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Going Down Swinging

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It's dark and quiet, even with the stone walls; the dust swallows up sound and the space is small enough not to echo. Air is filtering down through the cracked marble, and there's water in Sam's knapsack and candy bars in Dean's pockets. They've got days to dig out, theoretically, and they just finished a knock-down drag-out fight against a pissed-off marble-slab-hurling vengeful spirit in the damn thing's own catacombs, so right now they're just lying here with their heads pillowed on their arms. Sam thinks it says something profound and depressing about their lives that this is the most relaxed they've been in months.

"You know, this is relaxing?" Dean says, echo of his thoughts, except he adds, "Pretty funny when you think about it."

"Yeah," Sam says. "Hilarious."

Dean kicks him in the ankle. Repeatedly, until Sam gets annoyed enough to forget that he's way too old for this shit, and jabs Dean in the side with an elbow.

"Ow, fuck, man, you got my ribs," Dean says. "I think they're cracked from before."

"Suck it up, bitch," Sam says, unrepentant; if Dean was really hurt he wouldn't whine.

"Give me some water." Dean drinks without lifting his head much. There isn't exactly a lot of overhead room. He hands back the bottle and waits until Sam is drinking, then pokes him right in the armpit so Sam jerks and splutters, choking, and water goes up his nose.

He gets the cap on top of the water, still wiping his face. "You asshole, we don't have that much."

Dean just laughs. "We'll be out by morning, we're not that deep. I can see moonlight."

"Lucky for you, man, because you're not getting any more," Sam says.

Dean shifts around next to him, and says, "I am if you want some of my Snickers," out of the corner of his mouth, around chocolate and peanuts, the smell filling their little pocket of air. This means war. Sam squirms over on his side and grabs for the candy bar.

It's not much of a fight when they have a total of ten inches to move in any direction, and it ends peacably with a third of a candy bar apiece and another third mostly smushed on their hands and faces. Dean starts licking his fingers clean, sucking on them noisily.

"Will you quit that?" Sam says.

"Oh, man, this is good, oh, yeah, baby," Dean says, groaning like a bad porno, sucking even louder.

"I hate you," Sam says.

"Mmmmmmm," Dean says, and Sam smacks him in the face. Bad tactical move: Dean grabs his wrist and starts licking his fingers, and okay, that's just—

"Come on, man, gross," Sam says, trying to wrench free.

"Haven't been practicing enough with the grippers, Sammy?" Dean says between licks, his voice full of smug grinning. Sam's gotten used to having the advantage sparring since that delirious summer when the growth spurt hit, but Dean's grip is like fucking iron, and Sam can't break it without enough room to use his weight for leverage.

"Get—off—me—" Sam says through his teeth, yanking.

"Mm, mm, good," Dean says, and cracks up laughing against Sam's hand, warm breath skating over the wet trails his tongue's leaving, and Sam starts to get panicky, because this is about to go from annoying to seriously fucking weird if he doesn't get Dean to quit, and why Dean isn't seeing that yet—

Sam's eyes narrow. Okay, the jerk is going down. He pitches his voice as low as it gets and says, "Hey, that is good." Dean freezes like someone just put a gun in his face, hands loosening, and sweet, sweet victory is in the air. "Come on, don't stop now," Sam says, getting ready to pull free, and adds, "baby."

That last baby might have been a mistake, because Dean's grip tightens right back up. He says, "Hey, I didn't know you swung that way, Sammy," and licks a slow stripe across Sam's wrist right to the pulse point, and fuck, that's, fuck, and Sam's not faking the heavy breathing, even though he hopes to God that Dean thinks he is; trust Dean to take thirty seconds to stumble over what took Sam four years and three girlfriends to find. And this was a really bad day to not wear a jacket, because if Dean slides his other hand just a little way down from the wrist and hits the inner crook of Sam's elbow, they're both going to get a really freaky surprise.

Sam hasn't got a lot of time or a lot of room to work with, his other hand pinned under Dean's shoulder, so the best he can do is lean over and go for Dean's ear, whisper, "I guess I just can't help myself as long as you keep doing that," and lick just once real quick across the lobe.

"Huh," Dean says, a little weird and high, "then maybe you'd better ask me to stop," playing chicken with this, and it makes Sam angry enough to say, "No, I'm done asking," and take Dean's earlobe in his teeth, tug a little, suck on it.

Dean's breathing against his wrist open-mouthed now, his hands still gripping hard on Sam's arm. "I don't know, man, I don't think I can stop myself without a request."

There's a streak of chocolate on his jaw. Sam takes it, salty and sweet under his tongue with the rasp of Dean's five-o'clock shadow, and then he hisses in Dean's ear, "I'm going for your mouth next," and Dean laughs, shaky and relieved, and says in something pretending to be his normal voice, "Oh, yeah, like hell you are. Nice try, Sammy," and then he rubs his hand down Sam's forearm, condescending.

Sam can't fucking breathe for a second, and then he's got his other hand cupping Dean's head, turning it towards him, and he's got one flash of Dean's holy shit face and then he's licking chocolate and air out of Dean's wet, shocked mouth. Then Dean lets go; he lets go, when it's already too late, and oh, fuck, what the hell now, except Dean's grabbing his hip and pulling him over onto his side, pushing his leg between Sam's thighs.

"I've got to tell you, man," Dean's saying, panting, while they're shoving down their pants, "you've got one fucking weird idea of turn-ons," trying to keep this something like the two of them just screwing around even though his voice is breaking, and Sam's laughing and crying at the same time, loving him so fucking much, and it's scary how how easy it is to say, "Oh, you started it, man, I'm just bringing it home," while he's wrapping his hand around Dean's cock.

"Oh, fuck yeah," Dean says, in a kind of surprised way. Sam's sucking on his neck, and it turns out that Dean's got his own hot spot right there from the way he throws his head back and makes a sound like "nngh" and quits jerking Sam to grab onto his shoulders. Sam shoves his hips up against Dean's and grips them together while white marble dust speckles down all over them.

"Jesus, you're good at this, who'd have thought," Dean mutters, thrusting into his hand and kissing him like crazy now, all over his jaw. Sam says, "Yeah, man, you'd better believe it," trash-talking and leaning in to nuzzle at Dean's cheek. He's getting laid with his brother, his hip is scraping against a marble slab with every shudder, and they'll be thirsty as hell before they finally claw their way out of this fucking crypt in the morning, but it's okay, none of that matters even a little, because they'll be together all the way.

= End =

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