubbed-smooth leather to warm it. In one hand, he's got a bag full of food just hitting its expiration date, seventy percent off from the C Mart on Commonwealth. In the other, he's got a bottle of Canadian Crest, cheap as dirt and no better tasting. Boston pinches him with slush and freezing rain, so he self-medicates; it's just cause and effect.
"Don't let Dad find that," Sam says, wary, when Dean lets himself in with a flood of cold air and the clinging smell of the Charles. The path through the den to the kitchen is threadbare on the faded brown carpet; Dean thunks the bags down on the counter with a sigh.
"Find what? The boxes of cereal that go bad as of today?" he says with a dumb, mocking tone. "Wouldn't dream of it, Sammy. We all know how riled up Dad gets about freshness." Sarcasm comes easiest when he's wet and cranky.
Sam just frowns, turning back to his textbook. It's falling apart, cracked and taped and glued all along the spine; Sam wouldn't stop pissing and moaning last week when his reading assignment from it included the "current" goings on in East and West Germany. God bless Boston Public. "You know I mean the whiskey."
"I'm twenty-one," Dean says. "What's he gonna do?"
"Drink it all," says Sam, and Dean's chest clenches tight. Sam voice sounds so flat, so resigned. "How much did it cost?"
"He's not gonna be back for a while yet. And anyway, you're not supposed to worry about stuff like that," Dean says, putting the rest of their meager groceries away. "That's my job when Dad's not here."
"It's your job when he is here," Sam mutters. "Not like he ever is."
"Shut up, man," Dean says, exasperated. "We do the best we can, okay?" But the guilt's already taking hold.
"You do the best you can." Sam's smiling a little this time, though-barely. A sweet hint of his dimples shows in the yellow pall of the garage-sale lamp on the end table.
Dean just huffs and pulls off his jacket, then his boots, leaving them all in a slick pile by the kitchen table. Sam watches him, book sliding off his lap, forgotten. "You got that space heater cranked all the way up, huh?" Dean asks, and sits on the couch next to him. Sam's warm and smells incongruously of mothballs, like some stuffy university instead of the shithole high school that wastes his time every day.
"I knew you'd be coming back soon, and that you'd be pissy and cold. So, you know. Always be prepared."
"What a Boy Scout," Dean says, and catches Sam in a headlock. Sam comes too easy, though; he was expecting it, and clearly let Dean grab him.
"Dean, what the hell?" he whines, putting up a token protest. Dean relaxes his grip, but keeps Sam pressed close with his arm around his neck. Sam's sweater is soft under his hands, and Sam's chest hard beneath that.
"Nothing. You're just a geek. Couldn't help myself." He can't keep the fondness from his voice, either. Sam laughs quietly through his nose, hardly more than breath, face pressed into the worn-fuzzy folds of Dean's thermal Henley right above his armpit. It tickles, and Dean snorts, warming up from the inside out.
*
Longfellow Bridge shudders and rumbles with traffic, Boston nothing but a thick curtain of dank grey clouds in Dean's rearview mirror as he heads across the river towards Cambridge.
He follows the rails, passing the half-finished Dr. Seussian insanity of the Stata Center and the huge, gridlocked monolith of Simmons Hall. MIT loves its warped architecture, and Dean loves MIT, if only because it gets him Dr. Claude Swanson, the physicist trying to prove the existence of paranormal phenomena.
The man's probably crazy, but he can provide Dad with eighty-seven hanging file folders of case research and some sort of cross-spectrum multivariate statistical analysis or whatever-the-fuck. In the end, anything that cuts down on library time is a-okay.
Sheets of rain roll off the walls of glass windows in Building 6, heavy sluicing over the stretch of skylights. Dean's steps echo on the stairs, and there's no one in Dr. Swanson's office but a harried physics nerd hardly older than Sam scribbling on the whiteboard.
"Sorry," Dean mumbles, but the guy doesn't even look up, much less offer to help out.
It's that kind of day.
Sam's at school and Dean can't stand sitting in the apartment alone, so he gets back in the car and backs out of the faculty spot he nabbed to go cruise around the universities; there's always a wide variety of bars in college towns, and Boston is nothing if not the world's biggest college town.
Central Square bursts with so much color, it's visible through the wash-out mask of rain: splashes of graffiti, rich red brick, and the pastel-striped tower of an old Necco factory. People mill around in bright raincoats-students, probably, or just the kind of people who like to soak up the edge of a place like this in the middle of the day.
The Cantab Lounge is rough around the edges, dark and thick with smoke. A handful of guys suck down beers at the bar, down on their luck and their hygiene. It's perfect. Dean eyes the pool table in the corner and orders an Old Fashioned with rye whiskey, just for the hell of it.
He knocks it back, follows it up with two fingers of Jameson, and then decides it's time to try his luck.
Playing himself isn't really any fun, but after about fifteen minutes of dicking around, an older guy in a sweater vest comes into the bar and takes a seat. He starts out drinking a beer, and Dean keeps an eye on him for a while, during which he switches to scotch.
"Hey," the guy says, sidling over to the pool table. "You're pretty good."
"Yeah," Dean says, straightening from his shot. He's anticipating an awesome hustle. Rich, cocky, over-educated jerks are always the fastest to fold, especially when he plays them just right. "Had my hands on a lot of cues in my time. Wanna play?"
The guy smirks and shakes his wet hair, probably red and wavy when it's not the mud-dark of rain. "Sure, maybe sometime," he says, and leans his hip against the table. "But first," he gazes around at the rest of the bar, talking without meeting Dean's eyes, "I have a proposition for you."
"Oh, do you?" Dean sets the cue down, crossing his arms.
"You got quite a face, man. Anyone ever tell you that?" One of his eyebrows raises in a neat sneer, and Dean knows exactly where this is going. "You could model. I know about this stuff. You could really get some good cash."
Dean's stomach sinks hard, and he rubs at the back of his neck. Sam, wrapped in blankets on the couch after school because he doesn't want to use up the electricity. Sam, picking through the dented cans on the clearance shelf at the market. Sam, playing soccer with fourth-hand equipment on loan from the school. "Yeah, I heard somethin' like that before. Never really panned out, though, you know?" There's no going back, now.
"You just didn't hook up with the right-agency," the guys says, emphasizing the word by slowing down, drawing it out. "I'm Richard, and I think I'm your new agent." He sounds like a complete tool.
"I'm-Dean." He hesitates, not sure which fake name to use, before deciding not to bother. "So where is this agency, exactly?" Dean asks, weighing options.
"Couple blocks," Richard says. There's a glint of hunger in his eyes, and Dean tries not to have second thoughts.
"And what kind of-compensation we talking about?" Hopefully next time, he and Sam will be able to eat their loaf of Wonderbread before its sell-by date. He tamps down on his nerves, relaxing and opening his shoulders so Richard can get a better look at the merchandise.
"Three hundred," Richard says, giving Dean an unmistakable once-over. It's a lot of money; Sam could buy new shoes and have enough leftover to take the SATs.
"Well, I got time right now, man," Dean says, sliding his hands in his pockets and pulling his jeans tight across the slight bulge of his cock. "You wanna give me the tour? Sign me up?"
"You bet," Richard says, and smacks Dean unceremoniously on the ass.
*
The room they end up in is about the size of any hotel room Dean's ever been in. Outside, there's the metallic drip of rain overflowing the gutters, pattering onto the fire escape. He was expecting seedy, run-down, dark and maybe dangerous. It's really just tacky. Cheap décor, cheap rented space, crude but well-lit. The fluorescent lights give everyone a sickly blue tint, but so far all the people he's seen have looked pretty professional. And/or pretty naked.
"So this is where we'll do your screen test, Dean," Richard says, keeping up the stupid game of make-believe. "We want to see how you'll look on film before we book you any jobs."
"Right." Dean clears his throat. "How do you want-what should I do, here?" He plays it cool, but his blood is pumping hard and his face heats under the gaze of the big, bald guy in the back corner of the room. Dean's arm hair is standing up on end, and the clammy rub of a cold sweat is starting in the dips under his pecs.
He's getting hard, too. These guys are going to pay him money to get naked, to jerk off. Possibly to fuck someone. They're gonna watch, and they're probably gonna get hard, and Dean is going to be showing off for them like he wants it. Like he's the hottest fucking thing they're ever gonna see. They'll tape it, and he'll be there forever, sweating and panting and grunting and giving it to someone-some guy. Nameless, faceless masses of people will see it. Will see him. Will jack it to the sounds of him moaning.
And Sam will never know.
Dean will have it inside him forever; thousands of people will have it inside them forever, this part of him. And Sam will never, ever know.
"Kneel on the bed," says the bald guy as he sets up a camera, and Richard winks, backing towards the door.
"This is Derek, by the way. Don't be nervous-you'll do great. Just relax. Smile pretty for the camera. Look beautiful." He grins, and Dean shivers a little bit. He hasn't had to sign anything. They didn't ask him how old he is. Those seem like important things, especially if he's going to get paid.
"When do I get my money?" he asks, wary.
"Ah," Richard says, and sighs like he was hoping Dean would forget that part. "How about half now, half later?" He holds out a crumpled, dirty wad of cash, and Dean grabs it like starving man handed a scrap of bread. He can tell without counting that it's exactly a hundred and fifty bucks.
"That'll work." He shoves it into his pocket before he knees up onto the bed, his back to the camera. Looking over his shoulder, he tries on an awkward pout, a sort of seductive little smirk. "This is my best side, you know."
"Oh, we know," Richard mutters, leering. He leaves with a nod to Derek the camera guy and the door shuts with a hollow click.
"Go ahead," Derek says. "Show us what you got."
Dean bites at his lips, trying to settle himself in his skin, in his clothes, in the room. The mattress is extra soft, saggy in the middle, and he wobbles on his knees while he gets his bearings. "Slow?" he asks, mostly just trying to buy time.
"However you want." Something clicks, and Dean sets his shoulders. "What's your name?" Derek asks, voice totally innocuous, like it's just a random conversation.
Dean turns around with a shy grin, pushing his dad's leather jacket down his arms. "Dean," he says without thinking. He should've picked a different name, but it's too late now.
"How old're you, Dean?"
He tosses the jacket onto the floor, then starts rubbing his hands down his long-sleeved shirt, slipping the tips of his fingers under his hem. "Twenty-one," he says. Might as well go with the whole truth and nothing but.
"You're really hot, Dean," Derek says. He might as well be telling Dean the weather forecast.
"Thanks." There isn't much to say to that, so he pulls the soft shirt over his head in one long, slow move. He shifts and turns to show his muscles, his skin smooth but for the handful of scars that always make girls wet. Bad boy, they say. Clumsy, Sam says instead. And Sam is the one who had to bandage up every one of those scars. Sam is the one who shook and cried when Dean stumbled in the door bleeding, who ran past Dad to wrap Dean up in his arms and make him promise not to die.
Dean lets out a short huff as the cool air in the room twists at his nipples, and he tries not to think about the smell of his own blood smearing with Sam's tears while he trails his hand down to his waistband, following the shallow grooves of muscle.
Derek lets out a bored sort of, "Yeah, just like that," and gives the universal jerking off signal.
Dean blocks him out, squeezing his eyes shut against the stippled yellow of the ceiling and the splashy blue painting over the headboard. He concentrates on the thrum of his own skin, on the prickly feeling of eyes on him. It thrills along his spine and makes him pull back his shoulder blades, finally getting his fly open and working his hand down the front of his jeans.
His dick is half-hard, so he works his fingers for a while, rubbing and thumbing and getting himself going. He thinks about porn, mostly, about the girls with the huge tits and the spread-open pussies, about the guys with the oiled chests and the thick, veiny cocks.
"Take off your jeans."
They slide easily down his thighs and he manages to shift on the bed without toppling over, kicking them off. Dean's still got his eyes closed and his dick is rubbing at the worn cotton of his briefs, harder and more insistent now. He sucks at his bottom lip and makes a little grunting noise, half on-purpose and half because his hand just feels really fucking good right now when he squeezes the head of his cock through the cotton.
"Take 'em off," Derek says, and Dean is glad to oblige. His cock is flushed purple-red, bobbing against his thigh before he takes it in his hand. He smooths his thumb over his faint circumcision scar, running it over and over the thin, warm skin. Little breathy gasps punctuate each pass of his fingers, and his mouth falls open, thrilling tingles and shivers running up and down his legs.
Sam doesn't have a circumcision scar; Sam has a foreskin. Dean's seen it before, briefly, the result of close quarters and necessary immodesty. It clung soft and smooth to Sam's dick, and Dean can't help wonder what it would feel like to touch. What it would be like, slipping under his hands as he pulled and worked it up over the fat head, down the thick shaft, sliding against the sensitive skin of Sam's-
Dean groans high in the back of his throat and spreads his knees wider, skidding on the comforter, muscles burning along the insides of his thighs. He gets a better grip on his cock and jacks fast and hard, thinking of Sam doing the same in the shower, under the hot spray, soaked and dripping and whimpering.
Precome oozes out of his slit, over his fingers, glazing his dick with wet, smearing slickness. Dean hums and pumps into his fist, the muscles of his ass flexing as he imagines Sam's body, tight and tanned and writhing above him.
He switches hands, sliding his coated fingers between his thighs, rubbing his knuckles up against smooth skin, massaging so deep, so good. Pitching forward, he spreads even wider, loving the stretch and ache in his groin. He works his fingers back to his hole, rubbing over it, then shallowly inside it, the way smoothed with warm precome.
Derek's saying something, but Dean doesn't pay attention. He'd beg to get fucked this very second, if he weren't alone on the bed. He'd be crying for it; there isn't anything he could possibly want more right now than a big fat dick shoving at his hole, prying him open and forcing up inside him, high and hard and fucking huge. He tries not to dwell on Sam's face, on the phantom feel of Sam's body-that was just a fluke; people think of fucked up shit when they jerk of all the time. It lingers, though, and there's nothing to stop him wishing for Sam's big hands to cup his hips, Sam's hard chest pressed flat against his back, his smell and his voice and the feel of him pressing Dean down and filling him up.
Dean presses a finger into his asshole with a gasping sigh, crooking it and curling it over and over until his legs are shaking underneath him and he can barely hold himself up anymore. He rocks back onto it, and moves his other hand from his straining, dripping dick to cup his balls, pulling at them and rolling them and rubbing at them until he can't stand it.
He works the finger in his ass furiously, as fast as he can, and starts jacking his cock in earnest, squelching noises from the dripping mess he's making echoing in his ears. He's close-so close, and he's thinking of Sam in the shower again, doing the same thing, hands on his cock, up his ass, imagining Dean, wishing he were fucking Dean so hard.
He comes like that, Sam's body and voice burned in so he won't be able to stop thinking about it, maybe ever. It's a roaring rush through him, hooks grabbing something deep in him and tearing it out in a spinning wave of relief and white noise, thick ropes of come shooting up his chest, hitting his chin and clinging in white, globby drops.
Dean pants hard, riding it out, eyes barely open as his chest heaves and his fingers shake. The adrenaline is still pumping, the camera still running. He can see Derek, rock-hard in his pants, dick obscenely obvious, and his own spent cock gives a twitch.
"Wow," Derek breathes. "You're a real shooter."
Dean nods, rubbing through the mess he left all over himself, spreading it across his chest, rubbing it in, pretending his hands are Sam's. He sits back on his heels and lets his eyes slip shut again, bringing his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean one by one. It's the camera pointed at him-the tingling thrill of it, of people seeing him doing this.
After his hands are clean, he rolls the taste of his own jizz around on his tongue, pushing away what he wishes he could do with it now. Who he wishes he could kiss, deep and dirty and mixed with the bitter slide of come on their tongues.
"Perfect. Shit, man," Derek says, and the soft beep and click of the camera being turned off punctuates his low groan. "That was so fuckin' hot." He pulls a fold of bills out of his pocket and hands them to Dean, palm lingering against Dean's sticky, saliva-covered fingers.
Dean holds the money, clenches his fist over it and stares for a second, trying to get his brain to kick back into gear. He isn't wearing pants, so he can't put it in his pocket-after a minute, though, he starts coming back from the muzzy afterglow and pulls on his underwear and his jeans, and stuffs the money with the other hundred and fifty already in there.
He's a little weirded out that there isn't anything else-that was it, just a solo jerk-off. "I'm done?" he asks, skeptical.
"Just need a phone number, but other than that, yup, that's it," Derek says, checking something on the camera. "More than enough, if you ask me." He smacks Dean on the bare shoulder, smiling. "Next time you should ask for more, man."
Dean nods absently, scribbling their current number on the piece of paper Derek gives him. Then he pulls on his shirt over the cooling mess on his chest, and makes his way towards the door. "Should I-let myself out?" Derek just waves him off, so Dean leaves and picks his way through the bland, fluorescent-lit halls without a backwards glance.
He's still a little edgy and hyped-up, unsure of where he should go or what he should do when he's back out on the street in front of the-offices. The cold, damp air wraps around him and he wants nothing more than a good hard fuck. They didn't make him fuck anyone, and now that's all he can think about. He's got all this energy, all this careless jumpiness from what he's just done, and nowhere to put it.
He trudges back to his car and drives home, blasting Metallica and tapping his hands incessantly on the wheel. It's after four now, and Sam will be home from school. It's like his body is drawing Dean in; his skin itches for Sam.
Sam is stretched out on the floor of the den when Dean comes in, his soft curls of hair spread in a halo around his head on the worn carpet, the TV left on mute. His sweater is rucked up around his waist, the shadow of his bellybutton just visible above the snug waist of his jeans. His toes are curled and bent where he feet dig awkwardly into the carpet, and his mouth is open on a quiet, breathy sort of snore. He's dead asleep, sweet-skinned and relaxed in the warm glow of the TV.
Dean drops back against the closed front door, pressing his lips together tight and staring at his shoes. He can't pretend the thoughts he had aren't still there. That he's not having them again, seeing Sam here like this. That they haven't been there for a long time now, masquerading as meaningless. He's already getting hard just remembering, even though he came like a geyser less than an hour ago. The money in his pocket crinkles tellingly as his dick tents out his fly.
He goes up to his room to jerk off again, quick and dry and rote, this time. Not thinking of anything at all.
*
It's a week before the phone rings. Dean scrambles to grab it while Sam fabricates some Egg McMuffins out of semi-burned fried eggs with broken yolks, slices of American cheese straight out of the clear plastic singles-wraps, and a couple strips of floppy, microwaved bacon all toasted between two halves of an English muffin.
"Hello?" Dean says, still smiling at Sam's irresistible grumpy face. He's hoping it might be Dad, and Sam asked him for help with school stuff, and they're going for a drive later to hang out at Fenway just because they can.
"Hey, Dean," someone says in a weird, fakey sort of voice.
"Who's this?"
"Richard, man! Richard. Of course. Didn't think we'd just let you get away that easy, huh?" he says, laughing overloud.
"Right," Dean says, eyeing Sam. Sam's eyeing him right back, ignoring the steady drip of melted cheese from the sandwich in his hands in favor of listening in. "You, uh-" Dean tries to think fast. "You got somethin' needs doing?"
Richard laughs again. "Someone, Dean. Can you come in tomorrow at about two? We'll pay you double."
"Sure," Dean says. Derek's voice comes back to him when Sam gives up, reaching for another slice of cheese. There aren't any left, and he huffs in frustration. "How about more, though?"
Richard clears his throat awkwardly. "Okay, let's say a thousand, and you bring your own condoms and lube."
Dean swallows thickly, but he says, "Sure, yeah. It's a deal," and hangs up.
Sam takes a little nibble of his McMuffin, and hands Dean's to him. "What's that all about?" He's got the worried crinkle between his eyes, and Dean can't fucking lie to that.
"Just working a job, Sammy," he says, sighing. "Trying to snag us a little cash to keep you from eating us out of house and home."
Sam rolls his eyes, but leans against the counter next to Dean, sliding their shoulders together. He doesn't move away until they're both done eating, and Dean isn't sure if he's glad or miserable when he does.
*
He fucks a dude named Julian, which Dean would bet his entire "salary" isn't the man's real name. He's pretty hot, kind of on the skinny side, with lots of thick, wavy brown hair and long fingers. His ass isn't as good as-some people's, though. Not that Dean's comparing him to anyone. Nevertheless, he comes hard and long after he snaps off the condom, pumping out over Julian's ass, painting him with spunk, and Julian shoots respectably on the bedcovers, gripping the headboard until his knuckles turn white, moaning Dean's name.
His jeans are on the floor where he ditched them, the pocket bulging with the money he shoved in there earlier. A different guy is filming them, now, not Derek, but he still offers just enough narration to remind Dean that he's there, that Dean is being watched. Mostly, Dean just thinks of that wad of cash, and how he and Sam can pay the gas bill and turn on the heat for real, now.
When he gets home, he goes to watch Sam play soccer, and after they down a couple beers to celebrate, he walks them back to the apartment with his arm slung tight around Sam's waist. Sam's head fits just right in the crook of his neck and shoulder, and that's the thought that gets him hard at night as he listens to Sam toss and turn on the other side of the wall. He can't help wondering if Sam's thinking what he's thinking, or if maybe Sam figured out where he'd been today. What he'd been doing.
Dean imagines Sam finding one of the movies he's been in. One of his tapes. Seeing the cover and blushing with shame, but putting it in and watching it anyway. Watching Dean pull that random guy up onto all fours and spread his legs apart as far as they'll go, pound into him so hard he gets pushed up the bed, hands pressed to the wall. Dean imagines Sam coming hard over his own fist, watching Dean fucking in one of his pornos, knowing he got paid to do it, that countless people have seen it and loved it and jizzed all over themselves because of it. That's what gets Dean off, sending him into a shallow, dreamless sleep.
*
It's only a couple days, this time. Sam and Dean are slumped in a pile on the couch, Sam reading a novel from the library and Dean reading a stolen copy of Maxim, his hand curled loose around the nape of Sam's neck, Sam's head resting on his thigh. The phone on the end table rings right next to Sam's head, shattering the comfortable silence, and Dean answers gruffly when he picks up.
"What?" he huffs.
"Hey, Dean," Richard says, some sort of loud conversation going on in the background. "We need you to come in tomorrow at five, if that's okay." His tone doesn't brook argument.
"Um, okay," Dean says, "I guess that'll work."
"Don't guess, Dean-o. Be there. I'll pay you double last time, which is so much it's stupid. We just really like your face around here, you know."
"Oh I know just the face you like," Dean says, annoyed.
Sam turns over, peering up at Dean, clearly suspicious. What the hell? he mouths.
Dean shakes his head. "See you, then." He hangs up first; it's the only way he can get the last word.
Sam sits up, kicking his book to the floor. "What is going on, man? You join the mob and forget to tell me?"
"No," Dean says, punching Sam's shoulder as hard as he can. "Mind your own freakin' business."
"Since when are you not my business?" Sam clutches at his shoulder and grimaces a little, but other than that he just pretends Dean didn't give him a dead arm. Dean actually feels really shitty about it, and wishes he could take it back.
"Since I said so," he grumbles.
"Oh, wow, Dean. That one really hurt. That was harsh." He kicks Dean's shin really fucking hard, even though they're both sitting at weird angles, and Dean can't grab Sam's boot fast enough to catch him off-balance and yank him off the couch.
He tries anyway, and his hands are locked around Sam's calf, Sam struggling and twisting, when he grunts, "You're such a smart-ass. Can't you just-shit. Can't you just shut up and leave me alone?" His heart is hammering in his chest and the feel of Sam's muscles under his skin is making him itch, his mouth going dry. The thoughts come back to him full-force.
Sam stills suddenly, and Dean's petrified that he figured it out. That Dean popped wood right there on the couch and Sam saw and freaked. "Fine," Sam says, sullen and upset. "Never mind. Why should you tell me where you go or what you do? It's not like you're the only person in my entire life I care about, or anything like that. Fuck you, Dean." His voice is shaky and weird, and he stands and stomps out of the room without so much as a backward glance.
Dean sighs hopelessly, and clutches at a couch cushion, just to have something to squeeze the life out of. It kind of smells like Sam.
*
The next day, it's pouring again. The room they have him in is bigger and nicer than the jerk-off room or the room he used with Julian. This one's got two beds, for one thing, and new wallpaper, and the carpet's plush and unstained. There's a nice big picture window, though the view is primarily of the rusty black fire escape and the brick wall beyond it.
"Really went all-out for me this time, huh?" Dean says, sauntering in, his best I'm an old pro at this face on.
"Well, this'll be a special first for you," Richard says, coming in with Derek.
Dean blinks, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt. "-Oh?" It's pretty obvious what they mean, but he asks anyway.
"We're going to have Adam give you a nice hard fuck," Richard says. "You always did say this was your best side," he adds, smacking Dean heartily on the ass.
Dean tries not to bristle. "Of course," he says, smiling sharply. There's something-wrong, though. It just doesn't feel right, and he doesn't like the room, and he doesn't like how Richard is settling down in a chair in the corner. Like he's going to stay for a while.
Adam comes in next, huge and built, already shirtless and pinching at his own nipples. Dean tries to slide his hands into his pockets, but Adam pushes up into his space and grabs his arm instead, pulling him close, yanking his shirt off in one quick motion, and tipping his head back for a bruising kiss.
Before their lips can even touch, though, there's a crash from the fire escape. Dean starts and jumps back, knees bent and back straight, hand going for a gun that's not tucked in the waistband of his jeans. He left it in the car like an idiot, and he feels naked and unbalanced without it.
A soft thump follows the crash, and Dean would know that shadowy figure jimmying the lock anywhere.
Sam is soaked to the bone, clothes dripping in dark, spreading puddles on the nice carpet. He's heaving, eyes flashing in anger and confusion. "What the fuck are you doing to him?" he says, hoarse, clearly trying not to let his teeth chatter. He's strung tight, though, Dean's Colt in his hand, ready to attack-he must've picked the lock of the car door and swiped it. Dean would be proud if he weren't so piss-his-pants mortified.
"Nothing," Dean says, hurrying forward. "Shit, Sam, stop-they're not. It's not-" He lunges for the gun, and Sam twists away. Dean catches his shoulder, though, and shoves him back into the wall.
Sam's face is wet all over, drips falling from his sharp jaw to land wetly on his drenched jacket. His arm is freezing under Dean's warm, dry hand as he slides his fingers up to intertwine with Sam's on the grip of the gun. "But he was-they were-" Sam starts.
Dean lifts the gun away from him gently, and as soon as he has it tucked away in his jeans, there's the loud clunking of Adam, Richard, and Derek falling over themselves to get out of the room. "Sammy," Dean breathes, and cups Sam's cold face in his palms. "I just wanted to make some cash for us."
"By doing-whatever the fuck this is that you're doing? Are you brain-damaged, Dean? Why the hell would you think-" Sam's sniffs dramatically, nose runny from the cold, eyes wide, and Dean can't tell if he's more angry or terrified.
"It's just some quick cash," Dean says, letting go and stepping back gingerly. "Wanted you to have some heat. Some shoes, you know. Stuff normal kids have. Not a big deal."
"You're selling yourself to buy me shit, Dean. That is a fucking big deal!" Sam's voice cracks and pitches high. Dean's never seen him this upset-not ever. Not even the time Sam had to stitch him back together and beg him not to die. "I don't even know where to start with how fucked up this is. With how much I don't want-this isn't what I want-"
He's blushing bright red, even though his skin is still cold, and Dean's pretty sure there are real tears mixed in with the icy rainwater on Sam's cheeks. He reaches up to brush away the wet with his thumbs before his really thinks it through, and when Sam's eyes flutter closed, Dean's breath catches hard in his throat.
"Sammy, I'm-I just wanted-" The words won't come to him. Can't come to him, he's pretty sure. But Sam just leans his face into Dean's hands, his harsh breaths blowing over Dean's wrists, the hot, damp air bringing goosebumps to Dean's skin.
"It was just for the money?" Sam whispers. He's even shaking now; it could be the cold. Sam has goosebumps, too.
"At-at first," Dean says. There are heavy footsteps in the hall outside the door. "Shit, Sam, please. We'll talk, I promise, but we gotta-"
"Yeah," Sam says, looking up with red eyes. He clutches at Dean's hand, though, and doesn't let go. Not even when they're scrambling down the icy fire escape, rain soaking Dean down to his very bones. He's carrying his shirt and his coat, no time for anything else. His skin feels burnt, it's so cold.
They leap into the car and pull out with a ripping screech of tires. Dean doesn't know where he's going, but he just keeps driving until he doesn't recognize anything, until he's tucked back into Franklin Park, nothing but green trees and grey sheets of freezing rain on all sides.
Sam is staring at him like he doesn't even know him. Like he doesn't recognize the Dean looking back. Dean checks him, head to toe, for any injuries sustained in their escape. He doesn't see anything but the obvious bulge of Sam's dick, pressing hard at the heavy, wet fly of his jeans. "I'm sorry," Dean says, because there's nothing else to say. He's freezing and hot all over at the same time, and he can't take his eyes off his little brother's hard cock. They're so fucked, there's no word for it.
"Did-" Sam says, trembling all over. The heat is blasting, but Dean pulls him in anyway, leaning against the door and tucking Sam to his bare chest. Sam comes willingly, easily, and that's better than Dean could have hoped for. "Did they fuck you?" he manages after a moment. It's mostly muffled in Dean's armpit.
"No," he says, mostly into Sam's dripping-wet hair.
That seems to be the most talking either of them are capable of. The words just dry up on Dean's tongue like they always do, especially whenever Sam looks at him like that. Whenever he wants most to be able to tell Sam exactly what he is for Dean. Everything, he would say. This is enough. Their dad will come home whenever he comes home, leave again just as fast. But the two of them-
Sam presses up and kisses Dean with cold, wet lips, tasting like nothing more than water and tongue and Sam. It's perfect, even though Dean's jeans are chafing him and his eyelashes are clumping together. Sam folded up against his chest, his arms wrapping around Dean's neck to pull him down-it's incongruous sweetness in the middle of something foul and bitter.
Sam sighs into Dean, his lips soft as he parts them, kissing gently around Dean's mouth, then lightly at the corner. He opens a little more and kisses Dean's bottom lip, taking it between his for a brief moment, and Dean reflexively pulls him closer, clutches him tighter.
Sam climbs up onto his knees, pushing Dean back against the driver's door, the back of his head pressed to the cold glass of the window. Dean looks up to meet Sam's eyes, dark and possessive and clearly saying what neither of them could say just seconds ago. Sam cups Dean's face in his hands and kisses him again, deeper this time, longer, his tongue tasting just right. The deafening sound of the rain pattering on the roof of the car fades under Sam's breath, the soft, gentle, wet sounds of their lips and tongues and teeth. Sam's hands trace up Dean's shivery stomach, the broad planes of his chest, and he straddles Dean's lap, knees about to slip off the front seat.
"So glad they didn't," Sam whispers against Dean's ear, half a kiss. He circles his thumbs around Dean's nipples, scrapes them gently with his nails, and holds Dean down when he tries to sit up. "No, no-Dean, you have to let-I need to have-" He kisses harder, rougher, nipping and shoving at Dean with his big hands, touching every part of him he can reach, the water that drips off them conducting everything faster, magnifying it, making it that much more.
Sam leaves warm trails in the wake of his perfect, long fingers, and Dean relaxes when Sam gathers him up, smoothing down his back. The grip of his gun is sticking out of the back of his jeans, still, and Sam grabs it with a slow, careful movement, pulling it out slow inch by inch.
"I thought you might actually-you know," Dean says, barely audible even to himself. Sam nods.
"I thought I would, too. I can't even-the things I thought when I saw them-"
"Don't," Dean starts, but Sam's adjusted his grip on the gun, and it's pointing at Dean now, muzzle right to his heart. He's already pound-nails hard, and only gets harder at the feel of cold metal against his chest.
Sam's not shaking at all anymore. "If they'd hurt you. If I'd seen them touch you-like that. I would've, Dean. Don't you fucking dare think for a second that I'd let anyone do-that. Do anything to you. I don't fucking care if you-if you-" He squeezes his eyes shut, resting his head against Dean's chest, just above the barrel of the gun. His face is warm, now. "I would've. I still want to."
The safety is on, and there's no one in the world Dean will ever trust the way he trusts Sam. He takes deep breaths and calms himself down as Sam trails the freezing metal over Dean's nipples, teasing at them with the hard edge of the muzzle. Dean takes hitching breaths, and his eyes roll back in his head, the cold and the tingling pain and the sick thrill of it buzzing through him like nothing he's ever felt.
Sam takes it down, pressing the barrel into the grooves of Dean's stomach, ever so softly, then down to the dips of muscles from his hips to under the waistband of his jeans. Sam flicks the button open and the fly down with one hand, and Dean gasps when his hard cock springs free. He's not wearing underwear-didn't, after the first time. No point.
Sam swallows with a dry click. "Fuck, Dean," he says, and trails the gun lower, brushing coarse curls and sliding along the thick, desperate length of Dean's dick.
He drops it with a thunk into the footwell after that, and yanks off Dean's boots and jeans with single-minded efficiency. Dean's cold hands fumble with Sam's clothes, but together they both end up naked, warmer in the blasting heat from the vents without their wet clothes than with.
Sam pushes Dean's feet back on the seat, holding them so they don't slide in the puddles of rainwater left on the leather. Dean's spread open and exposed in this position, and his face burns as Sam stares at every inch of him, touching everything. Dean feels owned, in the good way, the way where he's loved and wanted and good enough. It's like the tingling thrill of being watched, of making the movies and knowing where they'd end up, except ten million times better. Ten million times hotter, because it's just Sam. His face, and his eyes, and his hair, and his hands. Sam will be the only one who knows this, who sees it. It's just theirs.
Dean lets himself look, too. Sam is filled out, all lean muscle, browned and so big, so tall and shaped just right. Broad shoulders that will only get broader, perfect, tight little waist, gorgeous, pert ass. His legs and neck stretch out graceful for miles, his soft pink lips everything Dean's been dreaming about for weeks-almost everything.
Sam's cock is perfect. Glistening wet with rain and heavy, slick strings of drooling precome, it stands out from his body, fat and hard and bobbing under its own weight. It curves upwards just a little, veins just as thick as any of the best dicks in any porn. The head is smooth and blunt and dripping from the slit, and Dean's mouth waters desperately when he thinks of sucking it. It would taste sharp and musky with precome, but clean and cold with rain, and he'd bury his nose in Sam's skin when he'd swallowed the whole thing down and just breathe nothing but him forever.
But Sam just leans forward, kissing Dean soundly, running his hands up Dean's shoulders to brush softly at the sides of his neck. "Wanna fuck you, Dean," Sam says, and Dean shudders involuntarily, a delicious shake starting at the nape of his neck and ending way down at his tailbone.
"Please, please," Dean says, gritting it out through his teeth as Sam wraps a hand around his aching cock. He feels his pulse in Sam's hand. "It was all I thought about, Sammy, when I-when I jerked off for them. When I-when I fucked that guy. Was all you, I swear, god-came home and did it again. Touched myself-unf-" Sam twists his hand at the head, thumbing over Dean's slit, and rubs at his balls, milking out thick blurts of precome. "Touched myself and thought about you all the time. What you'd look like-watching it. What you'd look like-doing what I did."
Sam shuts him up with a searing kiss, sliding the hand on Dean's balls back to his hole, pressing at it, rubbing at it, just like Dean did to himself only better-so much better. There's a goopy-cold sensation, then, and Dean groans hard when Sam's finger slips in all the way. "It was in your jeans," Sam murmurs, and works his finger, curling it up, pressing it back, rubbing and massaging until Dean convulses and arches up and moans.
"Shit, yes-theretherethere please, oh fuck, Sammy." He humps back against Sam's finger and stretches wider, hooking one leg up onto the dashboard to open himself up, to feel that satisfying burn. Sam gets it and works in another finger, pushing slow past the tightness and working over and over with the tips of his fingers and his knuckles at that perfect, perfect spot.
"Never knew it could be that good," Sam murmurs, and Dean can't ask about it now, doesn't want to know if Sam's done this before, or something like it. He presses a third finger in, and Dean grips onto the door with both hands to keep himself from jerking his cock hard and fast and just getting it done.
"Fuck me, please, please please fuck me, Sammy," he moans. "Gotta come on your cock. Want to so bad, c'mon c'mon c'mon c'mon get it in me, fuck, please. I'll be so good I swear, fuck fuck fuck-"
And finally, Sam grabs himself with one hand and starts pushing in. He feels enormous, like he'll never fit, the head of his cock pushing blunt at Dean's slicked hole. He finally works Dean open around it, pushing in so, so slow-it's agonizing. "Gotta go slow," Sam says, and it sounds like he's in pain. He's prying Dean open, it feels like-splitting him wide and stuffing him up so full Dean doesn't know if he can even take it. He wants it, wants it so bad, but it's like there won't be any space left in him after this, after he's so full up with Sam there's no room left for him.
It's the best thing he's ever felt in his whole life.
Until Sam really starts to move. He starts off slow, still, but pushing in and pulling out a little bit at a time. He whines, desperate and needy, and starts pumping a little faster, and Dean sucks in choking breath after choking breath as Sam's fucking enormous dick starts working him, hitting him just right and holding him open, shoved in high and tight, all up inside him, then pulling out so fast he hardly has time to miss it before he's full again.
He's making the stupidest sounds known to man; he can hear himself. Hitching, sobbing breaths, stupid grunts punching out of him when Sam rams the fat head of his cock deeper in him, shaking, wavering moans when Sam starts thrusting in earnest, fast and hard, just fucking jackhammering into Dean like only a franticly horny seventeen-year-old could manage.
It's all happening too fast, and Dean tries to reach down to pinch hard around the base of his cock to stave it off, but Sam catches his hand hard and shoves it back up to the door, holding Dean down hard like it's nothing. He presses his face right where it fits in the curve of Dean's neck, kissing and licking there, whispering words into Dean's shoulder. "Not yet, not yet," Sam says. "Do it together, have to do it together, just a-fuck-" and he sobs, wrapping his other hand around Dean's hips, fingers spread to cover Dean's lower back. Sam rears back and pulls Dean with him, supporting him, and Dean slides hard down, jammed down onto Sam's cock, feeling it shove deeper into him than anything he's ever felt, so fucking huge and swelling bigger as Sam pulls Dean's thighs farther apart, pumping up into him.
Dean can't hold it anymore, tears running down his face as he cries out, "Sammy," and comes spectacularly, more than he ever thought he was capable of. He shoots copiously all over Sam's chest, his face, his arms, thick, clinging white stripes of jizz, dripping in wads down Sam's perfect skin. But Dean just can't stop, and Sam moans a broken, sobbing sort of moan, and Dean feels Sam's thudding heartbeat in his cock, impossibly hard, impossibly big as Sam comes, his whole body tight and shaking against Dean.
Dean can't help clenching around Sam's dick, still twitching and shooting and filling him up even as Dean rocks with aftershocks, wrapping his arms around Sam's chest, pressing his face into Sam's shoulder. Sam's babbling some, just whispers against Dean's hair, lips tickling at his scalp as he thrusts through the last of his orgasm. He pulls out as he starts to soften, and Dean still feels wet and sloppy and full, squeezing tight against losing Sam's huge load in his ass. He doesn't say anything, just lets Sam lay him back down on the seat, kiss him full and deep, sucking the taste of sweat and tears from his lips.
"Relax," Sam says, voice gravel-rough. "Wanna see it."
Dean blushes deep, face burning up in the burgeoning warmth of the car, and relaxes. Can't not, when Sam says it. Demands it like that. The thick, dripping jizz trickles out of him and down the crack of his ass, down the crease at the top of his thigh. He feels dirty and messy and used, but all for Sam. Sam trails his fingers through the nasty mess, rubbing it in, pushing it back into Dean's raw-red hole, just playing with it. Fascinated.
Dean watches for a while, embarrassed, still stupidly turned on. But soon he lets his eyes drift closed, lets Sam touch him and rub him all over. He falls asleep warm, but still wet, the sensation of Sam pulling him close and wrapping around him lulling him into sweet dreams of Boston in the summer.
*
He wakes up under a blanket, Sam squeezing his shoulder. "Dean," Sam says, shaking him a little. "Wake up-gotta get inside."
It's biting cold again outside the car, especially since Dean's not wearing anything but a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He can't feel his feet on the concrete of the breezeway, but Sam is propping him up, and they both make it up to the apartment without getting hypothermia.
"You drove us back?"
"Well, I didn't want the cops to find us-like that. In the park."
"You always did have a good head on your shoulders," Dean says, smiling tentatively at Sam. This could be bad. This could be very, very bad. Or it could be unbelievably amazing.
"I learned from the best," Sam says, smiling back. He takes Dean's hand and tugs him back to the bedrooms. "How do we pick which one?"
"Which one what?" Dean says, looking at the doors to their rooms.
"Which one to sleep in. And to try out how good my head is," Sam says, pulling Dean's blanket off and throwing it back down the hall. Dean makes an abortive move to cover himself up, but stops with a wry shake of his head.
"Mine," Dean says. He's got a better view of the river, and he wants to kiss Sam in front of the window, both of them wrapped up in Dean's blanket, the whole city stretching out below them, folded in soft grey fog.