Work Header

Keeping Count

Work Text:

The first thing to remember about Rocky Mountain Bear Fuckers is that they taste like shit.

The second thing to remember about Rocky Mountain Bear Fuckers is that they hit really hard: they got that name for a reason, you know.

The third thing to remember about Rocky Mountain Bear Fuckers is that you should never, ever shoot them with the kid brother you’ve been lusting after for the past seven years.

Dean remembered two out of three. Unfortunately, it was the third and most important that he’d forgotten, which was what led to him slurring out (somewhere around the eighth or ninth shot), “You’re so fucking gorgeous, you know that, Sammy?”

And really, things still might have been okay if Sam had done what he was supposed to: laugh it off and point out that Dean was a really horny drunk.

Instead, Sam broke the rules and leaned forward and kissed him.

Which resulted in body shots, which resulted in Dean passing out, which ultimately resulted in a two-day-long bitch of a hangover that had both of them snapping at each other and throwing empty water bottles at the window in fits of anger that the sun. Would. Not. Stop. Shining. In. His. Goddamned. Face.

Maybe that last one was just Dean.

When the world finally stopped masquerading as a throbbing migraine, Dean remembered some of what had happened on The Night That Would Never Be Mentioned Again, and started worrying about how much Sam remembered. Sam didn’t seem to treat him any differently, though, and after a few days Dean decided that Sam’s own memories of that night resembled a black blur. With a hidden sigh of relief, he relaxed his guard and went back to taunting his little brother mercilessly, and then eyeing him up and down whenever he was reasonably sure that Sam wasn’t looking.

A few weeks later at a little Wyoming tavern with the quaint name of Smokey’s Saloon, Sam went up to the bar to get them refills on their beers and came back juggling four shot glasses instead. Dean eyed them warily. They looked familiar, and not in a good way.

“Where’s my beer?” he asked.

Sam just shrugged and then put not one, but all four of the shots down in front of him. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“If those are what I think they are, it’s somewhere over in Australia.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “What, you drink a little too much one night and you sign off on them all together?”

“I notice you don’t have any,” Dean pointed out.

“I’m not stupid.”

“And I am?” Dean grimaced, pushing the shots across the table at Sam.

Sam leaned forward on the table and said, “I dare you.”

Dean blinked. “What?”

“I dare you to drink them.”

Glancing at the evil shots, Dean shook his head. “I’m not twelve, you know.”

“Double dare you to drink them.”

What the hell was up with Sam? Dean shifted a little in his seat and squared his jaw. “Look, you can triple dog dare me or whatever, but I’m not drinking that shit.”

Sam shrugged again. “Okay, fine. If you can’t handle it, then—”

Scowling, Dean batted Sam’s hands away from the shots. “Fucking asshole,” he muttered under his breath, and then downed the nasty things, one after another.

When he’d banged the last glass down on the table, he held onto the worn wood for dear life, holding down his gorge by sheer willpower. He was Dean Winchester, damn it, and he wasn’t going to puke. He wasn’t going to let four measly shots take him down, no matter how foul they were. Finally, his stomach settled enough for him to relax and open his eyes again.

Sam was grinning at him.

“There, you sick bastard, I hope you enjoyed that. Now go get me something to wash that godforsaken taste out of my mouth.”

Sam went and brought back something pink with an umbrella. Dean regarded it suspiciously for a moment—normally he wouldn’t touch something that looked like that with a ten-foot pole—and then took a sip. Fruity and sweet and not too bad, actually. Not that he’d admit it.

By the time Dean had finished the pink thing, he was feeling pretty good. Real loose and relaxed. He started scanning the bar for an easy hookup and then felt Sam’s hand on his shoulder. He looked up at his brother numbly. “What?”

“Come on; time to go.”

Dean snorted. “I’ll see you back at the motel, Sammy. Don’t wait—” Up, he was going to say, but then he was being lifted up and he shut his mouth. Sam shoved Dean’s coat in his arms and started leading him toward the door. They were halfway there before Dean thought of resisting.

“What the hell, dude?” he demanded, planting his feet. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking you home,” Sam answered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And really, when Dean considered it he supposed that it was. What else was Sam going to do? Take him out back and fuck him?

Dean’s dick perked up at that stray thought and he frowned down at it as he let Sam pull him out of the bar and manhandle him into the Impala. Now was really not the time for Dean Jr. to be butting into things, especially since it looked like Dean was stuck with his own hand and his kid brother in the room. That kind of situation could lead to all kinds of unpleasant things.

Dean felt a little clearer when they got back to the motel. He even managed to steal the keys from Sam and get the door open all by himself. Really, he didn’t feel all that drunk at all anymore—more tipsy than anything else, and—

“Dean,” Sam said from behind him.

Dean turned and Sam was on him, pushing him up against the wall and kicking the door shut. Kissing him, hungry and wet and hard.

“Mmph!” Dean said, shocked and more than a little worried that he’d mislaid his real brother for a skinwalker somewhere. Then Sam pulled back slightly and used one of his hands to trace the side of Dean’s face, his eyes dark and intent.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Dean asked hoarsely.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Sam said, which didn’t answer Dean’s question at all, and then added, “Kissing you, I mean,” which got him right up to speed on things.

“Oh,” Dean said brilliantly.

“Did you mean it?” Sam wanted to know. “What you said?”

Dean cast his mind back to those hazy memories and the only answer he had to give was, “Maybe? I don’t, uh, really remember all that well.”

Sam ducked his head and bit into the side of Dean’s neck—once, almost delicately. He sucked at the flesh in his mouth and then let it go, licking at the spot like a cat. “You said,” he mumbled, “You said that you loved me.”

Dean’s hands came up to wrap around Sam’s biceps, and he arched forward, riding on a gentle wave of alcohol and arousal. “Sure,” he agreed.

Sam dropped his own hands to Dean’s waist and pushed them up underneath his shirt. Dean’s stomach muscles twitched underneath his brother’s fingers. “You said you wanted me.”

Dean nodded and then threw his head back into the wall as Sam slid a knee up between his legs. “Hell yeah.”

Sam was grinning as he tugged Dean’s shirt up off over his head, but his eyes were solemn: drinking Dean’s body in like an alcoholic eyeing his next beer. He tilted his head and mouthed at Dean’s earlobe. Between bites, he whispered, “You said you wanted me to fuck you.”

Dean’s hands, which had been roaming southward down his brother’s body, clutched at Sam’s hips convulsively. “Jesus, Sam!” he blurted.

“Do you?” Sam pressed, rocking his thigh up against Dean while he worked at getting Dean’s belt off. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

Dean clenched his mouth shut. He wasn’t going to answer—as though Sam needed him to with Dean’s hands dipping down underneath his pants to cup his ass and pull him closer. Dean wasn’t going to answer because it was too close to begging, and no way in hell was he going to beg Sam for this. Sam could do it if he wanted to—and it was looking more and more like he did, hallelujah and all that—but Dean Winchester didn’t beg for sex. Not from anyone.

Sam had managed to get Dean’s belt off and now he opened the front of Dean’s jeans and slid his hand inside. Dean groaned as Sam’s fingers wrapped around him and thrust forward instinctively, only to be stilled by Sam’s left hand on his hip. Glaring at his brother through a haze, he tried to move again and went absolutely nowhere. Sam always had been better at this wrestling shit, with his weight advantage and those freakishly long arms and legs. And now Dean was drunk and Sam wasn’t.

“Planned this—son of a—bitch—” Dean panted, struggling to move, to get friction somehow.

“Well, if I’d waited for you to make a move, we both would’ve died of old age,” Sam said, sounding too reasonable and collected for Dean’s peace of mind.

Dean pulled his hands out of the back of Sam’s jeans and started fumbling at his brother’s belt. Let’s see how calm Sam was when Dean was jacking him off to within an inch of his life. He’d just managed to get the tongue of the belt loose when Sam’s hand disappeared from around his cock and then Dean was being half-dragged, half-carried over toward the beds. Sam shoved him down on one of them—Sam’s bed, Dean thought—and then one of Sam’s big hands closed around both of Dean’s wrists and drew them over his head.

“Now,” Sam said, wrapping his free hand back around Dean’s cock, “Let’s try this again. Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Goddamn it, Sam!” Dean swore as he tried to thrust into Sam’s grip only to be stopped again by the weight of his brother’s body dropping on top of him.

“Come on, Dean,” Sam whispered, and his eyes held a sudden nervousness that took Dean by surprise. “I need to know you want this. I need—I need to know it wasn’t just the alcohol talking.”

“You think getting me drunk again before asking was a great idea?”

Sam’s face was serious as he answered, “There’s a difference between drunk and trashed.”

Yeah, there was. Dean understood that. He even understood what Sam wanted—what he needed—right now. That didn’t make it any easier, of course. Dean licked his lips. “Can’t we just—”

“No. I need you to say it.” And Sam slowly dragged his thumb over the head of Dean’s cock.

“Fine!” Dean gasped, “I want you to fuck me. Can we do this now or what?”

But Sam wasn’t done. “How long?” he wanted to know.

“What?” Dean groaned. It was getting really difficult to concentrate with Sam’s hand slowly tightening and then loosening its grip again.

“How long have you wanted this?”

“Christ, Sam, I don’t know! Does it matter?”

Sam just smiled, looking completely confident and in charge again, and kept up that steady rhythm of squeeze, release, squeeze, release. “One year? Two?”

“Yes!” Jesus, that felt good! Just a little more—a little faster, a little harder.

“Before Stanford?” Sam prodded.

“Yes, damn it!”

“How long, Dean?” Sam whispered. He rounded his back so that he could lick a slow line up Dean’s chest. Ran his tongue teasingly over one nipple. “How many years?”

“Se—oh God—seven.”

Sam lifted his head and shit, Dean should have kept his mouth shut. He knew it even before Sam said anything—could read the intent in Sam’s wicked smile and the gleam in his slanting eyes. “Seven years, huh?” Sam mused, his hand starting to work Dean harder, faster. “That’s some self-control.”

Dean’s breath sped as Sam’s hips lifted, finally giving him room to move. He bit his lip and started pumping himself through the tight ring of Sam’s hand. There was no lube or spit to loosen the way, but that dry friction was just as good, and things were finally getting interesting. Sam was hovering over him, still pinning Dean’s hands to the mattress, still with that mischievous smile on his face. But it started to matter less and less as Dean got closer to release, his breath becoming ragged, his rhythm stuttering. His whole body shuddered on the edge of orgasm, and—

And Sam dropped down on top of him, tightening his grip on Dean’s cock and cutting him off at the pass. Dean turned his head to the side and panted, “You bastard!”

Sam kissed him on the cheek, almost chastely, and then said, “That’s one, Dean. One year.”

Dean’s eyes flashed open in horror. Sam couldn’t be serious, could he? “You w-wouldn’t—” he moaned, trying to concentrate through the ache in his balls.

“Oh, no?” Sam asked, holding him still. Waiting for him to come back down from the edge.

“Get off me, you fucker!” Dean growled, shoving up and twisting. Sam shifted back a little and then replanted himself firmly.

“If you really want me to, I will,” he said when Dean had settled again. “But that’s it. If I get up now, we’re done. Because if we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it my way.”

“Why?” Dean almost sobbed. God, his little brother was a mean fuck. Literally.

Sam’s shoulders rolled in what would probably have been a shrug if his arms weren’t in such a weird position. “Think of it as payback for the Nair, and the noogies in the backseat, and all the times you glued my hand to the doorknob.”

Looking up into his brother’s face, Dean thought that there was some truth in that, but it wasn’t the whole reason. No, Sam was doing this because he was a bossy son of a bitch in bed, and he wanted to know if Dean could handle it. And as soon as he realized that, Dean squeezed his eyes shut as his body tried to come a second time. Sam tightened his grip further and Dean groaned, straining fruitlessly towards release. Looked like he was a little bit more than okay with Sam being in charge when it came to this kind of thing.

Sam looked just as surprised as Dean by what had just happened, and he had to swallow before he said, “That’s two. Only five left.” His voice was fucked out, his pupils blown wide. “You still want me to let you up?”

Jesus, Dean was so screwed. “No.”

Sam’s grip flexed once around Dean’s wrists. “You gonna stay still if I let go?”

Dean shuddered in something that almost—but not quite—counted as another year. “Yeah,” he breathed.

Sam slowly released Dean’s wrists, watching as Dean held himself completely still, waiting. When he was certain that Dean had been telling the truth, Sam slid down to kneel between his legs, pulling Dean’s jeans and boxers off as he went. Dean lay there feeling vulnerable and helpless and really fucking horny while Sam raked his eyes across him. Sam, who was still fully clothed and showed no signs of wanting to strip, and that was a way bigger turn on than it should have been. Kinky much, Winchester?

Dean almost moved when Sam pulled him to the edge of the bed and lowered his mouth down onto Dean’s cock, but he remembered at the last second that he wasn’t supposed to. He lay there feeling the tension build again as Sam worked him, pulling him in deep and flicking his tongue against the base of Dean’s cock like they’d done this a million times before. Felt that tight pull low in his groin and his cock pulse in readiness, and then Sam pulled back and held Dean’s hips still.

“Three,” he said, voice rough.

It hurt so much that Dean was positive he was going to lose his mind before Sam got to five, let alone seven. He fumbled around for something to focus on—something to distract himself with—and finally asked, “How do you—Jesus Christ, Sam, how do you know?”

Looking up through his bangs, Sam went back to using his hand. “When you’re close?” he said, and Dean’s head jerked in a nod. “Number of times you’ve whacked off in our room, you think I didn’t learn your tells?” Bastard sounded smug. Dean wanted to tell him off and couldn’t find the words as Sam, maintaining steady eye contact, moved his other hand down between Dean’s legs. Sam licked his lips, tracing one finger down the underside of Dean’s balls. Lower.

“Fuck!” Dean cursed, and then greyed out as Sam hamstrung him again.

When he came back to himself, Sam was working him open. He must have gotten lube from somewhere because Dean felt slick and wet and the intrusion didn’t hurt. Or maybe that was because his dick felt like it was gonna fall off if he didn’t come soon.

“That was four,” Sam said as soon as Dean’s eyes focused on him. “I don’t think you heard me when I counted it off before.”

“Sam—Sammy—I don’t—think I can—”

“Sure you can,” Sam soothed, and then, smirking, added, “I dare you.”

Dean swallowed the pleas for release he’d been about to make. “J-jerk,” he stuttered.

Sam’s smile softened like Dean had said something else, and he kissed him through number five, all bites and licks and a burning hunger that told Dean things were gonna be really, really good when Sam finally got going.

By the time they hit six, Dean was begging. He dropped all pretense of dignity and just let go, sweating and shaking and moaning while Sam’s fingers fucked into him, loose and ready now. He wanted to touch himself and didn’t, every muscle strained and tight with need.

“Please, Sam—please I can’t—I need, I—Jesus please, Sammy—Sammy—please,” he babbled, writhing on the bed with fistfuls of bedcovers clenched in his hands.

“Shh, just one more. You can do it.”

“Can’t—oh fuck, Sammy, I’m gonna die I swear to God, please, just—” Then Sam’s fingers stroked in at just the right angle and there was no way he was going to be able to keep Dean from climaxing this time because this wasn’t an orgasm, it was some kind of cataclysmic event, like a supernova or something. God wouldn’t have been able to stop it. But Sam moved his hands quickly to press against Dean’s balls and dick and apparently Sam could stop him because the unbearable pressure wasn’t going anywhere.

Sobbing, Dean bucked blindly against the restraining hold Sam had on him, caught by sensation like a fly in amber. He seemed to hang there for hours, poised on the edge of a cresting wave that refused to tip over, and then, finally, it ebbed back. Left him staring up at the ceiling with his mouth hanging open as he tried to remember how to breathe.

“Seven,” Sam whispered reverently, and then immediately pushed Dean’s legs wider and slid up between them, fumbling his jeans open as he moved. Dean jerked as his brother finally entered him on one smooth thrust. Sam’s hand surrounded his cock again and Dean almost screamed before he realized that this time it was meant as an encouragement.

He lasted for about five seconds of Sam sliding in and out of him like an overheated piston and then he was finally—finally—coming. One of Sam’s hands on his arm, the other on his cock, Sam’s breath panting into his mouth, Sam’s cock hot and urgent inside him, and Jesus now Dean knew what all those pornos meant when they talked about coming so hard you thought you were dying. It hurt, God it hurt, but it hurt so fucking good and it seemed to go on and on while Sam kept moving in him, and then Sam’s hold on his arm tightened as he went abruptly still.

Sam, Dean marveled as his own body continued to shudder and shatter around his brother. Sammy.

When he was capable of rational thought again, Dean was trembling underneath Sam with the aftershocks of the most intense orgasm he’d ever had still running through him. Sam was panting open-mouthed against his neck, his body heavy and loose on top of Dean’s. Dean realized that his brother was still completely dressed and groaned as his exhausted dick did its best to come again.

“You okay?” Sam muttered.

It took Dean a couple of tries, but he finally managed to gasp, “I think you broke me.”

“You break it, you bought it,” Sam said lazily, and burrowed his head down into Dean’s shoulder.

“I’m not cuddling with you, you sadistic asshole.” And yeah, that would have been a lot more convincing if Dean hadn’t been idly running his fingers through the hair at the nape of his brother’s neck.

Sam snorted. “Not cuddling. Just too tired to move.”

“You’re not the one who just spent—” Dean rolled his eyes to glance at the clock and winced. “Three hours getting cockblocked.”

“No, I’m the one who just came four times in three hours. That shit hurts, Dean.”

“You’re young, you can take it.”

Sam made a small noise of assent and didn’t say anything else.

After a few minutes, Dean cleared his throat and said, “Hey, Sam?”

“Mmm?” Kid sounded half-asleep already.

“Do you, uh, can we, um …”

“Yes, Dean, we can do that again. Now shut up and go to sleep already, will you? I’m tired.”

Dean obediently shut his mouth and waited for Sam’s breathing to even out into the rhythms of sleep. Then he pinched his brother, hard, on the back of the neck.

Sam’s head came up instantly. “‘M up!” he yelped, and then caught sight of Dean grinning at him and narrowed his eyes. “What the hell was that for? I was trying to—”

“One,” Dean said solemnly.

The black eye he ended up with in the ensuing scuffle was totally worth it.