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Dean wakes up with a grunt that’s immediately stifled by the hand that clamps down over his mouth.

“Shh,” Sam breathes in his ear. “He’ll hear.”

Dean’s still half-asleep and therefore a couple light years behind whatever’s going on, but then Sam rocks his hips and—Jesus fuck—his brother’s cock is in his ass. The angle is awkward and shallow, but Dean thinks about Sam easing inside his body while he was dead to the world and goes from bewildered to really fucking horny in about point one seconds. He makes a louder, more urgent noise against his brother’s hand and presses back as Sam shoves forward.

Sam slots firmly inside him this time, so fucking deep, and his hand muffles Dean’s moan. “Fuck,” he pants, and then rolls Dean from his side onto his stomach. Sam’s cock slips free, but he follows immediately, climbing on top of Dean and sliding between his legs. He slots back in fast and hard, and the ease with which Dean’s body accepts so much cock makes him shudder. His breath comes fast and moist against his brother’s palm.

“You feel so good, Dean,” Sam whispers. “God, you’re still open and wet from last night and I just slid right in and you didn’t feel a thing.”

Dean wonders how long his brother was fucking him before he woke up (kinky son of a bitch) and the thought makes him grind helplessly down against the mattress in an effort to get some friction. The combination of his writhing and Sam’s thrusts knock the bed against the wall and Sam freezes.

Sam freezes and then he starts to pull out, the bastard.

Desperate to keep his brother inside of him, Dean cants his hips back, moving with Sam’s withdrawal. Sam’s right hand shifts against his mouth while his left comes down on the small of Dean’s back and shoves him flat. His cock slides free, leaving Dean’s ass feeling too open and slick and throbbing and empty.

“Mmph!” he grunts in protest.

“I’ll take care of you, Dean, but you need to be quiet and you need to be still. Unless … unless you want Dad to find out.”

There’s a new, but familiar, note in Sam’s voice—something intense and hungry and dangerous—and Dean shivers. What with waking up in the middle of getting fucked and all, he forgot that Dad is right next-door: one room away on the other side of the extremely thin wall that they just thumped the bed against. Last night, Sam fucked Dean up against the wall of the shower with the pound of the water to mask the punched, breathy noises Dean couldn’t help making as his brother opened him up and pushed home, but they’re closer to Dad here, and the world is blanketed by early morning silence.

Not so early morning that Dad won’t already be awake and going over his notes in the next room, though. Not so early morning that he wouldn’t hear the bed knocking against the wall, or Dean’s low moans as Sam fucks him, and Jesus, he really, really shouldn’t be finding that a turn on.

“Is that it, Dean?” Sam purrs. “You want Dad to hear us? You want him to hear you whine for it?”

Dean’s cock twitches against the mattress and he gives his head a little shake, although he isn’t sure what he means by it. He squeezes his eyes shut and swallows and then Sam’s hand is pulling away from his mouth.

“Go ahead. Make as much noise as you want.”

As his stomach flips over, Dean licks his lips. They haven’t actually had this conversation before, but then again they haven’t needed to have it because they both know exactly where they stand on the matter.

There’s a part of Sam—a big part—that wants Dad to know.

It’s the part that’s always tearing at the man: that jealous, possessive part that would be thrilled if Dad disowned them both and left them alone together. It’s also the part that hates the lying and the sneaking around and just wants to be done with it all: that wants to be able to lean over in a diner and press their lips together, or just to be able to sit with his arm slung around Dean’s shoulder’s, hand rubbing absently at his upper arm or the back of his neck. In short, Sam would be fucking exalted if Dean forgot himself enough to cry out his brother’s name, or begged, or made any of the dirtysexhot noises that Sam knows how to drag from him.

Dean, on the other hand, in no way wants Dad to find out. Ever.

He doesn’t want Dad to find out because he knows that he wouldn’t be able to deal with the fallout, which would be immediate and messy and severe. He can’t bear the thought of Dad looking at him with that disgusted, betrayed look in his eyes, and he really can’t bear the thought of being forced to chose between them—and that’s what it would come down to in the end, once all of the shouting had been done and all the punches had been thrown.

Duty or love.

Right or wrong.

Dad or Sam.

Dean can’t make that kind of choice.

The smart thing to do, really, would be to put a stop to this right now. Dean opens his mouth to do just that and then bites his lower lip instead as Sam tilts his hips up with deliberate, stroking fingers. It’s half enticement and half challenge, and entirely maddening.

“You’re so hot for him to know, why the fuck don’t you just tell him already?” Dean demands, careful to keep his voice low.

Sam bends forward and presses a single, chaste kiss to the small of Dean’s back. The moist cloud of his breath makes Dean shiver. “You know why.”

Dean guesses that he does know. Sam will never out them deliberately because Dean would never forgive him for it. Of course, that isn’t going to stop Sam from using every trick in the book to make Dean do it for him. Culpability, after all, is colored by the same shades of grey as the rest of their life.

“C’mon, Dean,” Sam urges, rutting himself between Dean’s thighs. “I dare you.”

And, fuck, Dean’s either certifiable or a moron because he’s nodding and whispering, “Bring it,” and he’s never been so turned on before in his life.

Sam’s hands slide down the outside of his thighs and back up the inside, pushing them wider: positioning Dean how he wants him. Biting back on a groan, Dean grips the pillow as his brother takes hold of his ass cheeks and pulls him open. There’s a brief, blunt pressure at his entrance and then the head of Sam’s cock pushes inside.

And stops.

Sam releases Dean’s ass but doesn’t otherwise move, leaving him hot with the taunting promise of fullness: the head of his brother’s cock nestled just inside of him and not pushing any deeper. Not fucking him the way that he’s aching to be fucked.

Fine. If Sam’s gonna be a prick about it, Dean will just have to take matters into his own hands. He starts to move his hips back in effort to bring his brother deeper and Sam’s hands land on his hips like clamps.

“No moving,” Sam reminds him in a low whisper.

“Oh, fuck you, Sam,” Dean mutters back. He can’t deny that there’s a hot flicker in his groin at the thought of just lying here and letting Sam take what he wants, though, and he stills obediently. A moment later, he’s rewarded as his brother’s cock sinks a few inches deeper.

“Good boy,” Sam tells him, draping himself close over Dean’s back. His cock slots in to the halfway mark and then withdraws again. Holds there, with the head barely breaching Dean’s hole.

“Goddamn it!” Dean curses, low and fervent.

“I’m gonna fuck you just like this,” Sam whispers, making a tentative, shallow thrust before pulling most of the way out again and pausing.

“Motherfucker,” Dean grumbles, but he’s sweating: hungry for it and clenching and unclenching his hands rhythmically on the pillow.

Chuckling, Sam nips at his shoulder. “I’m gonna make you scream,” he promises. “Gonna make you yell so loud Dad’s gonna come running to save you. The door’s unlocked, Dean. Dad’s gonna open it and he’s gonna come right in here and see you taking my cock up your ass.”

The image Sam paints is alarming and nauseating and exciting all at once, and he keeps making those infuriating, shallow thrusts while he talks, and Dean is going to come out of his fucking skin. Then, suddenly and without warning, his brother pushes forward and fills him completely. Dean chokes on his cry: muscles in his ass fluttering in surprise.

“That’s it,” Sam says, “nice and vocal,” and then he’s fucking Dean in earnest.

The slick-slide of cock moving in and out of him makes Dean want to fuck himself back on his brother. Sam’s mouth working on his shoulder and the back of his neck—suck, lick, bite—makes him want to let out a slew of rough curses. His hands curl into fists tightly enough that his knuckles pop and he bites down on the pillow. It tastes like cotton and fabric softener, mildly disgusting, but he doesn’t dare spit it out. He doesn’t trust himself to keep his mouth shut without the help.

“Mmm,” Sam moans under his breath, sinking in deep and coming to a stop. “Wanna try something.”

Propping himself up on one hand, he grips Dean’s hip with the other and moves his waist for him in a rocking motion. Sam’s own hips roll, and the motions combine to rub his cock up along Dean’s insides and against his prostate with breath-shuddering frequency. Dean can feel his ass stretching even further to accommodate the movement, and his own cock dribbling precome where it’s trapped beneath his stomach, and he moans around his damp mouthful of pillow.

“You’re so loose and wet,” Sam pants, and the words sound like praise on his brother’s lips. “Bet you’ll be wet enough to take my fist once I come in you again. You think you’ll be able to keep quiet when I’m fucking you with my hand, baby?”

Dean makes a low, hurt noise in the back of his throat and shudders. Oh God, he can’t think straight when Sam’s putting images like that in his head.

“I don’t think you will,” Sam continues. His hand tightens on Dean’s hip, bruising, as he starts working himself in and out again. “I think you’re gonna make the hottest, dirtiest noises. Bring Daddy running right over.”

Dean shakes his head once, a denial, and then almost chokes on his own spit when Sam gives a sudden, hard thrust while biting down on the side of his neck. He thinks that his brother might have broken the skin, which would be very bad since he didn’t have a bite mark when they turned in last night, and then Sam does it again and Dean isn’t thinking much of anything. His pulse is pounding in his ears and Sam’s lewd whispers are echoing in his head and his cock isn’t just dribbling precome anymore but leaking it in a steady flow: wet and hard and hot between the mattress and his stomach.

The unexpected, heavy knock on the door penetrates Dean’s haze just fine, though. His entire body goes painfully tight and Sam makes a pleased, hungry little noise as Dean’s ass clenches around his cock.

“Boys!”

Oh fuck, it’s Dad.

Sam makes another, uncharacterizable noise, and starts thrusting in and out of Dean in earnest. Dean knows he should shove his brother off and cover himself up and can’t remember how to move. He’s too dizzy with arousal and fear.

Dad pounds on the door again and shouts, “Sam! Dean!”

“Fuck,” Sam mutters. His pace speeds further: cock pistoning in and out and balls slapping against Dean’s ass.

“Don’t make me come in there and drag your lazy asses out of bed!” Dad calls.

Sam huffs, half-amused and half-incredulous, and then brings his mouth close to Dean’s ear and pants, “Should I answer, or should we let him come on in?”

God, please no, Dean thinks, shaking his head wildly. He’d answer with words if he could, but his voice isn’t working right now. Hell, his whole body seems to have gone AWOL because he’s rocking back into his brother’s thrusts. Sam isn’t stopping him this time, either: too distracted by the fact that their father seconds from barging in on them to play games.

God, they should stop. Dean has to stop.

“Dean!” The yell is punctuated by a hammering fist on the door, and in another second Dad’s going to try the knob and it’s open, Sam said it’s open—

“We’re up!” Sam calls back, fucking finally, and then bites down on Dean’s shoulder again.

Dean can’t quite swallow his groan this time and, as he pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, he prays that it sounded like a protest at being dragged out of bed so early. The abrupt motion unseats Sam, but he catches himself almost immediately and a moment later he’s kneeling up behind Dean and pushing back in. Dean cants his hips back for it and gets a hand beneath him and starts fisting his cock.

“You boys have thirty minutes to get dressed and come next door. I think I have a lead on this thing.”

“O-okay,” Sam all but groans, and God, Dad has to know now, Sam just sounded like a fucking advertisement for porn, and Dean could swear he can hear the door opening, and he loses it all over the mattress with a shuddering groan.

“Dean,” Sam says, low and reverent, and then plunges deep inside of him and stops. Dean can feel his brother’s dick twitching as he comes: feels Sam’s clenched thighs against his own. He shudders at the spreading wetness and then his brother makes one last, almost languid thrust, and eases his cock free.

Dean immediately collapses forward on the bed—it’s a fucking mess, come everywhere—and rolls onto his back, looking toward the door fearfully. It’s closed, and he can tell from here that the deadbolt is still shot. The chain is threaded. Locked.

Sam kneels over him with a lazy, self-satisfied smile and runs a hand over his spent cock.

“You little shit,” Dean breathes. He isn’t sure yet whether he’s angry or proud or if he wants to kick Sam’s ass or suck him back to hardness and go again. “You said it was unlocked!”

“Yeah, and you got off on it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a kinky son of a bitch: what’s your excuse?”

“This,” Sam says, and reaches between Dean’s thighs. Dean tenses to shove him away, but Sam’s fingers are already inside him: sliding around and making it blindingly clear just how wet and fucked out he is.

“Fuck,” he breathes instead, easing his legs wider.

Sam’s eyes flash at that, and he licks his lips. “Can you go again?” he asks. He’s got one hand doing its best to push inside Dean and one on his own cock as he teases himself back to fullness and Dean’s pretty sure that this is illegal for more reasons than just the incest.

“Are you fucking insane?” he demands, but he’s moving his hips around while Sam fingers him: encouraging.

“We don’t know when we’ll have a chance to do this again now that Dad’s back,” Sam reminds him. “C’mon, we’ve got thirty minutes. Plenty of time.”

“No. Bad idea. I’m not—oh God, right there—n-not gonna be able to keep my mouth shut again.”

“I could always gag you,” Sam suggests. He looks way too excited by the prospect.

Then again, from the way Dean’s cock is aching, he isn’t all that turned off by the idea himself. He pushes down onto his brother’s fingers, thinking about the way that the cloth (one of their t-shirts, probably, or a pillowcase) will tug at the corners of his lips, the way it will get wet, the way it will taste, and feels his cock begin to fill.

“Yeah,” Sam says, smug. “You’re up for it.”

“Shut up and gag me, asshole.”