Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/OFCs
Word Count: 6,850
Warnings: dubcon, exhibitionism, hookers
Notes: Written for blindfold_spn and originally posted here.
Prompt: Soulless Sam is sick of Dean being devoted to Lisa. He wants Dean all to himself, like they used to be. When Dean won't give in, Sam starts bringing hookers back to the motel room and showing Dean what he's missing out on.
The waitress at the greasy spoon off I-89 has been eyeing them ever since they came in.
She gave them both a once-over when she took their order, and smiles and looks away when she comes over to top off the coffee. Easy prey, though and through. A dirty little grin and a wink would at least score him a piece of pie on the house, and if he really played his cards right, he could totally charm her out of her cute little pink uniform. Dean Winchester has done a lot more like a lot less.
And it's not like he doesn't think about it. She's hot, she's into him – it's a reflex to think about flirting right back. He dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes, though, because he's not that guy anymore. Passing on these opportunities has become a routine of its own, and he's so preoccupied these days it happens automatically.
It's only when she comes by with the check that he catches the look on Sam's face. It's amused and a little skeptical, but there's something dangerous about the way his eyes narrow.
Sam shakes his head and lets out a humorless huff. "You. Come on. She's totally in to you and you didn't even check her out. Are you really that whipped?"
"What are you, my pimp? I don't need to cruise for chicks at truck stops."
Sam rolls his eyes. "I'm not saying you should go home with her. But why is looking off-limits?"
"Guess I don't see the point," Dean says slowly, raising his eyebrows. "What's with you, man? I'm pretty sure this falls under the heading of none of your business."
"I just think it's funny. You more than anyone know that being a hunter doesn't mix with having a normal life, but you're still clinging to those people. You're still trying to be Mr. Suburbia. It's like you became someone else when I was gone, and now you can't remember how to be you."
"What are you talking about? I'm still me. And don't – don't bring Lisa and Ben into this. Don't act like I just – you told me to go do that, to go be with them. That was your dying wish, okay? You can't be mad at me for honoring it."
"I'm not dead anymore," Sam points out, and the look in his eye confirms that to him, it's that simple.
Dean pushes his plate away and wipes his fingers on a napkin. "No, but you're something. You're not you anymore, and I'm doing everything I can to fix that, but – I swear to God, it's like every time I look at you I see a little less Sam. I still can't believe you aren't just going to disappear altogether, get yanked back down into that cage with your soul."
"I'm not going anywhere, Dean," Sam says quietly. "I can't help that things are different – that I'm different. But I'm never leaving again."
"Yeah, well. The way our luck runs, you might not have much choice about that one."
"Listen to me, Dean. I went twelve rounds with the devil in my head and I won. I saved the world from the apocalypse. If I want to something, nothing's going stop me from getting it. And I'm telling you, I want to stay with you. I want things to be like they used to."
Sam's always been a guy for those kind of sweeping declarations, but something about the finality of this one raises the hair on the back of Dean's neck.
They end up in Florida a few weeks later. Local houses getting the shake-down from some kind of spirit activity Dean's never seen before. He pitched the case to Sam tentatively, watching for the flinch that used to come every time someone mentioned the Sunshine State – a knee-jerk response to the decade or so he spent there in Mystery Spot limbo.
Instead Sam shrugged and said, "Yeah, sure. I'll see if Bobby has any ideas. You hungry?"
They're three days into the case when Dean comes back to the motel room and find Sam fucking the shit out of some blonde chick on his bed.
Not under the covers, not missionary style. He's got her on all fours, a big, tanned hand on either side of her hips while his own snap sharply against her perky little ass.
"Whoa! Jesus, dude." Dean holds up a hand and forces himself to look away. "Put a sock on the doorknob or something."
Sam just laughs, low and gravelly.
"Come on in, Dean."
"Uh, I'm not really the peeping tom type, but thanks. I'll just—"
"Come inside and shut the door," Sam says firmly.
Dean has no idea why he does it.
He doesn't want to, exactly, but he can't quite make himself walk away.
Maybe it's just the sight of Sam like this. Naked, whole, alive. His skin flushed and his eyes bright. It's something Dean had thought about – usually without the random chick involved – way too many times during the previous year.
The girl's so into it she barely seems to register the fact Sam just invited someone to watch. She spares Dean one hot-eyed glance while he collapses in the chair by their little dining table, and then she's right back into moaning and panting and fucking herself back on Sam's cock.
Dean can't really blame her. He probably wouldn't be thinking about social niceties if he was the one getting fucked like that. The whole room is loud with the meaty sound of it, the wet noises her pussy's making around Sam's dick. He's pretty sure he can actually smell it from where he's sitting.
Sam moves suddenly, hooking an arm around her stomach and pulling her to her knees.
Her body is tiny next to Sam's, makes him look even bigger than usual; and he picks her up off the bed like she weighs nothing.
"There we go," he mutters, easing to his feet and holding her against his chest. A thick arm squeezes around her waist as he grips the bottom of her thigh, holding her open and settling her down on his cock. "Just like that."
She groans and shuts her eyes, her head leaning back against Sam's shoulder.
Dean's seen some pretty dirty shit in his day, but this might take the cake. Her pussy's slick and pink, so she's gotta be loving it, but it looks like Sam's thick cock is splitting her open. He doesn't even slow down, or ask her if she's okay; he picks up a rough, tight rhythm that sends it pistoning in and out of her, making her bounce on it.
"Jesus," Dean breathes.
Sam catches his eye, a sweaty piece of hair falling over his forehead and making him look weirdly sinister.
"You like that, Dean?" he says roughly. "You like seeing this cute little girl getting nailed?"
Dean doesn't say anything, because Jesus, what can he say? Sam hoists her up a little more, letting Dean get a really good look at where she's speared on his cock.
"Tell him how much you love this, sweetheart," Sam says against her ear, his thrusts slowing down a little but still hitting hard and deep. "You're having fun, right?"
"Yeah," she groans, writhing a little when Sam bottoms out and holds her there. She can probably feel it in there every time she breathes, her whole body tight and hot around it. She can probably feel right where the head flares out, where it gets even fatter. "It's so good. Gonna make me come..."
"Not yet," Sam says shortly. "It's your turn, Dean. Tell me how much you like seeing me fuck – what's your name?"
"Theresa," she pants.
For some reason that really does it for Dean, even more than the sight of her pink little pussy squeezing at Sam's cock. It's just so different, so wrong for Sam to pick up some chick, fuck her like this without even knowing who she is.
Sam's the guy who needs the girlfriend experience to get his rocks off, has to make some kind of meaningful connection and always tell himself it means more than what it is. Sam doesn't do this – but apparently now he does, and it makes Dean's cock throb where it's trapped in his jeans.
Before he can stop himself he reaches to squeeze it, fingers scrabbling against the denim.
"Yeah," Sam says, shifting her in his arms so he's gripping both of her thighs, holding her against his chest and picking up that stabbing, deep rhythm. "How much you like seeing me fuck Theresa here."
"Sam," Dean says tightly, and then he can't hold it back anymore. He thumbs the button of his jeans open, hissing when the pressure's finally taken off his swollen cock. "Yeah, fuck, give it to her, Sammy. She fuckin' loves it."
Sam eyes shut tightly, his face flushing red, and Dean knows that look -- he's put it there a few times, himself. Sam's gonna blow, and for a second Dean wishes this wasn't some random chick, that Sam wasn't using a condom so Dean could see the come drip out of her.
"You gonna come, Sammy?" he grits out, hand moving faster on his own cock. "You gonna fill this chick up with your load?"
She makes a small, wounded noise when Sam's fingers tighten on her thighs, the veins in his forearms thick and obvious as he clutches her there and gives a few final stabs of cock.
"Yeah," Sam grunts, and Dean can see his balls twitch, knows Sam's pulsing out his jizz up in there. "Take it."
He keeps her bouncing on it as he comes, her cute little tits jiggling in time to each thrust, and it only takes another minute for Dean to lose it all over his hand.
It's harder than he's come in ages, his whole body curving over with the force of it as thick, heavy streaks of come spatter up his shirt. His eyes squeeze shut with the force of it, but not before he catches a fast, fleeting glimpse of Sam turning and looking right at him.
For some reason that hits him harder than anything else, making his head swim and his balls pull up and ache as they keep trying to give up more.
By the time it starts ebbing away, the chick has slid off Sam's cock.
"Wow," she says, reaching to pick up her skirt up off the floor and sliding it back on. "That was something."
Dean's already feeling kind of embarrassed, but Sam just sprawls there on the bed, naked and careless with his spent cock softening against his stomach.
He reaches over to the nightstand lazily, digs out a wad of cash, and holds it out to the girl – Theresa, apparently – as she yanks her top back on.
"Thanks," he says dismissively.
It takes a minute for Dean to process what that exchange means, and she's tucked the money into her bra and shut the door behind her before it actually clicks.
"That was a hooker?"
Sam works his eyebrows, looking amused and not even remotely abashed.
"Uh, yeah, Dean. Most girls won't let a total stranger do that all that. Not unless there's money involved."
"What the hell?" Dean says, shoving his cock back into his briefs and zipping up his jeans. There's a stack of napkins on the table from the pizza they had the night before, and he fumbles for one, wiping up the mess of jizz on the back of his hand. "Seriously, dude, that's so messed up, I can't even – since when do you pay for sex?"
"Since I got out of Hell."
Dean perks his eyebrows, and when no further explanation seems forthcoming he blurts, "Uh, why?"
"I don't know. It's just easier. Everyone's on the same page. No one gets hurt. And I can... do what I want."
"Did it ever occur to you that maybe if you have to pay someone to do the kind of shit you want in the sack, it's a little messed up?"
Sam snorts, scratching at his belly.
"Please. You're the biggest hedonist on the planet, Dean. You can't seriously lecture me about the evils of hiring a hooker." He narrows his eyes. "And it looked like you were enjoying yourself, too."
Dean looks away.
"Doesn't mean it wasn't messed up."
"Is this about Lisa?" Sam sits up suddenly, though he doesn't make any move to cover himself up. "What's the issue, Dean? You went, like, ten years without seeing her once, and after a year of playing house you're suddenly the committed boyfriend?"
"Can we please not talk about that while you're naked and sweaty from fucking a prostitute?"
Sam just smirks, an unfriendly twist of lips that stokes the dwindling heat in Dean's stomach. It's so messed up.
"Says the guy wiping jizz off his hand after watching." His tone is even, his voice not particularly loud, but that just makes each word sound uglier.
"God, Sam, don't—"
"What? Don't remind you what a perv you are? It's okay, Dean. I don't hold it against you. But go ahead, keep lying to yourself. Don't mind me."
He sprawls back on the bed, grabs the remote off the nightstand, and flips on the TV.
Sam drops the issue for almost a week. They track down a rugaru in Oklahoma, then head down to Texas, and it's all business as usual. Sam's still a little weird around the edges, but Dean chalks it up to all the time they spent apart, bites his tongue, and tells himself to not look a gift horse in the mouth.
Sam's back, that's all that matters. Sam's back and he can overlook just about anything as long as that stays true.
And then one night Dean's out checking a lead while Sam's doing research, and when he gets back to the motel room he's greeted with the sight of a chick on his bed – a naked chick doing a full on, spread-legged reverse cowgirl, sprawled across Sam's chest with her legs in the air. Sam's got an arm hooked under each of her knees, holding her wide open as she writhes on his cock.
Dean almost trips over his own feet trying to get inside and slam the door shut before someone in the parking lot sees.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Sam," he barks.
The girl jerks up in surprise, but Sam grabs her hair and yanks her right back down, his hips not slowing at all as he fucks up into her.
"That's just Dean," he says, using the grip in her hair to tilt her head a little, his mouth just behind her ear. "Dean's gonna watch."
Dean shuts his eyes and drops his keys on the table, but the shock of adrenaline in his system all moves down to his dick. Even when he's not looking at it, he can hear all the things Sam's doing, and the pictures his brain conjures up are even more graphic than what's really going on.
"Fuck," Dean mutters, but he sinks down on the shabby couch that's opposite the beds.
Sam's not flat on his back – he's kind of propped up on the pillows, enough to look right at Dean and smirk.
"You wanna join in this time?" he says, voice a little breathless but way too fucking casual for someone who's mid-thrust. "I think I'm gonna fuck her in the ass. She's got a cute one."
The girl moans, tight and high-pitched.
"You want that, honey?" Sam says. "Then I can get my cock all the way inside. Your pussy's just too small for me, huh? And I know you wanna take it deep."
"Yeah," she says, and if it's not the most convincing delivery ever, she makes up for it by letting Sam steer her right around on his cock, until her back is to Dean.
"Don't stop," Sam says, jerking his hips and bouncing her lightly. She picks up a slightly uneven rhythm, riding Sam's cock as he reaches for a bottle of lube on the nightstand and smears some over his fingers.
Sam's hands slip around to squeeze at the meat of her ass, huge and tan on her pale skin. He pries her cheeks open, and Dean swallows, his gaze dropping right where Sam wants it to – right to the dark pink dent of her hole.
"What do you think, Dean?" he says, grunting lightly as the girl grinds down on him. "Should I put my cock in there?"
The memory hits Dean in a rush – Sam stretched out on a motel bed and looking back at him, amused and skeptical, saying, What do you think, dude? Is your cock even going to fit in there?
Dean's got his jeans open and his zipper down before he can take his next breath. The hard, bulky shape of his cock stretches out the front of his briefs, straining against the cotton as soon as it has room. He can't pull his eyes away from the scene on the bed long enough to glance down, so his hands are clumsy when he yanks at the waistband, pulling it down so fast his cock slaps up against his stomach and bobs there stiffly.
Sam doesn't touch her little hole until Dean starts to jerk himself, and when he finally teases the tip of one there he keeps her spread open. Making sure Dean can see it all.
That finger pops through nice and easy, and she doesn't even flinch when he gives her another one – she probably gets this a lot, Dean figures, but she takes Sam's thick, long fingers like they're nothing, when he knows full well that just two of them equal a lesser guy's whole cock.
Sam gives the pale, round curve of her ass a slap, his gaze fixed on Dean. Both of her ass cheeks are flushed bright red, and the sight of Sam's tan hand slipping in and out of the space between them is almost too much.
"It's okay," Sam says against the top of her head, his voice for Dean and Dean alone. "I know you want it. I know exactly what you need."
The girl moans, starts babbling some lame porno dialogue with a lot of yeah, baby, fuck my sweet ass, bullshit. Dean barely even hears her; he's looking Sam right in the eye, jerking himself off nice and slow and already on the edge of coming.
Sam bites her neck again when he pulls his fingers out.
"Hold yourself open," he says, grabbing her wrists and yanking her hands to her ass. "Yeah, just like that. Make sure Dean doesn't miss anything."
Sam reaches down and grabs his cock, bringing it right to her hole and guiding in the head. She makes a noise again, a throaty little whimper, but her ass just opens right around it. You'd think he was fucking her pussy again, it slides in so easy – and then it just keeps going. Her breaths start to shudder when she gets to the last few inches, but Sam guides her hips right on down until he's buried balls deep inside of her.
"Fuck," he spits out, hips jerking off the bed and ramming himself in just a little further. His nuts look red, the sac pulled tight around them as they press between her pried-open ass cheeks.
He starts thrusting without warning, his broad hands gripping her waist and pulling her up, guiding her in a harsh, nasty rhythm she immediately starts to follow.
"Yeah, take it, that's it," he grunts, thrusting up to meet her halfway, so each push down on his cock smacks loudly. "I'm gonna give you what you need. You hear me? Gonna make you remember. You're – mine."
Dean can't even hear the girl anymore; for a minute there's no one in the room but him and Sam, and everything is perfect – this is where he belongs, this is who he is, and nothing else could ever matter. Nothing else is even important.
Reality crashes back into place when he's done wringing out his cock, but even the dirty, fucked-up truth of the situation can't sand away that feeling.
For a second there he had everything he wants. He had his brother back.
It goes on like that for a while.
He doesn't know where Sam finds them or what he tells them, but there's a new one every week, sometimes every few days. Sam pulls their hair, spanks their asses, fucks them six ways to Sunday and sends them wobbling home with a grin and a wad of cash.
Dean watches, beats off, and tells himself it's not what it feels like.
In Dayton the girl is a curvy brunette with a tattoo on her hip, something floral and complicated that Dean can't quite make out. Sam fucks her from behind, man-handles her around on the bed so Dean can see every flex of muscle in his ass and back. He pulls out before he comes, rips the condom off so he can shoot his load over her bouncy, round tits.
The only thing Sam's hands are proportional to are other parts of his own body, and watching him jerk off is almost as hot as watching him fuck. It only takes a couple of strokes before he stripes her skin with come, tapping the head of it on one of her breasts and smearing it around.
"Fuck," she mutters, squeezing her legs together and pushing her hair away from her face.
Sam looks over at Dean, then, kneeling on the bed with his cock still mostly hard.
"How about you go suck my buddy off?" he says, friendly and casual. "Looks like he needs a hand."
"Sam," Dean says warningly. Sam narrows his eyes, making Dean's fist compulsively squeeze tighter around the shaft.
He looks back down at the girl then, smiling. "He's just a little shy."
She props herself up on her elbows, eyeing him for the first time since she came in. Dean swallows thickly, something like a blush hitting his face and sliding down his chest and arms, until his whole body is a little warmer.
Her gaze moves down to his cock.
"Yeah," she says. "I can help you with that."
Sam smirks when she slides off the bed and edges closer, gets on her knees in front of Dean.
"You don't—" Dean starts, but she cuts him off with a little nuh-uh-uh.
"It's okay, baby, I'll take real good care of you," she soothes.
He has plenty of time to stop her. He could get up, walk out, lock himself in the bathroom or run to the goddamn car and get the hell out of town. He could do just about anything, but he's so horny his brain might just melt, and his senses are deadened to everything but the rich, musky smell of Sam's spunk and sweat all over her.
She slides her mouth down over the head of his cock, and Dean grabs her hair like Sam had, encouraged by her low, pleased moan – and by the way Sam lifts his chin, eyes dark and smug as he watches.
"Talk to me, Dean," Sam says. "Tell me what that feels like, getting your dick sucked."
The girl looks up at him as her pink little mouth slides lower, taking his cock nice and deep. It's been weeks since he's had anything but his own hand, and frankly, he can't jerk fast enough to keep up with all the spank material he's got from Sam's peep shows. He's got a hair-trigger, and this chick could write the frigging book on cocksucking.
"It's good," Dean mutters, toes curling in his boots. He swallows, letting out a slow breath through his teeth. "So good – her mouth, Jesus."
"You want it, don't you?" Sam says lowly. "Tell me. Shut your eyes and pretend that's me, Dean."
His fingers clench in her hair automatically, pulling a sharp little noise from her throat. He can't help but do it – he was on the verge of it anyway, but hearing it said out loud like that makes his balls ache.
"Remember?" Sam presses. "Remember how much you loved it?"
He doesn't have to look to know Sam's giving him that hollow, freaky smirk he's been getting so much mileage out of lately, but his mind can pull up the way Sam looked at him before – back when Sam would get on his knees and do this, fingernails digging into Dean's thighs and his eyebrows tilting with the effort of sucking him off.
"Yeah," Dean sighs, the word bursting out of him like a shot. "Yeah, yeah, Sammy – I fuckin' remember."
The girl pushes lower, bobbing in smooth, swift jerks that leave his cock spitty and wet. It's dirty and deep, and she doesn't even jerk away when Dean's hips start to rock up and jab the head right into the pit of her throat.
"I miss it," Sam says, just the faintest thread of emotion in his voice. Dean knows he's being played like a fiddle, but he doesn't even care. "God, she's so hungry for your cock, man. I remember that – it felt so good. Swallowing your load and watching the way your face changed, like you couldn't believe your little brother was a comeslut for you."
The girl's hand tightens around the base of Dean's cock suddenly, like maybe that detail actually caught her off guard, but Dean just pushes on the back of her head, so far gone he can't think straight.
"Fuck," he groans, thrusting up into her jerkily and blowing his load. His ears are ringing and the girl moans loudly, but somewhere under all that, he can hear the low sound of Sam chuckling.
They're in Mississippi a week later. It's just another random night of half-assed research and beers, but Dean knows it's going to happen again. He can feel the tiny thread of tension in the air, some invisible thing that hangs there between him and Sam, connecting them.
It almost feels like the old days, when unspoken agreements happened a dozen times a day.
That realization steals over him slowly, volleying around in his head until it really sinks in. He swallows thickly when Sam tosses his stack of papers aside and leans over, casual and careless, to dig a handful of condoms and a bottle of lube out of his duffel. Dean's gaze tracks him across the room as he gets to his feet and goes to pull on his jacket, tucking his hands in the pockets absent-mindedly.
"What are you in the mood for?" Sam says, catching his eye and lifting his eyebrows. "I was thinking about a blonde, but I'm open to suggestions."
And just like that, the tension snaps, taking the illusion right along with it. This isn't the old days – this isn't even Sam, and suddenly it's all too much.
"No more girls, Sam."
Sam frowns thoughtfully. "You want a guy this time?"
"No, I mean, no more – prostitutes, no more almost three-ways. No more. I don't even know how we got this far with it, but it has to end."
Sam's expression settles into cold, dry irritation.
"Come on, Dean. We've been making so much progress. Don't throw in the towel now."
He scrubs a hand over his face, grinding his fingers against the sharp stubble on his jaw. "This isn't a game, Sam. You're still my brother, and when you get your soul back, you're gonna hate yourself for all of this."
Sam strips his jacket off and throws it aside in one easy, graceful movement. It makes Dean stare, one of those weird moments when the raw possibility and power of this new version of Sam is startlingly clear.
"What is it you think you owe them, Dean?" Sam says, cutting right to the heart of it. "You told me yourself that you weren't happy there. You were miserable and drinking all the time. And you know why? You were bored." Dean looks up slowly, incredulously, and Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah, you were sad because I was in Hell. But when it comes right down to it, that wasn't your life. That was my life. Pretty wife, white picket fence, nine-to-five job. Those were my dreams, and you hated it."
"That's what people do, Sam."
"Not you. I know you better than anyone. I know you love the hunt. I know how much you get off on swooping in and saving the day. You're only happy when you have something to push against, and all that Beaver Cleaver crap was killing you."
Before Dean can even think about moving away, Sam gets a knee up on the bed and slides right into his lap, straddling Dean's hips.
"Admit it," Sam hisses against his ear. "You've had more fun watching me fuck hookers than you did in twelve months with them."
Dean's hands grip Sam's hips, digging into the rough denim of his jeans but not quite pushing him away.
"Why do you need to be right about this?"
"Because that was never you, Dean. Normal was a lie you told yourself to get through the night. And you know what I think? I think you're so used to being miserable that you've forgotten how to be anything else. If you really missed me, if this was really what you wanted, you'd be happy right now."
"It's a lot more complicated than that."
"Only because you make it complicated. It can be easy, Dean. It can be so easy."
"You know, I'd've thought you of all people could understand. It's not just about how i feel. It's about how they feel. My responsibility—"
"What about me?" Sam whispers, his breath warm on the side of Dean's face. "I thought I was your responsibility."
It was a card Sam's always had the ability to play, but he's never done it before. This isn't Sam, Dean reminds himself, but that's still not enough to stave off the crazy surge of emotions that stir in his chest. He can feel the threads of his resolve all start to unravel at once, falling apart where that comment snagged him.
"You are," Dean says heavily. "That's why I'm here."
"Then why can't you just enjoy it? If you could learn to love playing house, you can sure learn to love this."
And the thing is – the really fucked up, frustrating thing about it is that he already does.
Sam's hips roll forward then, shocking Dean with the realization that he's gotten hard at some point in this conversation. The stiff outline of his cock rubs right against Dean's stomach, familiar and unexpected and so, so good.
He's not thinking about Lisa when he grabs Sam's face and yanks him into a kiss – he's not thinking about his life and his responsibilities and the Dean Winchester who pays his bills on time. All of that is gone, doesn't matter, because he's suddenly the Dean Winchester who nails chicks in bar bathrooms and has a wallet of fake IDs and fucks his brother in dark, cheap motel rooms on the sides of highways.
Sam pushes his tongue right into Dean's mouth and yanks at his shirt, popping open the metal snaps and gripping his skin. His fingers find one of Dean's nipples and pinch it, roll it, goading him on.
"Fuck," Dean mutters against his mouth, reaching down to grip Sam's ass. He pulls him in until the rough denim bulge of his cock is right there against his skin. "You want me to fuck you, Sam?"
Sam growls low in his throat as he rips his t-shirt off and pushes Dean's shirt off his shoulders, fighting him out of his clothes as they roll across the bed.
They're dangerously close to tipping right off the end when Dean gets their jeans down and Sam's cock is suddenly flush against his own, trapped in the heat between them.
"Sam," he breathes, shoving his face against the side of Sam's neck and jerking his hips, rutting against him like a teenager. "Sammy, God—"
It feels right. It feels familiar, and it's only then – Sam's hands on his skin, Sam's tongue in his mouth – that he realizes how long he's been waiting for this to happen.
Sam grips his shoulders and moves against him in a slow, desperate grind, dragging the fat tip of his cock across Dean's and leaving a wet smear of precome there.
"You gotta fuck me, Dean," he mutters, kicking his jeans to the floor and spreading his legs, rolling them over until Dean's settled there between them. "I need it. You need it, come on."
He does need it. He needs it so badly it feels like his skin is on fire, his head spinning like he just polished off a fifth of Blue Label, and Sam's already fumbling for the bottle of lube. Pushing it into Dean's hands like he's eager for it.
"Jesus," Dean breathes, his thumb scrabbling up the side of the lid and popping it open, squeezing the bottle so hard the slimy liquid drips between his fingers and lands all over Sam's cock. "You been paying anyone to do this, too?"
He drops the bottle and hooks his elbows under Sam's thighs, hauling him open and exposing his pink little hole.
"No," Sam huffs, his voice shot but his eyes widening like he's surprised.
Dean rocks up on his knees and rubs two wet fingers into the crack of Sam's ass, pushing one right through the ring of muscle and pressing it in deep.
"What, that crosses the line? Or are you tryin' to tell me the one thing you can still get sentimental about is saving your ass for me?"
Sam's eyebrows jerk together when that finger pushes all the way inside, his hole clenching around it eagerly.
"I just don't want it from anyone else." Sam's skin starts to flush when Dean works a second finger into him, slippery-wet and warm. "Never – occurred to me."
"Fuck," Dean mutters, his cock throbbing sharply.
He curves those fingers as he fucks them in and out, watching Sam's face slacken with pleasure. It makes him look younger, like he might look if he ever slept.
"Come on," Sam says, tilting his ass up a little more like he's daring Dean to give him more. "Come on, I can take it."
He hisses when Dean pushes the third finger in, but he does take them just fine, his hole opening and stretching with the invasion.
"You sure want it bad, huh? Could you take it just like this, Sam? Should I finish opening you up with my dick?"
"Yeah," Sam hisses, his eyes hooded. "Yeah, just put it in there."
It's a tight fucking fit, but Dean goes for it – pulls his fingers out and slicks his cock up with the lube that's all over them, guiding the head of it right back there.
Sam makes this little noise when he starts pushing in, but it actually sounds encouraging, like the sudden sting and stretch of it really works for him. He leans up a little, pulling Dean into him more and catching his mouth in a grinding, nasty kiss.
Dean shoves him back on the bed when he's finally all the way in, holding him there and breathing him in, grazing his teeth over Sam's neck.
"This what you want, Sammy? I can do this." He tongues at the sheen of sweat on Sam's skin until he's just sucking a hickey there, biting the vulnerable hollow of his throat. "I can do this – all fuckin' night."
Sam lets out a low, needy groan – it's a noise Dean never heard him make with those girls, but remembers from a long, long time ago – and tips his head to give Dean better access. His breaths cut out harshly when Dean starts really giving it to him, setting the pace in quick, hard jabs.
"Yeah, come on – like this, Dean. Just like this."
He tips Sam's chin so he can look him in the eye and remind himself – this isn't his Sam, not really. This isn't the kid he sold his soul for, the kid he raised and grew up loving more than himself.
But it's a pretty good substitute. And maybe Dean's just that much of a whore.
"Yeah, Sammy, fuckin' take it," he huffs against his ear. Sam tightens around his dick reflexively, spine arching.
"Does that feel good?" Sam rolls his hips up, meeting each stroke of Dean's cock. "Fucking me again?"
The gaze that holds Dean's is flinty and dark, glittering with more than lust – there's triumph and amusement and a couple other things Dean can't name, but right then, yeah, it does feel good. It feels amazing.
"Yeah," Dean grits out, shifting his hips so he can thrust in harder. "Yeah, yeah – that's good, Sam."
"God, Dean," he pants, fingers twisting in the bedsheets that are already stained with spit and lube. His forehead's already slick with sweat and there's a funny hitch in his voice, like the guy who can fuck hookers for hours might already be close to losing it. "Just – like that. I need this."
"Need what?" Dean twists his fingers around his cock. "Need your big brother to fuck you?"
"Yes," Sam hisses. "Right – there—"
His hair's so long these days that Dean can grab it and pull, just like he did with that hooker who blew him a few states over. It makes Sam's whole body jerk and his hole clench around Dean's cock like it's trying to keep him there.
"Yeah, Sammy, I remember how you like it," he murmurs, grabbing Sam's dick and rubbing his thumb over the tip as he grinds into him with small, relentless pumps. "That deep enough for you?"
Sam's breaths pick up speed until they're hitching in high, desperate little groans. His lips part around the force of them as he arches and comes, spraying his load and fucking himself on Dean's cock.
The first shot of it spatters across the tattoo on his chest, the funny mirror of the one over Dean's own heart, and Dean leans down to lick it off. He catches the next shot of spunk right on his chin as his tongue slides down to play over Sam's nipple, the sharp, musky smell of it hitting him like a punch to the gut.
He lifts his head to look down at Sam's sweaty face, picking up the rhythm of his hard, rough strokes.
"D'you know how hot it gets me, watchin' you come?" Dean kisses him suddenly, shoves his tongue in deep and rubs it against Sam's teeth in a spitty, sharp slide. Sam groans and twists under him, hooking his leg around the back of Dean's knee. When the kiss breaks off Dean just pants against Sam's wet, open mouth. "Watching you fuck 'em deep, making 'em take it. Blowing your wad all over their tits. Can't get it out of my head for days."
"Yeah," Sam mutters, the clench of his ass squeezing tighter around Dean's cock. "Just like you're going to come in me."
A rough, roaring breath comes tearing out of Dean's chest, his cock pulsing dangerously.
"Is that what you want? You want me to cream you, Sammy? You wanna get nailed like you've been nailing those chicks? Gonna moan for me like I'm payin' you for it—"
The feeling starts deep in his balls and crashes over him in a hard, fast, inevitable burn. There's nothing to do but fuck himself through it, panting against Sam's throat as he pumps his load deep inside.
It hits him so intensely you'd think he hadn't gotten off since the last time he and Sam fucked around – and in a way he hadn't, because nothing else was like this. No one but Sam was able to shake him this deeply, grab him and not let go.
"Fuck," he huffs, grinding his hips against Sam's ass, rubbing the head of his cock through that load of come.
He leans in close, nosing at Sam's sideburn and panting against the joint of his jaw. They stay like that for a long time, until the breaths Dean's huffing against Sam's face are almost even and slow.
"Why did you want this so bad?" he finally says, pushing himself up with an arm that shakes with exhaustion.
"I don't feel anything with them. The hookers. But I always – you always used to make me feel so much."
Dean raises his eyebrows. "Yeah? So how do you feel now, Sam?"
Sam's mouth twitches, a strange expression flickering across his features. "Satisfied."
"That's not an emotion," Dean points out.
Sam grips his shoulder, fingernails pressing against Dean's skin just enough to leave a mark.
"It's a start."