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Phthonus in Lethe

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Dean feels ridiculous as hell in this getup, but Sam didn’t exactly give him much of a choice in the matter. ‘It’s called undercover for a reason, Dean,’ he snapped, and then grabbed Dean’s chin and tilted his face up and nearly poked his damned eye out with the stupid pencil. Like it was Dean’s fault that the River Lethe had a dress code. Dean didn’t even get a chance to torment his brother back: Sam disappeared into the bathroom as soon as he was done messing with Dean and told him to get a head start. Better if they didn’t walk in together.

Which meant, of course, that Dean was supposed to charm any information about the recent evisceration spree that he could out of the local Goth population. It’s easier to flirt when no one assumes you’re already taken.

Speaking of assumptions, Dean is getting seriously tired of the way that people keep assuming that he and Sam are a couple. It wouldn’t happen so much if Sam would just stop hovering, like Dean is going to spontaneously combust the minute his back is turned. Although it looks like Sam is finally letting go of his Trickster-induced issues; Dean’s been here for over an hour now and so far no Sammy in sight.

It’s annoying that he has to remind himself that this is a good thing.

The current dead end that Dean is interviewing has the same dark hair and jet-black clothing as everyone else he’s talked to tonight, but the metal studs through the bridge of the chick’s nose are new. The costume Sam put together for him seems downright conservative in comparison, not that it makes Dean any more comfortable flashing his practically bare chest at everyone. He doesn’t have anything to be ashamed of, sure, but there’s something about the way that his nipples peek through the mesh of the shirt that strikes him as a little … well, slutty.

Not that Dean necessarily minds slutty. It’s just that, as a fashion statement, he prefers it on his women rather than himself. Not like he’s ever needed to dress up to get himself laid.

Dean finds his mind wandering as the girl talks, drifting idly south until he’s wondering whether she’s pierced anywhere else. She’s actually pretty hot underneath all the metal and black lipstick. When he realizes that she’s been gushing for five minutes about some band he’s never heard of—Anette has such an awesome voice, doesn’t she?—he figures that this particular source is tapped out. He excuses himself by telling her that he sees his buddy over by the bar and almost bowls somebody over when he turns around.

“Woah,” he says, shooting out an arm to catch what turns out to be a young guy wearing a trench coat and black pants with straps hanging off all over the place.

The guy grabs Dean’s arm back, teetering for a moment before he rights himself. “Thanks, man,” he says, and then lifts his eyes to Dean’s face and stares.

Dean’s been getting that reaction all night, and he’s starting to get worried that his eyeliner—Christ, eyeliner—is screwed up. He didn’t exactly remember he was wearing it on the drive over, and he thinks he may have rubbed at his eyes a few times. Then the guy’s gaze drops to Dean’s chest, flitting over the tattoo before dropping down to the grinning skull buckle latching his belt closed.

And there’s that other look he’s been getting all night: guys and girls alike staring at him like he’s the Goth version of sex on a stick. Dean would be flattered if he wasn’t so embarrassed by the outfit. When this job is over, the whole getup—mesh shirt, leather pants, studded belt and all—is getting shoved into a convenient trashcan and burned. Dean might even roast marshmallows.

Right now he’s got other things to think about, though. Like the look this guy—kid really, cause he doesn’t look more than sixteen underneath all the makeup and the trench coat—is giving him. He’s cute, sure, but … well, the term ‘jailbait’ comes to mind. And Dean doesn’t bat for the home team.

None of that stops the kid from staring up at Dean like Dean’s summer vacation and a hundred bucks worth of ice cream cones and a few months worth of wet dreams all wrapped up into one shiny package, though.

“Wow,” the kid says. “I mean, uh.” He clears his throat, visibly gathering himself together, and then offers, “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“Yeah, just moved here,” Dean tells him. Then, because he’s on a case and people are getting eviscerated, he smiles and takes the kid’s hand. “Azrael Abyss.”

“Raven Nightshade,” the kid answers without missing a beat. It figures that he’s too young to have seen that particular SNL skit.

Dean lets his hand linger, index finger tracing along ‘Raven’s’ wrist when he finally pulls back. It’s a harmless flirtation, and he needs information. Besides, the kid looks like his night could use a little rush.

Raven’s eyes brighten at the touch, which Dean is expecting, and then he asks, “Can I buy you a drink?” which Dean most definitely is not.

His mouth quirks at the thought of what Sam would say if he answered yes. Oh, count the ways it would be illegal. After a brief pause, he hedges, “You got a fake ID or something?”

Raven laughs. “I’m twenty one, man. Of age and completely legal. Also clean, in case you’re wondering.”

All of a sudden Dean’s the one who’s filled with a hot rush of embarrassment because, um, awkward.

“Do you blush like that all over?” Raven asks, smirking. He edges closer. Dean might have as many as ten seconds left before Raven works up to trying to kiss him. His mind searches frantically for some way to diffuse the situation because, legal or not, the kid still looks way too fucking young for him.

Also: definitely not gay. Not even a little. Flirtation in pursuit of information is one thing. Full on making out with another guy—one who probably doesn’t even know anything useful—is another.

As he opens his mouth to make some kind of bullshit excuse, Dean takes a step back and runs into a brick wall where there wasn’t one before. On second thought, walls aren’t warm. And they sure as hell don’t have arms to wrap possessively around his stomach and chest.

“He’s with me,” Sam rumbles.

The words vibrate down Dean’s spine. He takes a surprised breath and feels his mesh shirt catch and pull against his brother’s. Feels Sam’s skin underneath the mesh, burning like the midsummer asphalt.

Not that he’s thinking about Sam’s skin.

“Oh,” Raven says, blinking. He looks frightened, which is sort of amusing. Like Sam and his dopey puppy eyes are anything to be frightened of. Dean watches his would-be seducer scurry off, trench coat flapping behind him like bat wings, and snorts.

Twisting his head around, he says, “Way to run off a potential source, dumbass.” He means to, anyway: the last few words stick in his throat as he finally catches sight of his brother.

Dean knows objectively that Sam is taller than him, but he never actually understood what that meant until now. Sam is still pressed up behind him, one hand splayed across Dean’s stomach and then other curled around his bicep, and he shows no signs of wanting to move. And looking up at his brother’s face, Dean isn’t at all certain of his ability to make Sam move.

Sam’s hair falls around his face and into his eyes, which are rimmed with the same black eyeliner that Sam used on Dean earlier tonight. It makes them look even darker than usual: emphasizes their slight, fox-like slant. Sam isn’t so much frowning as scowling, staring down at Dean the same way a starving man might look at a steak with all the trimmings. If the steak is busy offering itself to the fat guy sitting over in the corner booth, that is.

Jesus, Sam is pissed.

Dean locates his voice somewhere around his ankles and hauls it back up to croak, “Sam?”

Sam’s nostrils give that tiny, little flare that means he’s beyond rational thought and Dean has time to think, ohshit, before Sam is moving, stepping around from Dean’s back and tightening his grip on Dean’s arm on his way past. Dean’s too surprised by his brother’s mood to do anything but stumble after him.

Sam had his panties in a bunch about something or other when Dean left the motel room, but that’s a far cry from the rage tightening his brother’s body now. He tries to figure out what could have happened in the last hour to push Sam over the edge and comes up blank. Unless … maybe Sam decided to do a little last minute research before heading over and found the stash of porn Dean downloaded onto the laptop? Man, if that’s what this is about, then they’re gonna have a talk about blowing things out of proportion when they get back to the room.

Dean assumes that his brother is taking them somewhere private, the better to list Dean’s faults at the top of his lungs, but instead Sam steers them toward the corner of the club’s main room. There are a guy and a girl necking against the wall, using the shadows to their advantage, and Sam draws to a halt in front of them. Dean glances up at his brother’s profile—Sam’s jaw tight and twitching—and thinks uneasily that this might be one of those times he should be pulling the big brother card to keep Sam in line.

“Move,” Sam growls.

The guy turns with an annoyed expression and then keeps looking up, and up, until he gets to Sam’s eyes.

“Now,” Sam adds, his voice still low and barely restrained, and the guy nods.

“Y-yeah, sure,” he says, grabbing his girlfriend’s hand and shooting Dean a sympathetic look on his way past.

If Sam is gonna send the entire Goth population of Bumfuck, Illinois running for cover, then why did Dean have to put on fucking makeup in the first place?

“What the hell is your problem?” he snaps, pulling his arm free.

Sam’s mouth thins in an angry, ‘I want’ line and he grabs Dean’s arm again. Dean has an entire second to register the touch before he’s jerked forward and slammed back into the corner. His shoulders hit the walls, head thumping back into the V formed by the join, and then Sam is looming in front of him like he’s never heard of the concept of ‘personal space’ before.

“Ow!” Dean complains. “Fuck, man, careful with the merchandise.”

“Shut up,” Sam says, and reaches for the skull buckle on Dean’s belt.

“Hey!” Dean blurts, simultaneously trying to back further into the wall and reaching out to bat Sam’s hands away.

Sam moves like a snake, catching Dean’s wrists and then carefully transferring both of them to his left hand. Dean stares at his hands, now pinned against his chest with his brother’s fingers ringing his wrists, and warmth unfurls low in his gut. He tries to pull free, but Sam just tightens up on him and he doesn’t get anywhere because Sam is … Sam is fucking ginormous, and strong, and … and …

Jesus.

“No fucking idea, do you, Dean?” Sam says, furious, and goes right back to working the skull buckle open with his right hand.

“Okay,” Dean rasps. “Real funny, Sam, but that’s—that’s enough, okay?”

Sam makes a victorious little noise as the buckle folds—piece of junk—and immediately starts in on the first button on Dean’s leather pants. Dean tries to shove forward again and Sam ignores him. He keeps popping open the buttons on Dean’s pants like holding Dean in place isn’t taking any effort at all, like he has experience with this kind of thing, and Dean isn’t into guys. He’s not.

Especially not his brother.

“We’re in public,” he hisses, like that’s the main problem here.

Sam pauses as if that’s gotten through to him, and then leans his hips into Dean. He’s hard. Oh fuck is he hard, and huge, and those are two things that Dean really doesn’t need to know about Sam right now. He tries to tilt his hips back so that his own erection isn’t so noticeable and runs into the wall problem again.

Sam rubs against him, leather scraping against leather, and Dean’s breath slips out in a hard exhale. Sam’s pupils are so blown that his eyes look black and he’s leaning in, coming down from some impossible height to nuzzle against Dean’s cheek, hard and insistent.

Dean lets his brother turn his head, too stunned to muster any proper annoyance at being pushed around like ... like a girl … and sees a clump of black-clad dancers moving less than three feet away. Sam’s teeth catch his earlobe and spark a current of heat that runs from his brother’s mouth straight down to Dean’s stupid, slutty dick.

Dean’s putting the damned thing on time out when he gets out of this.

He shudders as Sam’s tongue flicks out to lick along the rim of his ear. His hands open and close weakly in his brother’s grip and Sam chuckles.

Ohgod. Sam should never sound like that. It isn’t fucking legal.

“That’s the point,” Sam whispers. The timber of his voice, almost a growl, does funny things to Dean’s insides. “Want them to see. Want everyone to know who you belong to.”

He moves back again and Dean can’t quite hold in a moan at the loss of all that weight. His groin aches with a building pleasure that doesn’t make any sense at all because he doesn’t … he isn’t …

“Are they watching?” Sam asks, pressing his hand hard against the line of Dean’s cock.

It doesn’t count. There’s still leather between them, so it doesn’t—they can still take it back. Dean bites his lip and forces himself not to buck forward against his brother’s hand.

“Dean,” Sam prods, and his voice is a drug, muddling Dean’s thoughts and setting his head spinning. “Are they watching?”

Yes, Dean thinks, and then, No. He’s too out of it to tell. Doesn’t think anyone can actually see him past Sam’s freakishly large and broad body anyway. He wonders what Sam’s muscles would feel like underneath his hands and then wonders where the fuck that thought came from.

He has to rein this thing in before it goes any further.

“S-Sam, this isn’t f-funny anym—fuck!” Dean drops his head back. His skin is hot and tingling all over, and this has officially gone beyond the point of no return because Sam just shoved his hand down the front of Dean’s pants.

Really fucking bad day to pick to go commando.

“Mine,” Sam says, pulling him out. “Gonna show them—show you. Right here, Dean. Right in front of everyone.”

“Sam,” Dean pants as his brother starts to jack him off, hard and relentless. He doesn’t know if he means ‘stop’ or ‘more’. His thighs tremble with the effort of holding himself up. “Sammy.

“Wider,” Sam demands. “Come on.”

Someone’s moaning in Dean’s ear, and he’s already widening his stance before he realizes that the sound is coming from him. Oh God, this is totally fucked up even for them and Dean isn’t sure he cares right now.

“You’ve been begging for this all night,” Sam says. “Throwing yourself at them, touching them, letting them touch you. Letting e-everyone else, all the time, and you don’t—oh fuck, your eyes. Look at me. Dean, look at me.”

Dean wants to protest that he is looking—it’s Sam own fault that Dean’s brain has short-circuited and left everything in the dark—but he can’t quite remember how to speak. He pants in the darkness for a few moments, his brother’s scent heavy in his mouth, and then swears as Sam drags his thumb over the slit of his cock.

“Look at me,” Sam insists.

Dean makes a concerted effort and somehow manages to get his eyes open again. Sam looks even angrier than before, face not just a thundercloud but a goddamned typhoon. His breathing is as erratic as Dean’s, chest heaving and straining at his shirt. There’s sweat running down his neck, slicking his hair.

Dean’s never seen anything so hot in his life. His tongue suddenly feels three sizes too big: his mouth is desert dry. He licks his lips, arching into Sam’s rough strokes, and Sam’s gaze sharpens.

“Goddamn it,” he growls, and then his mouth crashes down on Dean’s. He releases Dean’s wrists to cup his cheek, tilting his face up into the kiss.

Dean makes a tiny, wrecked noise that is swallowed up by his brother’s mouth. He’s too turned on to be ashamed of the way he opens for Sam, and when Sam’s tongue fucks into him he grabs Sam’s hair and tries to pull him even closer, deeper. Sam gives him what he wants, biting and licking at Dean’s mouth until his lips feel bruised and swollen while he keeps jacking Dean’s cock with a rough, heavy pressure that girls can never quite manage.

When Sam finally jerks back, he leaves Dean with sweat-salted lips and the lingering, masculine flavor of his brother on his tongue.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Sam pants. “I need—I want to fuck you.”

Sam’s declaration rips through Dean with a physical shudder that’s almost like an orgasm. His hands aren’t pinned anymore, but he couldn’t move even if he wanted to: too strung out by Sam’s hand on his cock and Sam’s words in his ears to do much more than cling weakly at his brother’s arms and moan.

“Fuck you right here. Right now. You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” Sam’s free hand curls around Dean’s right thigh and gives a suggestive tug. “You’d wrap your legs around my waist and just take it, so goddamned pretty and tight and—” Sam’s breath catches and his hand stills on Dean’s cock.

“Come on,” Dean babbles, grabbing his brother’s wrist in an effort to get Sam going again. “Come on, come on.

“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” Sam breathes.

It’s ludicrous enough to snap Dean out of his daze a little. “What? Of course I’m not a fucking virg—”

“With guys,” Sam clarifies, and Dean shuts right up. “You’ve never let anyone else do this—do anything—to you, have you?”

“Not doing much of ‘anything’ right now, are you?” Dean needles. Incest is wrong and all, and he is in no way okay with this, but Sam jumped him for fuck’s sake. Sam was … with the looming and the … the growling … and then he just stopped.

Dean heard somewhere that a guy can die from blue balls.

But Sam just smiles at him, slow and warm and dangerous, and lets go of Dean’s cock. And then tugs his pants lower on his hips.

“Jesus!” Dean yelps, reaching down to put a stop to that, at least, because he has limits and he isn’t going to let Sam strip him in the middle of a club.

“Hands above your head, Dean,” Sam says. He has hold of Dean’s pants with both hands, anchoring them low enough on Dean’s hips that Dean might as well not be wearing them at all.

“No!” Dean refuses, and glances to one side to see if anyone is paying attention. Doesn’t look like it, but he’s still having a little trouble thinking, what with all the blood in his body rushing to his dick and all. “Get off me.”

“Hands above your head,” Sam repeats implacably, and then, as an afterthought: “Or on me.”

Dean scowls at his brother, trying to put the promise of how that isn’t going to happen into his eyes, and Sam just dips his head in and bites Dean’s neck. Hard.

“Fuck,” Dean says, hands flying automatically to his brother’s waist for support as his legs buckle. Sam smiles against his skin and then soothes the sting of the bite with a slow stroke of his tongue.

“Good boy,” he purrs, and Jesus Christ, is Sam trying to kill him? It isn’t fair: Sam’s pushing buttons Dean didn’t even know he had, leaving him too turned on to do more than tighten his grip on Sam’s hips.

“Make this so good for you,” Sam promises, pressing a slow, wet trail of open-mouthed kisses down across Dean’s collarbone. Dean can feel his pants being inched even lower and God, he’s going to fly apart at the seams if he doesn’t come soon.

“Sam,” he pants. “Sam, what the—what’re you—I need—” Fuck, he doesn’t know what he needs.

And Sam stops again.

Raising his head, he leans one hand against the wall. He doesn’t look anywhere near as wrecked as Dean feels, but his eyes are demon dark as he strokes his thumb against Dean’s bare hip.

For the first time, Dean wonders if something—beyond the obvious morality issue—is wrong. Bobby seemed to think that the tattoos would be foolproof when they called to ask him, but demons can be tricky sons of bitches.

“Christo,” he says.

Sam blinks at him, eyes as hazel as ever, and then smirks. “I’m not possessed, Dean. Now take your shirt off.”

It isn’t like that would make much of a difference—the shirt is more holes than fabric—but Dean balks anyway. Because there’s letting your brother grope you in the corner of a club, and then there’s actively assisting in said groping, which crosses a line that Dean is desperate to stay on the right side of.

“No.”

Sam makes an impatient sound and grips the fabric himself, yanking it insistently up. Dean fights him on it for the few moments it takes for him to realize that he’s harder than ever, that his dick is hanging out of his low-riding pants and leaking precome. He’s just calling attention to himself by struggling, practically begging for ‘Raven’ or one of the other people he talked with tonight to glance over and see how crazy Sam makes him. See him with his defenses stripped away, malleable and pliant in his brother’s hands.

Raw and yearning and completely fucked up.

He hesitates, trying to see over Sam’s shoulder whether anyone is paying attention, and Sam takes advantage of his momentary distraction to rip the shirt up and over his head.

“Damn it,” Dean swears, and reaches for the fabric bunched in his brother’s fist. Sam holds it above his head and pushes Dean back into the corner with his other hand.

Dean bucks forward—not really trying to get free, just testing—and Sam leans into him. Fingers splayed wide in the center of Dean’s chest, warm and steady. It’s effortless for him. Images flash through Dean’s mind: Sam’s hands around his wrists; Sam pinning him to the bed; Sam draped over him, huge and powerful and immovable.

“You like that, don’t you?” Sam murmurs. He drops the shirt on the floor and puts his hands on Dean’s biceps, pushing his unresisting body more firmly against the walls. “Like being held down. You like that I can do this to you—that I can shove you against a wall, over a table, and do whatever I want.”

Dean’s mouth has gone dry again. He tries to swallow and can’t quite remember how.

“Kinky, Dean. Got a few control issues there?” Sam sounds so goddamned smug that Dean’s response is automatic.

“Fuck you.”

Sam shakes his head, eyes filled with a heated amusement. “Haven’t you been paying attention? I don’t bottom.”

He says that like it’s supposed to mean something, and maybe it does. Maybe Dean can figure out what it means if he tries. But he doesn’t want to. They’re not going there.

Sam lowers his head again, mouth brushing over Dean’s collarbone before coming to rest slightly lower down. His tongue is hot and wet against Dean’s chest, tracing along dark lines of ink. He sucks on Dean’s skin and Dean can almost feel the phantom ache of the tattoo artist’s needle.

“And you … call me … kinky …” he pants as his brother laps at the tattoo.

Sam forces himself back at the sound of Dean’s voice. Dean blinks, startled by the abruptness of the movement, and suddenly the fingers of his brother’s right hand are resting against his lower lip. Dean may be a little dazed right now, but he recognizes a command when he sees it.

He opens his mouth.

Sam’s eyes are ravenous, fixed on his index finger as he slides it past Dean’s teeth, but he doesn’t look nearly as out of control as Dean wants him. He wants his brother lost in this, wants him needy and too desperate to do anything but take, and he works at Sam’s finger like he’s starving for it.

Sam groans and Dean sucks harder, flicking his tongue along the salty flesh in frenzied licks. Sam is so focused, all of that intellect and power narrowed down to Dean’s mouth, what Dean’s doing to him, and Dean has never felt so wanted before in his life. This whole thing is spiraling out of control faster than his heart is racing, screwing his relationship with Sam—with his brother—to hell and back, and Dean doesn’t know how to stop it.

He doesn’t want to stop it.

When Sam gives his finger a tiny, experimental thrust, heat spreads through Dean’s groin and he moans around the long digit. He can’t keep his hips from rocking forward, desperate for some friction on his neglected cock, and Sam exhales sharply at the motion.

“So good at that,” Sam breathes. “Want your mouth on me. God, you’re gonna feel so good, Dean.”

Dean’s too caught up in the moment to feel anything but agreement. The thought of going to his knees for Sam, sucking his brother down the way that dozens of girls have done for him, is almost enough to make him come untouched. Dean hangs on the edge of climax, mouth still working around Sam’s finger on instinct, and sees something sharpen in his brother’s gaze.

Sam’s finger is gone from his mouth suddenly, and before his tongue has even stopped moving Sam’s left hand is clutching his hip and his right is shoving back into his pants. Dean shifts automatically, widening his stance in an attempt to give his brother more room to maneuver. He doesn’t know what Sam’s going to do, but he’s pretty sure it’ll feel awesome.

Sam’s breathing is ragged as he pushes his hand back past Dean’s balls, and the sensation of his brother’s wrist rubbing against him there makes Dean hiss. He thinks for a moment that Sam’s going to give the boys a little attention, but that thought is immediately shot to shit because Sam is still reaching, using his hand on Dean’s hip for leverage as he worms his way back to—

“Woah!” Dean yelps. Pulse skipping nervously, he lifts up on his toes in an attempt to avoid the press of his brother’s finger against his asshole.

“Shh,” Sam soothes, relentless. “Gonna feel so good, baby.”

“Don’t call me that,” Dean protests. He feels enough like a girl already without his brother talking to him as though he’s got a set of tits instead of a cock. It’s a stupid thing for him to be fixated on and he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to even address the real problem here. He’s thinking about it enough without actually vocalizing: heart working overtime and stomach clenched in anxious knots.

Dean’s known since he was sixteen how gay sex works in theory, and he’s never been curious enough to try that particular ride. He isn’t too keen on the idea now, either, but damned if he’s gonna pussy out: Sam would never let him hear the end of it.

His determination doesn’t mean that he knows what to do with himself, though. Sam’s finger is pushing up against him, Sam’s eyes intently marking out every twitch of discomfort across his face, and for once there’s nowhere for Dean to hide.

“Just relax,” Sam says, flexing his hand on Dean’s hip.

Easy for him to say, the bastard: he isn’t the one about to have something hard and unyielding shoved up his ass. Man, just the looming pressure is enough to have Dean sweating and so anxious that he’s gotta be leaving bruises on Sam’s biceps. This isn’t going to happen: it’s physically impossible, and Dean doesn’t give a shit what gay guys say. They’re lying, every single one of them.

But there’s no escaping the press of his brother’s finger, and as it slides inevitably into him, the floor drops out from underneath Dean’s feet. There’s a faint, negligible burn that doesn’t really bother him, and a staticy drag that does. He can feel every centimeter of forced ground as Sam pushes in up to the second knuckle—feels himself filled with warm, living flesh—and it’s too weird: at once both too intimate and too public for him to be anywhere near comfortable with it.

He opens his mouth to tell Sam to cut it out already and then chokes as Sam bends his finger. Oh fuck, he’s never felt a burst of arousal this intense, shooting through his body like electricity. It’s like a bolt tumbling into place, hot frissons of pleasure shooting through him and loosening him up, soothing away the ache of penetration. He gives a tentative roll of his hips, fucking down on his brother’s finger, and if this gets any better he’s going to come out of his goddamned skin.

“You like that?” Sam asks. He doesn’t sound like he’s teasing: more like he’s making sure that he isn’t doing anything Dean doesn’t want.

It’s a little like a cop checking the safety on his pistol after he’s handed it around for show and tell at the local elementary school, but Dean recognizes the attempt for what it is. He can feel the weight and depth of his brother’s love like a heavy fog over his skin, and for the first time since Ruby told him what he has to look forward to, he feels completely safe and centered.

Overcome by the desperate, painful response of his own emotions for his brother, Dean can’t make his voice work. He doesn’t want Sam to get the wrong idea, though—doesn’t want him to stop—so he tightens his grip on Sam’s arms and rocks down again.

Sam grins at him—message received loud and clear—and lifts his hand from Dean’s hip to stroke through his sweat-damp hair. “Gonna feel even better,” he says. “I’m gonna take you home, bend you over the sink and open you up. Make you watch yourself in the mirror when I fuck you. Make you see how hot you look—your goddamned eyes, Dean.”

Sam twists his finger and Dean gasps, body straining uncontrollably for more.

“So desperate,” Sam says, and this time he is teasing, flexing his finger in wonderfully agonizing ways. “You’re practically squirming, Dean—you’re already half out of your mind and that’s only my finger. Imagine how my cock’s gonna feel.”

Prying Dean’s left hand off of his arm, Sam brings it down to press against his crotch. The leather there is warm with Sam’s body heat, bulging with the obvious line of his brother’s erection. Dean’s seen Sam’s cock before, took notice in a kind of absently envious way, but the fact that his brother is perfectly proportional suddenly seems vitally important.

“You’re gonna take every inch,” Sam tells him. “I’m gonna take my time opening you so I can just slide right in. Fuck you slow until you’re begging for it and then give it to you as deep and fast as you want. Gonna fuck you until you can’t stand it anymore, Dean, and then I’m gonna carry you over to the bed and do it all over again.”

Dean shakes his head, but he isn’t sure what part of that plan he’s in disagreement with and his hand is caressing Sam’s cock through his pants.

Sam’s breath catches and his hips jerk forward. Dean feels Sam’s cock twitch behind the leather and then Sam drags his hand up and pins it against the wall. Dean goes limp with the rush of arousal and Sam’s eyes flash knowingly.

“I’ll even hold you down if you want. Would you like that?”

Dean tries to respond and can only manage a faint whimper as Sam’s finger presses against the blindingly sweet spot inside of him.

“I’m bigger than you, Dean. Stronger. You couldn’t stop me if you wanted to, but you won’t even try, will you? Because you want this. You want me.”

Sam’s finger moves faster inside of him, pressing repeatedly against that perfect place, and Dean can’t take any more.

“Oh Christ, fuck me, Sam,” he moans. His voice is a shaking, rough thing—demanding and begging all at once—and a broken plea continues to fall from his lips. “Fuck me—God, right here—now—want to feel you, want you inside me—Sammy—fuck me, please—I want—”

Sam makes a choked noise and jerks his finger free. The keening whine that slips from Dean’s throat at the loss would be mortifying if he was at all coherent.

Then Sam’s hand is out of Dean’s pants and on his dick, working it like a piston, and Dean is fucking into his brother’s grip. His ass aches again, pulsing like it misses that fullness, and he’s practically sobbing he’s so desperate.

“Just for me,” Sam says, tripping the words over each other in his haste. “Come on, Dean; let go, baby. So beautiful like this, so goddamned perfect—mine, my Dean, my—fucking gorgeous—”

Dean’s mouth opens on a silent scream as he comes, dick jerking with a violence that borders on painful. When it’s over, he rests his forehead against his brother’s shoulder, staring down at what they just did—what he let happen.

Sam is still cradling his cock, thumb sliding over the sensitive skin in a restless caress. There’s a slick mess all over Sam’s skin: on his shirt and the crotch of his pants. Dean’s pants didn’t escape completely unscathed either, although he isn’t nearly as wet as his brother.

Brother.

“Oh my God,” Dean says faintly.

Sam’s silent for a second, and then he asks, “If I let go of you long enough to clean us up, are you going to bolt?”

Maybe. Fuck, Dean would be bolting now if he could get his legs to work. And if he wouldn’t get himself arrested for indecent exposure, running around with his cock hanging out. Man, Henricksen would love adding that to his file.

“Dean?”

“I don’t know.”

Sam surges forward and kisses him again. Licks into him deep and steadying and with an underlying fire that has Dean wishing he were sixteen again, with a sixteen-year-old’s recovery time. The sparking desire should freak him out more, but instead it’s making him think about the things Sam promised to do to him.

When Sam finally eases back, he eyes Dean cautiously. Ready to take more drastic action if that minor distraction didn’t work.

Dean swallows and then rasps, “Okay, I’m good.”

Sam uses Dean’s discarded shirt to mop up the worst of the mess and then drops it back to the floor. When he finally lets Dean out of the corner, he stays close, one hand firmly on the small of Dean's back, and steers him straight for the exit.

Dean doesn’t protest. He’s already half-hard again from the knowledge that he looks freshly fucked. And from the fact that everyone who sees the smug, cat-got-the-canary expression on Sam’s face will immediately know who by. Sam crowds him, possessive and towering, and whispers in his ear all the dirtyhot things he’s going to do to Dean’s body once they get back to the motel.

When the night air hits his bare chest, Sam’s palm a point of fire at the base of his spine, Dean considers panicking again. Then Sam’s fingers inch underneath the waist of his pants and he shoves the impulse away.

He can always freak out when he wakes up tomorrow morning. When he’ll really have something to freak out over.

It’s just practical to wait.