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The Bright Lights of Disturbia

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In retrospect, what Sam should have done when he heard the moaning coming from downstairs was go back to bed. But it’s his place too, and he can tell from the quality of the noise that he isn’t going to be interrupting anything more embarrassing than his roommate jerking off in front of the TV. After living with Dean for so many years and walking in on his older brother with his head between some girl’s legs God only knew how many times, a little masturbation isn’t enough to deter him from seeking out his much needed morning cup of coffee.

So instead of doing the smart thing, he staggers down the last few stairs and into the living room. Jack is sitting on the couch wearing nothing more than a pair of boxers. He hasn’t actually taken his dick out yet: he’s just cupping himself and rubbing lightly through the cotton.

“Hey,” he mutters without looking at Sam. His eyes are all but glued to the screen in front of him: hand still moving absently against his dick.

Sam is still defenseless enough with sleep that it makes him think of Dean, shameless with their cramped quarters and utter lack of social graces. His chest aches with the memory and he rubs his eyes, frowning, like that’s going to silence any of the tangled emotions that thoughts of his brother brings. Offering his roommate a grunt in greeting—Jack’s the sort of guy who takes offense if he thinks you’re ignoring him—he shuffles through the living room and into the kitchen.

The movie is still on when Sam comes back out with his coffee and, after a moment of hesitation, he heads over to the couch and drops down on the other end. They’ve been roommates for over a year now, after all, and it isn’t like Jack is doing anything Sam hasn’t done himself. Also, he’s curious about the movie. Jack’s collection is pretty fucking sparse, and this doesn’t sound like anything Sam has had the dubious pleasure of seeing before.

“Rise and shine, huh?” he says, watching as some porn star’s dick is suckled in extreme close up by one of the nicest-looking mouths he’s ever seen. He can tell from the corner of his eye that Jack has moved on to the main event, but is careful not to look over. There’s protocol for this sort of thing, after all, and he managed to learn the basics despite his brother’s exhibitionist streak.

“Fuck off, Winchester,” Jack pants without meaning it.

“Isn’t it a little early for porn?” Sam prods, taking a sip from his mug.

“Obviously not.”

They’re quiet for a while, watching the blow job up close and personal, and as pretty as that mouth is, Sam’s starting to get bored with the view when the camera cuts wide and he almost chokes on his coffee. Because those lips may be girly as hell, but they aren’t attached to any kind of girl Sam has ever seen.

“Fuck,” Jack says, low and punched, and comes with a groan.

It wasn’t awkward before, but now it is. Now it’s extremely awkward, and Sam sits there with all of his muscles clenched and a mug of coffee in one hand and stares studiously at the TV. He watches as Lips gets a face full of come—it splatters out across the half-face panther mask he’s wearing and onto his perfect mouth—and listens to the meaningless, lame dialogue as the scene continues to play out.

“Pretty kitty like your milk?” Cock asks, sliding his spent dick across Lips’ jaw and smearing come. Sam would probably be rolling his eyes if he wasn’t feeling so embarrassed (and yeah, okay, a little turned on: Lips’ mouth is ridiculous). Lips’ response is a husky request for more—just the right amount of embarrassed arousal in the whisper to send a little pulse of heat through Sam’s groin—and then he’s being bent over the arm of a couch and—

“Is this gonna be a problem?” Jack asks finally from beside him.

For a moment, Sam hesitates. He’s just about the last person who can throw stones about whether his roommate likes a little cock in between bouts of pussy, but now that his shock is wearing off, he’s also a little annoyed that Jack picked gay porn as an acceptable method of outing himself. It’s safe to glance over now—Jack has cleaned up and tucked away and is now watching Sam with obvious nerves—and Sam does so.

“Your complete lack of taste in pornos?” he says blandly. “Yeah. Definitely. I was whacking off to better stuff than this when I was ten.”

Jack just looks at Sam for a few seconds and then his face splits in a wide grin and he tosses a pillow at him. Sam gets his arm up to block in time to avoid a lapful of coffee and laughs.

“Prick,” Jack mutters. “I’ll have you know this is high quality stuff.” He leans forward and grabs the remote. “Check this shit out.”

Two chapter skips later and Sam is watching Lips move on top of Cock: muscles flexing as he works himself on Cock’s dick. It can’t be comfortable—Sam has seen enough porn to know that tops are generally chosen according to size, and Cock is definitely not an exception to that rule—but Lips is making a good show of liking it anyway: breathy moans and surprised gasps like it’s the first time he’s has his prostate pounded. Lips’ own cock is red and swollen (not too shabby, for a porno bottom, size-wise) and liberally leaking precome. Even through the pixilated image of their crappy TV set, Sam can tell that he’s more than ready to come, and wonders what the hell is stopping him until the camera angle shifts and he sees the black band of a cock ring restraining Lips’ balls and cock.

“So fucking hot,” Jack says as Lips tosses his head back with a groan. And yeah, okay, Sam wouldn’t kick the guy out of bed if he had a chance—compact body, slender hips, that goddamned mouth—but he doesn’t see what’s so …



There’s another man on the bed now, pushing Lips down against Cock’s chest and dragging his own cock across Lips’ taut, well-muscled ass, and Sam doesn’t need to be a psychic to know where this is going.

“You gotta be shitting me,” he says because he’s heard of this but he’s never actually seen it. Never actually tried to wrap his head around the logistics of cramming that much into such a small opening. All the prep in the world wouldn’t be enough not to make this hurt, and the close-ups of Cock Number One’s dick still pumping in and out of Lips show a hole that already looks red and sore.

“Dude, he takes it all,” Jack says in a respectfully awe-filled voice.

On the TV, Cock Number Two’s dick is nudging up against that too-filled hole, teasing, and a rough voice is growling, “You want it? One cock’s not enough, is it, little kitty? Gonna stuff you so full … gonna make you scream … but you gotta ask for it first.”

It’s just bad porn dialogue, just the same as a hundred other lines Sam has heard, but there’s a pit forming in his stomach all the same. For no reason at all, his whole body is suddenly tingling in warning.

“Please,” Lips whimpers, and Sam’s stomach twists with something awkward and nervous that he can’t identify.

Lips is begging, but Sam isn’t sure what for because he sounds turned on, sort of, but he also sounds really fucking frightened, and—and then Cock Number Two is working his way inside and Lips is writhing and whimpering and whining and making these half-greedy, half-hurt noises that are making Sam both want to be somewhere else and want to be sitting here alone so that he can reach into his sweats and pull his own dick out.

“What I wouldn’t give to nail that,” Jack breathes.

Sam starts to nod and then the camera cuts again to Cock Number Two’s hand on Lips’ hip and the world stutters to a stop. He stares numbly at the screen as Cock Number Two finally sinks home and immediately starts moving—Cock Number One holding Lips’ wrists to keep him still as he’s fucked—and it isn’t true. It can’t be.

But now that he’s seen it, he keeps seeing it everywhere—the curve of Lips’ mouth, the clench of his jaw, the tapered hips and broad shoulders. The scar on his hip just above where Cock Number Two is holding on: three thin, parallel lines like a claw mark. Then Cock Number One is turning Lips’ head to the side—toward the camera—and Lips opens his eyes and they’re fogged and dazed and greengreengreen, and holy fucking shit it’s Dean.

Sam jerks his head away from the screen so that he doesn’t have to see anymore. Wishes he could block his ears as well as the grunts and “mm, yeah, take it, baby, such a tight little ass”s continue to assault him.

“Where did you get this?” he croaks through a throat that feels five sizes too small.

“All Boy Video down on Jackson,” Jack answers lazily, like he didn’t just get off on watching Sam’s brother—his Dean, his—servicing another guy. Like he doesn’t look like he’s thinking about pulling it out again for another go. “It’s the new Hunters in Heat film: Pussycat Fever. Just came out last week and it’s already on the bestseller list.”

It can’t be Dean. Can’t be. Dean might be carnal, but he isn’t—he doesn’t do stuff like this. He doesn’t perform for other people. And he sure as hell isn’t gay. He isn’t even bi!

This has to be some kind of mistake.

“The guy—with the mask—he’s. He’s been around for a while?”

“First movie,” Jack answers. “It’s actually pretty cute. They’ve got his audition interview on the extras and he tries to make like he’s an old hat at it. Like they wouldn’t have given him the job anyway, way he looks.” His voice has gone soft and fond, and more than anything else that makes Sam’s chest tighten. Objectifying his brother (if it’s him, which it isn’t, can’t be) is one thing: developing some kind of crush on him is another matter altogether.

Sam looks back at the TV with reluctant fascination. Dean—no, Lips—is shuddering and panting, “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” (Christ he sounds like Dean, now that Sam is listening for it) while two cocks slide in and out of him. The movie cuts to a close up of his hole, bright red and painful-looking and glistening with lube as it’s fucked. Then Cock Number Two is pulling out and fisting his dick and come is splattering out across Lips’ lower back and ass. Lips moans, hips twitching at the sensation, and Cock Number One rolls him over onto his back, pulls out, and shoots on his stomach and chest.

That was the money shot, it has to be over now, except for how it isn’t.

“Lap up your milk like a good kitty,” Cock Number Two says, “and maybe we’ll let you come.”

Sam’s stomach burns with shame and embarrassment as Lips manages to get himself up on one elbow and takes Cock Number Two’s dick in his mouth. His legs are splayed wide—thoughtlessly, Sam thinks—and while he licks Cock Number Two clean, Cock Number One pulls them wider so that the camera can get a good close up of his gaping, fucked-out ass. Sam’s own ass aches in sympathy and he winces: guy’s gonna be feeling that for a week at least. He’s still hard, though, dick curving up full and needy toward his stomach, and Sam can’t fucking watch this anymore. He can’t.

But he doesn’t take his eyes from the screen until Lips has finished cleaning both dicks and finally (after the cock ring has been removed with teasing slowness) come all over himself, adding to the mess already there. The last shot of the film is of Lips alone on the bed: skin covered in come and sweat and legs splayed wide. The camera zooms in on his face—on that come-smeared mouth—and then fades to black.

“God, I hope he makes more films,” Jack says as the credits start to roll.

Sam sort of wants to punch his roommate, but then again he’s sitting there with an erection the size of Cleveland tenting his sweats. Which leaves him wanting to punch himself even more.

“You want me to leave you two alone?” Jack asks, raising one eyebrow.

Sam shifts and very carefully doesn’t adjust himself. “Nah, man,” he says as he gets up. “Got class in half an hour. I should get dressed.”

“Suit yourself.” Jack gives him a grin and then nudges a DVD case that’s sitting on the coffee table with his foot. “You know where my collection is if you’re ever in the mood.”


Sam spends a miserable, frustrated day in class and at work—making sandwiches has never felt like such a waste of time—and then rushes home in an attempt to score some alone time with the DVD player before Jack gets back. Turns out he didn’t need to bother: there’s a note from Jack on the kitchen table letting Sam know that he’s going to Theta Delt’s annual Cave Party and doesn’t expect to be back tonight. Sam puts the note back down, feeling suddenly awkward, and spends the next hour making dinner for himself. He sits in the kitchen, eating and staring blankly at his psychology textbook and watching a rerun of this morning’s movie in his mind.

Fuck, he’s hard.

The phone rings just as he’s finishing up and he answers it without thinking. “Hi.”

“Hey, Sam,” Jess’ voice greets him warmly. “How’re you doing?”

“Uh.” Sam grimaces. He didn’t think he could feel more uncomfortable about this whole situation, but talking on the phone with his sort of, hopefully girlfriend while he’s sporting an erection from thoughts about a gay porno that may or may not have starred his brother is bringing him to new lows.

Damn it, Dean.


“No, sorry, I’m good. Just tired.”

“Oh,” Jess says, sounding disappointed. “I hope you didn’t get that bug that’s been going around.”

“I don’t think so. I was just up late last night studying for Finchberg’s test.”


“Yeah.” The silence stretches out until it threatens to become really awkward and then Sam clears his throat and asks, “So what’s up?”

“I was sort of hoping you might be up for a movie tonight.”

Sam has actually spent all day working himself up for a movie tonight, but it isn’t anything he wants to watch with Jess. Pretty, normal Jess who wants to date him, and with whom Sam thinks he could easily fall in love.

“Man, I wish I was, but I’m really beat,” he lies, feeling like three kinds of an asshole. “How about a rain check?”

“Sure. I mean, it was really last minute anyway, so—” Great, now she thinks he’s not interested.

“Tell you what,” Sam interrupts before she can finish rambling and hang up. “Tomorrow night. I’ll take you out to dinner, then we can either catch that movie or—” Or I can tell you how good my brother looks getting fucked, his mind supplies, and for a moment he can’t come up with anything else. Then, in an awkward rush, he finishes, “—or we could go bowling.”

“Bowling?” Jess says. She sounds doubtful, and he can almost see her nose wrinkling in confusion. Too bad the image is spoiled by the memory of plump lips dripping come.

Sam is going to fucking murder his brother.

“Yeah,” he says, and if his voice sounds a little too hoarse, well, Jess doesn’t know him well enough yet to notice it. “I hear it’s the great American pastime.”

It’s normal, is what he thinks. Safe. Sane.

Jess laughs. “I think you have it confused with baseball,” she tells him, “But I’m game if you are. I’ll beat you, too.”

“Oh, you think so?”

“Sure. I bowled in elementary school. Won the Barbie Cup.”

Sam is startled into a laugh. “You’re making that up,” he accuses.

“Are you accusing me of lying?” Jess asks archly.

“Let’s just say I’m calling Barbie’s bluff.”

Jess snorts into the phone, and Sam goes momentarily cold. It’s the same noise Dean makes when Sam says something he finds funny but, for whatever reason, doesn’t want to actually laugh at. And hey, now that Sam is thinking about it, Jess and his brother have the same birthday, and Jess loves mullet rock, and her lips are, quite possibly, the closest thing Sam will ever find to Dean’s mouth.

Jesus Christ, he’s dating his brother. Or trying to, anyway.

The conversation goes on for a few more minutes, with Sam stumbling through it as best as he can, and then he hangs up and puts his head down on the table. His hair is getting in the leftover spaghetti sauce on his plate, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

How long has this been going on, anyway?

Closing his eyes, he runs through his memories—Dean feeding him cheerios with a mound of sugar melting into the milk, Dean handing him his ass in round after round of sparring, Dean sticking his feet in Sam’s face when Sam was sitting on the couch tying to do homework. None of that feels any different than before, but when he thinks about Dean strolling out after a shower, his chest wet and gleaming, he remembers his stomach giving a little flop. He remembers lying in motel room beds next to his brother, and Dean shifting in his sleep, and their legs brushing together, and his breath catching in his throat. He remembers walking in on Dean having sex, and he thinks now that he maybe heard what was going on sometimes before he opened the door. He thinks maybe those moments left him shaking and hard.

Oh God, he’s been like this for years.

“Damn it, Dean,” he mumbles into the table, and then, after a good ten minutes of wallowing in shock and self-pity, prods himself into action.


Sam reads the back of the DVD case first. The plot (insofar as these things have a plot) revolves around a series of savage, animalistic murders in a small town. Two brave hunters arrive to save the day and discover that the murderer is actually the timid and beautiful town librarian, who turns into a savage ‘werecat’ by the light of the full moon. Instead of killing the beast, the hunters keep the town safe by ‘taming’ the ‘kitty’. It’s such a ludicrously bad plot—and yet so close to real life, to the family business—that Sam wonders for a moment whether Dean had any hand in writing the script.

And it is Dean.

From the moment he turns on the DVD Extra ‘Kasting of a Kitty’, there’s no doubt about that much because Dean is there, sitting in a folding chair in some depressing, off-white room wearing Dad’s leather jacket and the amulet Sam gave him when they were kids and a wide, shit-eating grin that Sam supposes is supposed to look seductive. He could turn the DVD off now—his morbid curiosity has been satisfied—but he doesn’t. He just sits there and watches as his brother sits there and interviews for a chance to get his ass pounded.

“Why don’t we start with your stage name?” a male voice asks off camera.

“Stallion,” Dean answers immediately, and Sam chokes on an incredulous laugh. It’s an absurd response, and yet so very, very Dean, and his brother’s voice is filled with the amused smugness that used to get underneath Sam’s skin and lodge there for days. He’s just self-confident enough that he might pull it off.

Then Dean’s smile twitches a little wider and he adds, “Sam Stallion.”

Any vague amusement Sam might have been feeling rips away from him as his stomach twists in obscene ways. He doesn’t know what it means that Dean is using his name. Doesn’t know if Dean is trying to be funny, or if it’s meant as some kind of backhanded compliment, or if it’s just Dean being Dean and doesn’t mean anything at all. All he knows is that the name, ridiculous as it is, has settled in his gut with a leaden weight.

He needs to turn this off now before it gets any worse. His fingers tighten around the remote and then relax again.

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty three.” Still lazy. Cocky and confidant.

Sam sort of wants to punch him, or maybe kiss the smirk right off those full, girly lips.

“Date of birth?”

“January 24, 1979.”

“What sort of previous experience do you have in the industry, Mr. Stallion?” a low, female voice asks. Dean’s gaze flickers to the opposite side of the screen and Sam can tell from the way his brother’s mouth quirks that the woman asking the question is attractive.

“Well,” Dean drawls, and Sam winces. He knows that dragging, slow tone. Recognizes it from the hundred times he’s heard it before—usually right before Dean tells some outlandish, unbelievable story, like the time he told Maggie Fitzsimmons that he was actually an undercover C.I.A. agent sent to infiltrate Regent High and foil a foreign plot against the government. Or the time he told Dad that they smelled like pot because they were hunting a teenage spirit and it had hurled flaming bags of dope at them.

“Most recently, I worked with B. B. Licious on A Tale of Two Titties,” Dean announces. “But I got my start when I did Asslee Bendover for Jurassic Prick. And, uh, I had a supporting role in Evil Head. I’m pretty proud of that one.”

“I’m not familiar with B. B. Licious,” the woman says, and Sam can hear the laughter in her voice: the knowledge that Dean is pulling this crap out of his ass.

“Oh, uh,” Dean says, floundering the way he always does when one of his lies is challenged. Also as usual, he recovers his footing almost immediately and pushes onward, relying on sheer bravado to carry the day. “She’s Dutch, actually. Foreign film. She’s a classy chick—real professional. You should check out some of her stuff sometime.”

“I’ll do that,” the woman agrees, but it’s obvious that she knows as well as Sam that ‘B. B. Licious’ doesn’t actually exist outside of Dean’s warped imagination.

This is when they should have kicked Dean out on his ass for lying during his interview, but they’re not kicking him out, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. All Sam needs to do is look at his brother’s face: at the too-tight t-shirt and ripped jeans and easy sprawl of his body. The mysterious people behind the camera were probably thinking up scenarios to get Dean naked and fucking (or, as it turned out, being fucked) the second he walked through the door.

A third voice—another male, closer to the camera—breaks the brief silence by announcing, “Now we’re going to ask you some questions about what you feel comfortable doing in front of the camera.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“Would you be willing to do boy/girl scenes?"

Dean’s eyes flick from Interviewer Number Three back to the woman and his mouth widens in what Sam can only classify as a leer. “Anytime,” he says, and Sam can’t help rolling his eyes. Only Dean would try to pick someone up during a porn audition.

“How about boy/boy scenes?” Interviewer Number Three asks, drawing Dean’s attention back to center.

“Sure,” Dean agrees, like he does it all the time. Sam supposes he shouldn’t be all that surprised by the answer—he saw the movie, Dean obviously said yes. And Dean knows how he looks: he’s been told about his cocksucking lips often enough in bars (once, memorably, within Dad’s hearing). He probably also knows that gay porn pays better. So yeah, Sam isn’t actually surprised, but the thought of his brother selling himself like this in order to earn a quick buck burns in his throat.

What happened, Dean? he thinks as his brother is asked how he feels about threesomes (the more the merrier, that’s my motto). And why the hell didn’t you call me?

“Would you be comfortable receiving a blow job?” It’s the woman again, and Dean’s smile widens like a shark’s.

“Why, you offering?” he smarms.

Sam wants to roll his eyes again, but he can tell from the self-satisfied gleam in his brother’s eyes that the woman is blushing, and he thinks of Dean bringing the unseen interviewer out back afterwards—fucking her mouth, her pussy—and glowers instead.

“How about giving one?” Interviewer Number One asks. It’s probably a legitimate question, and he doesn’t sound like he’s propositioning anything for himself, but Sam catches the minute clench of his brother’s jaw as Dean turns his head.

“Sure,” Dean says. His tone is carefully cheerful.

“Would you be willing to perform anal sex?” the man continues.


“Topping a girl?”


“Topping a boy?”

“No problem.”

“Bottoming for a girl?”

Dean hesitates for a moment—too brief to catch unless you’re looking for it, unless you’re familiar with the rhythms of his speech—and then says, “Long as the strap on isn’t pink, we’re good.”

“How about bottoming for a boy?” Interviewer Number Three asks, and as far as Sam is concerned he sounds far too invested in the question.

The pause is longer this time, and accompanied by a flicker of nerves in Dean’s eyes, but his answer comes out clear and easy: “Yes.”

“Would you be willing to use toys?” the female interviewer asks.

Sam has seen his brother shore up his walls too many times to count, and Dean does it again now as he turns his attention to the woman. His posture straightens, and the tension that has been building in his shoulders dissipates, and his smile looks a little less plastic and a little more genuine.


They start listing toys then, starting with cock rings and vibrators and moving on from there. Although Sam can tell his brother doesn’t know what half of the stuff is, Dean says yes to everything. Sam can’t decide whether to be angry or hurt or sad or just plain horrified. The brief spate of humor he felt when Dean introduced himself at the beginning of the interview has been completely forgotten in the face of this humiliating barrage of questions.

He thinks again about turning the movie off but doesn’t move.

“How do you feel about wax play?” Interviewer Number One asks once they’ve gone through what feels like the entire inventory of Sex-Toys-R-Us.

“Fine by me.”

“Would you be willing to perform in a spanking, flogging, whipping or caning scenario?”

The ease with which Dean shrugs and agrees sends a rush of conflicting emotions through Sam’s body. On the one hand, Dean shouldn’t be so blasé about the suggestion that he let someone beat him in order to get their rocks off. On the other hand, his mind is now presenting him with an image of his brother’s ass, reddened and covered with handprints. Dean’s skin would be flushed and hot, and he would squirm away from even the lightest caress, and—

“Are you willing to perform as a dom in a bondage scene?”

Sam snaps out of his fantasy with dizzying speed. His head feels light as he watches Dean agree before the question is really out of the interviewer’s mouth. Dean’s brow furrows almost immediately, and Sam sees his brother belatedly take in the word ‘bondage’. For the first time, Dean’s mask slips far enough for Sam to see the nerves behind it.

For all his tall tales and machismo, Dean’s surprisingly vanilla when it comes to sex. Sam knows this from all the times he accidentally (and not so accidentally) walked in on his brother, and from the way that Dean always missed the kinkier innuendos he tossed out, and from just knowing Dean to be a man of simple pleasures. The upshot of all that is that Dean doesn’t know what ‘dom’ means. He recognizes ‘bondage’ well enough, though: knows that it means ropes and restraints and being held down, helpless, in the middle of a bunch of strangers. Dean’s rising panic, evident in his pallor and the glassy green of his eyes, is subtle enough right now that anyone who didn’t know Dean wouldn’t be able to see it, but if this conversation doesn’t change tracks soon, it’s gonna get obvious in a hurry.

Sam shifts on the couch. Fuck, he shouldn’t be watching this. Shouldn’t be seeing Dean so vulnerable and exposed.

Then again, Dean should never have made the fucking film in the first place.

“As a sub?” Interviewer Number One continues.

“No,” Dean says, voice hoarse. Sam can read the desire to take back his previous yes in the tension lines around Dean’s mouth, but Dean doesn’t say anything. He just sits there waiting for his next question and doing his best to look relaxed.

“Would you be willing to be fisted?” Interviewer Number Three again, and Dean either knows that term or can figure it out for himself because he gives a tiny twitch and shakes his head.


“What about DP?” the female interviewer wants to know.

Sam winces as Dean glances at her because Dean has no fucking clue what that means—it’s obvious as day from the hesitation in his eyes, and the way his fingers are drumming against his leg—but he’s going to say yes anyway. He’s going to say yes because she’s pretty and he wants her to like him, wants to make her smile. He’s going to say yes because he needs the money, and he just said no twice, he has never been as confident as he seems.

He’s going to say yes because he’s afraid they’ll turn him down if he doesn’t.

“Jesus Christ, Dean,” Sam whispers, ill with the memory of his brother’s swollen, gaping hole.

“Sure,” Dean says.

“Fuck,” Sam mutters, leaning forward and putting his face in his hands.

On the TV, Interviewer Number Three wants to know if Dean would be willing to perform in a watersports scenario, and Sam chokes on a laugh at his brother’s perplexed, “Sure, why not?”

He’s angry suddenly, enraged as always by the lack of care that Dean takes of himself, and by his brother’s pig-headed stupidity, and by the fact that he’s selling himself like this, like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t fucking matter, and where the fuck was Dad when Dean was doing this?

Pissing, Dean, not fucking hot tubs and water-skis!” he yells, throwing the remote at the TV. Luckily for his anemic bank account, he misses and the remote thunks dully into the wall instead.

Sam sits on the couch, muscles quaking and rage hot in his throat, as Interviewer Number One asks about ‘pony play’. Dean says no pretty quickly this time—has either actually heard of that fetish or can figure it out well enough to know he doesn’t want to be involved—and Sam lifts his head again, running a hand harshly through his hair.

“We’re almost done, Sam,” the female interviewer says, and Sam twitches at the sound of his name. “But I wanted to give you the opportunity to let us know if you have any specialties. Any acts you can do better than anyone else?”

Between one blink and the next, any trace of unease is gone. Dean is wearing one of his many masks: the one he uses in bars when he’s looking for a girl to drown himself in for a while. The one that always made Sam feel awkward and uncomfortable in his own skin for reasons he never examined too closely. The one with the heated eyes and the slow smile and the deep, rough voice.

“Sweetheart,” Dean purrs, fondling his vowels like he’s thinking about fucking them. “I can do things with my mouth that I’m pretty sure are illegal in all fifty states.”

His tongue darts out, sliding across his lips, and just like that Sam is hard again, and fucking miserable with guilt about it, and Jesus fucking Christ how can Dean mess him up like this without even being here?

How is that fair?

There’s a rustling of papers from somewhere by the camera, and Sam is pretty sure it’s caused by Interviewers One and Three trying to look busy to draw attention away from the erections they’re doubtlessly sporting. Then Interviewer Three clears his throat and says, “Just one last question. Obviously this isn't theater, but how's your acting?"

Dean’s smile slips into something a little cooler—back to that superior, mocking expression he was wearing at the start of the interview—and he turns his head so that he’s looking directly into the camera. “Just peachy,” he answers.

He isn’t looking at Sam—can’t be, this happened almost a year ago according to the timestamp on the bottom of the screen—but it feels like he is. It feels like Dean is sitting in that off-white room and looking through the camera lens into Sam’s eyes and heart and Sam has never felt so dirty and exposed. Never felt so turned on before either.

The interview ends with a photo op, of course. The interviewers ask Dean to strip and pose and he does, and the come-hither look on his face should be silly but isn’t. It isn’t because Dean knows that he’s good looking—he isn’t blind or a moron—but he doesn’t know that he’s beautiful. He doesn’t know that people look at him and want, even if they shouldn’t, even if they have no business even thinking about it, even if they’re his kid brother.

When the extra ends and the main menu starts back up, Sam looks down at his hands and the hard outline of his cock against his pant leg. He thinks about calling Jess and taking her out for a late show, and then he thinks about putting the movie on and jerking off, and then he thinks of running into the upstairs bathroom and puking up everything he ate for dinner. In the end, though, there’s only one thing he really can do.

Shutting off the DVD player and the TV, Sam wanders out into the kitchen to get drunk.