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Shoot to Thrill

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Sam leaned against the wood of the polished bar at Jimmy’s Taproom, an Annapolis-local watering hole with a distinctly big-chain feel. The TVs lining the walls played highlights from a half dozen different games: baseball in the corner, NFL across the room, and the WNBA above the row of pool tables crowding near the floor-to-ceiling windows at the front of the place that overlooked a rundown strip mall in an ugly gray parking lot – sad trees in the medians barely five feet tall and drooping.

Sam paid special attention to the last TV, tall women in red and black jerseys running up and down the court – or at least, he pretended to.

Dean was hustling a couple of frat boys out of the last of the bills in their money clips, and Sam was posted nearby to keep an eye out. Normally, he’d be more hands-on, but considering the cast covering his right wrist, all he could do was drink his beer and watch with wry amusement as Dean shuffled around the table—convincingly drunk and off-balance—to line up a shot before pulling back, scratching his head, and deciding to circle the table a few more times in search of a better angle.

Finally, Dean leaned down low over the green felt, cue pointed almost right at Sam, and their eyes met. Sam lifted his beer in salute, and Dean winked at him. He took a shot, and the striped number eleven ball he aimed into the corner stopped just short of the pocket. “Damn,” Sam heard Dean mutter. “Almost had it.”

The guy Dean was playing, a blonde goatee wearing a backwards baseball cap, snickered and said, “Only counts in horseshoes and hand-grenades, my friend,” before he stepped over to the table to take his turn. What he’d failed to notice, however, was that Dean’s ball now stood in the way of two easy pockets he could have made if that corner was clear. Sam shook his head and watched Alana Beard net a 3-pointer, easy, as Backwards Cap scratched on the almost impossible shot Dean left lined up for him.

The game was over quickly after that. Dean pocketed his last three balls in quick succession, then called the eight for center-right and sunk it behind his back like the showboating idiot he was. Sam watched his brother’s arms flex under his henley – leather and flannel left hanging at his table with a half-eaten basket of fries. Dean lifted one leg for leverage and leaned his ass against the shining mahogany that bordered the felt. The cue shifted back with the practiced flick of Dean’s wrist, and his ring glinted for a moment in the bright pendant light that hung low over the table. It turned Dean’s hair into a halo of fine gold and amber, made his eyes shine pale and devious.

There was the crack of the cue, and the black ball was gone, disappearing down into the table to wait for the next sucker to line up four quarters and lose a week’s worth of wages to Sam’s big brother.

Dean whooped. He turned to the frat boys and brought his hands over his head in celebration; the poor imitation of an invisible crowd cheering rang from his mouth. “Hoo boy, did you see that?” He clapped Backwards Cap on the shoulder and stumbled slightly, playing up being drunk and lucky. Sam snorted into his beer. That behind-the-back move was too much. There was no way they’d be stupid enough to take him up on another game.

Sam only half-listened to them argue back and forth as he ordered himself another beer, but Dean’s voice got louder until finally, he said, “Hey, I’m not the one being a sore loser. You want your money back so bad, play me again! Double or nothing, man.”

Sam raised an eyebrow and watched Backwards Cap shake his head. “No way, bro. You fucking hustled me! I’m not stupid.” Sam frowned, weighed the words against the man, and was left wanting.

“Alright, alright ...” Dean leaned in, voice conceding, just the right edge of needling in his tone. He fanned his hands in front of himself like he was laying out a deal before them. “Play me again, double or nothing, and I’ll play with my other hand.”

There it was.

The guys turned to look at each other. The other one, dressed in a blazer like he'd just gotten off work at a car dealership, shrugged. Backwards Cap seemed to take this as encouragement, so he nodded, pulling his wallet out. “Okay, you got a deal. Money on the table, hombre. Let’s see it.”

Dean reached for his pocket and his hand slipped clumsily down over his ass. He recalibrated and tried again, this time managing the fine motor skill necessary for the maneuver. He flipped his wallet open and pulled out a handful of bills. Sam noticed a couple Franklins get added to the pile at the corner of the 2-seater next to the pool table. Dean set his half-empty pint glass on top of the money and rubbed his hands together eagerly.

Sam finished his beer as Dean swept the table. He didn’t even try to make it look like a lucky break this time; he simply lined them up and pocketed them one-by-one until all that was left was the eight. He shook his hips to loosen up and bent over the table for the final shot, but just before he took it he tilted his head back, neck twisted to look up at the guys, both their mouths drawn into thin, angry lines, and said, “Been playing with the wrong hand all night, boys.”

He sunk the shot, easy as pie.

Dean was just reaching out to take his winnings when the guy in the blazer—easily the bigger of the two with thirty pounds and an inch or two on Dean—grabbed his wrist. “You’re a fucking cheat,” Blazer Guy said. Sam could see the muscles in his shoulders flexing. This one probably did CrossFit in his spare time.

Dean reached out, slow and cocky, and grabbed the money with his other hand. He shoved the bills in a crumpled heap into his back pocket with a casual grin on his face. “It’s a game of skill, pal,” he said. “Not my fault your boyfriend isn’t up to scratch.”

Backwards Cap took a step forward at the same moment Blazer Guy grabbed Dean by the collar of his shirt. “Alex,” Backwards Cap said, nervous. His eyes darted around the bar, but nobody was paying any attention. Nobody but Sam, anyway.

“I’m gonna break your fucking face, pretty boy,” Alex said, ignoring his friend.

A shit-eating grin spread across Dean’s lips. “Aw, shucks. I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

Alex shoved Dean back like he’d been burned, but Sam watched his hands clench into fists at his sides. And that was Sam’s cue, right on time. He pushed off from the bar and walked right up to the three of them. “Hey, guys, there a problem here?” he asked, voice friendly, assertive, just this side of amused.

“Hey, buddy, why don’t you mind your own business?” Dean asked him, a little extra slur on his words tonight. Maybe he was actually drunk.

Sam pointedly ignored him and turned to the other two. Alex was still seething, but Backwards Cap looked like he’d rather not get involved. “This guy giving you grief?” Sam asked them.

Backwards Cap scratched his chin awkwardly. “Just lost some money on a bet,” he said, but Alex put his hand out to stop his friend from saying anything else.

“No, Trevor, this piece of shit stole from us, is what he did.” He sneered at Dean, and Sam turned to look his brother up and down like he was really seeing him for the first time. He let slow realization slide across his features. This part was always fun.

“Hey,” Sam said, and Dean turned his big green eyes on him, that easy smile still plastered over his features. “Don’t I know you?” He tilted his head to the side, furrowed his eyebrows.

Dean looked shifty for the first time, eyes darting from Sam to the frat boys and back. “Don’t think so, pal.” He took a step away from Sam and laughed awkwardly.

Sam advanced on him, getting in his face. He was so close he could count his brother’s freckles. “Yeah … Yeah, I think I do know you. You were down at The Beer Bucket last weekend.” He put his hands on Dean’s chest and shoved, just enough for him to trip back a step. “You hustled half the room out of their money! You cost me a hundred bucks!” He raised his voice high enough that the people at all the tables nearest them turned to look.

Dean took another step back, put his hands up, panic behind his eyes. “Whoa,” he huffed. “Easy.” He reached behind himself like he was going for his pocket. “How about I just put the money back on the table and we call it even, huh?"

But then he twisted around a little more, squared his hips, and the next second, he was sucker-punching Sam in the jaw.

Sam reeled back. He hadn’t expected Dean to actually fucking hit him. And Dean was already scrambling to the door, flying out and stumbling over his own feet in the parking lot.

“Hey!” Sam yelled after him. Every head in the place was turned to the commotion now. He glanced back at Trevor and Alex, the both of them standing there with open-mouthed confusion on their faces, then he bolted after Dean.

He reached out on his way by his brother’s table and snagged his jacket off the back of the chair. Fucking idiot.

He sprinted out the door and around the side of the building after Dean. When he was out of eyeshot from the windows, he dropped his hands to his knees and caught his breath against the bricks. He laughed, swiping his hand over the tender spot on his jaw where Dean had clocked him. Asshole.

He heard the engine of the Impala purr up to the curb and Dean was grinning at him from the front seat like a maniac. “Hop in, Sammy,” he called through the open passenger window. “Pie’s on me.”



Dean had a lead foot on the way back to the motel. Sabbath blasted from the speakers and the wind whipped through their hair as they barreled down the highway.

When they rolled to a stop at a red light, Dean dug into his jeans and handed the cash over to Sam to count with a look of smug satisfaction on his face—four-hundred-and-eighty dollars all told, mostly in twenties—not bad at all for an evening’s work. Dean turned the volume down low enough so Sam could hear him. “Probably not even half of what they had in their wallets.” He sniffed. “Didn’t wanna push it.”

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes, folding the bills neatly and tucking them into his own wallet. “Didn’t want to push it, he says.” Sam twisted his hips so he could look at his brother, eyebrows raised. “You were practically begging to get punched, dude. I should’ve let the guy get one in on you, now that I’m thinking about it.” He rubbed his jaw again as if to emphasize his point. “Thanks for this, by the way.”

“Hey, you’re welcome,” Dean said, winking. The light turned green and he hit the gas again. “Looks good on you,” he chuckled. “Matches the cast.” Sam punched him on the shoulder with his uninjured hand. “Easy, slugger.” Dean swatted him away. “Don’t wanna break the other one.”

"You're a jerk, did you know that?" Sam asked, but there was an easy smile spreading across his face.

Dean shrugged, expression matching Sam's. His voice was warm with affection when he said, "Hey, at least I'm not a bitch."

They drove in silence for a while, Ozzy keeping them company – barely audible over the roar of the engine with the windows down. It was chilly—early October in Maryland—but they didn’t mind. The cold air felt good against Sam’s face.

They took a turn off the main drag a couple miles from their motel and Dean drove them down 6th Street the rest of the way back. The water of the Severn River raced along beside them, then under their tires as they crossed the bridge towards the south side of the city. It was dark out there over the water – Sam could see the stretch of the Chesapeake across the horizon in the distance, and the smell of salt rushed up to meet him.

“Hey,” Dean said beside him. His voice was soft.

Sam dragged his eyes away from the bay and back to his brother. “Yeah?”

Dean turned and looked at Sam for a second, eyes leaving the road. Then he cleared his throat and looked back out into the night. He reached over and patted Sam on the knee. “I’m glad you stuck around, Sammy,” he said. “Wasn’t the same without you.” He squeezed Sam’s knee and let his hand linger there for a while before he brought it back up to the wheel. Sam noticed that his knuckles were white against the black leather. “Now that Dad’s gone, I, uh ... “ He took a breath, struggling to find the words. “I just wanted to-- I thought … maybe--”

Sam felt a lump well up in his throat, and he swallowed it down. He knew exactly where that maybe was leading.

Flashes of a younger Dean standing in the rain outside a Greyhound station, holding onto Sam and kissing him, soft and desperate. We don’t have to stay with him forever, he’d said. We can go off on our own. Soon, Sammy. Real soon, I promise. But Sam knew it would never be that simple no matter how hard Dean pretended it could be, so he'd pulled away from his brother and gotten on the bus and ran away to California, breaking both of their hearts in the process.

He’d never admit it out loud, especially now, but he’d left the way he did—dropping contact, losing Dean's number—because he'd known their father had finally put the pieces together – about them, their relationship, the things they got up to in the night. He’d pushed it too far one too many times—slipped up, gave something away—and suddenly John was looking at him differently. Sam knew then, deep in his gut, that their dad had figured it out.

All the years of raging at each other changed overnight into the simmering burn of disgust, and none of it was aimed at Dean. This was Sam's fault, and John made sure Sam knew it every time he met his son's eyes.

So Sam had run; it had felt like his only option at the time.

But there hadn't been a single day that went by that Sam didn’t think about it, about the six perfect months of sneaking around, fucking in the bathroom and in the back of the car, about Dean’s mouth on his body, about his mouth on Dean’s.

He’d learned to live with the ache like he’d learned to live with so many things, and he thought Dean had, too. But Dad was gone now, Dean was right; they were finally on their own again.

“Maybe--,” Dean tried again, but Sam cut him off before he could say any more.

“Yeah,” he said, stomach flipping, butterfly-light, “Maybe.”

He felt Dean shift to look at him, and he turned to meet his brother’s eyes; they were wide, tentative, and hopeful. “Yeah?” Dean asked.

Sam smiled at him, and it felt a little tight, a little thin, but they’d had such a good night, and his brother was so fucking beautiful – face flashing in the amber glow of the streetlamps that lined the water, exhilaration fueling him, cheeks whipped pink by the wind.

The past was gone, and they were here in the car, side by side. And Dean still wanted him.

"Yeah," he agreed.



The three beers he’d had at the bar buzzed warm and comfortable at the base of Sam's skull as he showered. He’d left the door open a fraction, let the steam curl out into the little room they were sharing as Dean grabbed his own longneck from the mini-fridge and sat down on the chintzy couch to watch TV.

They'd ridden the rest of the way back to the motel in silence, but—like a shift in barometric pressure—the air between them was almost electrified. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t yet touched, that they might not at all tonight, or this week, or this year, even. The weight of maybe now hung suspended from the line that had always stretched between them, and they both felt it tugging at them.

Sam let the hot water sluice over his skin as he stood under the spray and tried to contain the fluttering of his nerves. Dean still wanted it, had thought about it, had probably been working up the courage to say something for months, knowing Dean. And now he was there, right outside the door – just like he had been almost every night for the past year. They'd both been blind.

Sam scrubbed at his skin and remembered two twin beds shoved together in a single-wide in Georgia. He remembered a heatwave, skin prickling with sweat and desperation, trying not to make a noise as John ate and slept just outside their door – sometimes making noise, anyway.

He remembered flaunting the delicate sensuality of his young body, teasing and taunting Dean until they were both broken open with need.

He had been so greedy, then, taking for granted that Dean would give him anything he wanted, no matter the cost. He probably would have, but Sam didn't want the same things now. He wanted to give as much as he took.

He turned the faucet off and stepped out of the tub. He remembered a time when he didn’t bother to get dressed after a shower, when he’d dry off with a towel around his waist and be hard for hours as he felt Dean’s eyes crawling all over his skin.

He smiled privately to himself, grabbed a towel, slipped it around his hips, and left the bathroom.

Dean turned to look up at him as the door swung open, beer bottle to his lips, frozen for a beat as he dragged his gaze down Sam’s naked chest before his eyes flicked back to the TV.

Sam ran his fingers through his hair in the doorway, shook the wet roots out, and flipped his curls away from his forehead. He walked over to the couch and sat down next to Dean. They were close enough that their knees brushed together; it was a small couch and they were both grown men, bigger and taller now than they’d been the last time they played this particular game.

Dean’s thigh muscles were tense against his. He could feel his brother straining, see the rising and falling of his chest through the fabric of his shirt. Sam licked his lips. “Anything good on?” he asked, voice calmer than he’d expected it to be.

Dean cleared his throat. “Reruns,” he said, and Sam heard the faintest tremor just below the surface.

“Mmm.” He nodded his head. “Boring.”

They were firmly into foreplay territory now. It didn’t matter that their eyes were on Lucille Ball making a mess at an assembly line; he could feel every tiny shift in Dean’s skin as the hairs on his arms stood on end, knew Dean could sense the pounding of his heart behind his ribs. Dean knew exactly how hard he was already, and he knew Dean was aching for it with every single breath that dragged from his lungs.

“Yeah,” Dean said, and he flipped channels aimlessly, flashing past cooking shows and late-night interviews and a commercial for a phone sex line. Sam watched his brother’s throat bob, the clench of skin across a jaw dusted with yesterday's stubble. “Nothing worth watching, I guess.”

Sam bit his bottom lip, feeling the motions of it all return to him. He leaned over, pressed his bare chest against the length of Dean’s arm, and whispered in his ear, "You could watch me, instead.”

He felt Dean’s body go stiff against him and he grinned against Dean’s ear, breathed slow and hot on purpose so his brother could hear him shaking. “If you want to.”

He let the words hang there, thrilled at the feeling of Dean’s pulse beating at the side of his neck. Sam slid his mouth to it – a gentle, hardly-there brush of the lips. Dean’s breath hitched and a wild shiver rolled through him. Sam opened his mouth over Dean’s heartbeat, touched his tongue there, tasted salt. “Is that what you want?” he asked, felt his voice vibrate over Dean’s skin.

Then Dean’s hand was in his hair, fisting tight. A bright shock of pain bloomed against Sam’s scalp, and he let himself be pulled until he and Dean were face to face, Sam half-draped over his brother's lap, good hand braced against the arm of the couch on Dean’s side. Dean's pupils were blown so wide his eyes were like black holes ringed in palest green. Dean searched Sam’s face, his own expression intense. “Yeah,” he breathed at last, voice choked with desire. “God, Sammy, it is.”

Sam wanted so badly to kiss him, to close the distance and taste Dean’s tongue against his own, but he straightened his back and sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, let Dean watch him do it. Kissing could come later.

He slid to his knees in the space between Dean’s legs on the floor, and Dean let out a low, rapturous moan, hand still tangled in Sam’s hair.

Sam laughed quietly and took the TV remote from his brother’s shaking hand. He pushed the power button and suddenly the room was quiet but for the sound of their breathing. Sam tossed the remote aside and swiped a strand of damp hair out of his eyes.

Slowly, he brought his hands to Dean’s thighs and slid them up, pads of his fingers catching on the rough denim of his brother's jeans. Dean was trembling under his touch, and it filled Sam so completely with the realization that this was actually happening that he had to take a breath. "We've been here before," he said, reminding himself as much as Dean, palms moving up and in, thumbs pressing against the muscle of his brother's inner thighs.

Dean blew out through his mouth, eyes heavy-lidded and drowsy. "Yeah," he said, nodding. "Just like riding a bike."

They caught each other's eyes and some of the tension in the air fled as they both cracked lunatic smiles. "Something like that," Sam laughed, and he pressed the heel of his left hand over Dean's cock – just firm, solid pressure.

Dean's eyes slid shut and he gasped, grip in Sam's hair tightening.

Sam shook his head. "No," he said softly. He cupped Dean through his jeans, felt the hard, straining length of him under his hand. "Watch."

Dean's breath came sharp and sudden through his parted lips at Sam's command, and his eyes were on his brother again, quietly obeying. Sam worked open his fly with steady hands. "Jesus Christ, Sam," Dean groaned.

Sam tugged Dean's jeans down his legs until they pooled at his feet. His cock sprung free, solid and dark and wet with precome. Sam looked at him, eager and almost delirious. "You have to watch," he said. "Need you to remember what I look like with your dick in my mouth."

Dean's cock twitched against his stomach, fine muscles below the skin clenching tight. He untwisted his fingers from Sam's hair and made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a moan. "Never fuckin' forgot, Sammy." He grabbed the bottom hem of his shirt and ripped it over his head, threw it onto the floor.

Sam wrapped his hand around the base of Dean's cock, finally. They both groaned in unison at the contact, hot and electric, just like it had always been.

"You remember this?" Sam asked, and he leaned forward and dragged the flat of his tongue up the underside of the shaft, wrapped his lips around the head. It was intoxicating, the familiarity of sensation – the slick taste of Dean's precome in his mouth, the smell of him, sweat and leather and musk. He moaned around Dean's cock and slid his eyes shut, savoring the rush.

"Fuck," Dean bit out above him, and he thrust up into Sam's mouth with a shallow snap of the hips. "Yeah." He was panting, words barely more than ragged breath with a lilt of meaning behind them.

Sam curled his tongue, circled the slit, lapped at it over and over again with gentle flicks, and finally opened his eyes to watch Dean break apart under the slide of his hand as he dragged it up the length of Dean's cock and brought his mouth down to meet it.

Sam sucked Dean's cock like he'd been dying for it, taking him deeper and deeper with each bob of his head. His brother was trembling all around him, hands in his hair as Sam's lips gripped him, tongue flush against his shaft. Sam's hand and mouth were slick with spit and precome, and Dean fucked him that way, raw and wet and open enough to take him all the way down.

"God. Oh, fuck. You gotta stop, Sammy," Dean panted, still fucking deep into Sam's mouth. "You're gonna fuckin’ kill me." His hips slowed, and he tugged on Sam's hair like he wasn't sure whether to hold him down for more or pull him away.

Sam grabbed at Dean's hips, held him still under his weight, and dragged his mouth up, slow and languid, until Dean's cock slipped past his lips with a wet pop and he drew in a gasping, shaky breath.

Sam looked up at his brother and dragged the back of his hand across his ruined mouth.

"God, Sam," Dean said, and then he was grabbing Sam by the shoulders and dragging him up. "C'mere."

Sam spilled into Dean's lap and they were kissing, finally – the taste of beer and precome slick over their tongues. Dean's mouth was hot and familiar and secret, like he'd only ever kissed this way—like the world could be falling down around them and it wouldn't matter—for Sam. And Sam shivered because he knew it was the truth. He groaned breathlessly into Dean's mouth and licked over his brother's bottom lip, grabbed it between his teeth, and sucked.

Sam pulled back, half-smile at the corner of his lips."Good?" he asked.

"That's-- Jesus. Better than I remembered."

The towel around Sam's hips hung loose, barely tucked against itself anymore. He nipped at Dean's jaw and reached down to slide the damp fabric off his skin. It fell to the floor in a heap and he was suddenly naked in Dean's lap.

He planted his hands on either side of Dean’s head on the couch and pushed his brother back into the cushions until the length of his body was flush against Dean’s. Dean's lips parted and Sam rushed in again, tongue sliding against him, letting Dean suck it into his mouth. Dean’s hands were raking up and down the skin of Sam's back, gripping and desperate to touch, to feel more, to explore all the places that had been off-limits to him for so long.

Dean dropped a line of wet kisses down Sam’s neck, bit against his collarbone. “Wanna take care of you, baby,” he breathed, tongue soft over the delicate skin of Sam's right nipple, teasing it between his teeth.

Sam shuddered and his hips rolled down, dragged the underside of his cock along Dean's stomach. “Yeah?” he asked, rutting against Dean’s skin. “What do you wanna do to me?” Dean licked a stripe across his chest and Sam watched the wet trail of his brother's saliva glisten on his skin. Dean sucked Sam’s left nipple into his mouth, rolled his tongue over it. This time when Sam ground down against his brother, their cocks slid together and they both groaned.

Dean grabbed Sam’s ass in both hands, fingertips digging in. “Wanna fuck you, Sammy.” He canted his hips, slid wild and rough against Sam’s cock again, slick between them where he was still wet from Sam’s mouth. “Will you let me?” He kissed over Sam’s breastbone and looked up into his brother’s eyes.

Sam took one hand from beside Dean’s head and cupped his cheek, thumb sliding over his bitten-pink bottom lip. He leaned in and kissed the place his thumb had been. “Am I still your baby boy?” he asked.

It was like exposing a taboo, shining a spotlight on it; Dean hadn’t called him that in years, but Sam had never forgotten. His cock throbbed as he spoke the words aloud.

Dean’s eyes shot wide and surprised and his muscles clenched under Sam’s body. He leaned forward and licked desperately into Sam’s mouth, groaning into it. “Yeah, you’re my baby boy,” he choked out. “Always, Sammy.”

Sam went up high on his knees, never breaking his mouth from Dean’s. He took his hands from his brother’s face, slid two of his fingers between their parted lips, let Dean lick and suck them as they kissed.

When his fingers were slick enough, he dropped his hand away and leaned back, left enough space between their bodies for Dean to see, and worked himself open. He closed his eyes and groaned, rotating his hips over his own hand. “You wanna fuck your baby boy?” he breathed out, high and thrumming from the sweet ache inside him and the obscenity spilling from his mouth.

Dean’s grip on Sam’s ass tightened, fingertips inching in to brush against Sam’s knuckles as they slid into his hole. “Yeah,” Dean groaned, leaning in and sucking a vivid mark against Sam’s ribs. “God, yes.”

Sam pushed Dean back against the couch, right hand splayed against his brother’s chest for balance. He bit his lip and rolled his head back, exposing his long neck. “You gonna beg me for it?” A filthy grin spread across his face. He could feel how badly Dean wanted it, knew his brother was vibrating with need underneath him, but he couldn’t help but tease, making a spectacle of himself. He’d always had a mean streak.

Dean’s expression turned disbelieving, desperate. “Still a fucking brat, Jesus Christ,” he growled. “C’mon, Sammy. Let me fuck you.” He reached out, slid his palm over Sam’s cock. “Please.” The word was sibilant, almost a whine.

Sam pulled his fingers free and dropped his hand to Dean’s straining cock, gripped it tight. “Okay,” he breathed at last. He levered himself down, leaning in to brush his lips against Dean’s ear. “Only because you asked so nicely.” He nipped at Dean’s earlobe and pushed himself onto Dean’s cock – slow burn of it as his brother stretched him open wide.

“Oh, fuck you,” Dean groaned, each word slurred and drawn out as his cock slid hot and full into Sam’s body.

Sam licked against the shell of Dean’s ear. “Already doing that,” he said, humor pulling his lips into a lopsided grin. His breath hitched as he sank lower, slow and perfect, tight grip of muscle feeling every inch of his brother pushing up from below. He relaxed his thighs, let his legs spread wide, and canted back until Dean was buried all the way inside him. Sam let out a long, shaky exhale that ended in a groan, high up in his throat. “Thought about this--” he bit out, overwhelmed by Dean, his hands, his mouth, the simple presence of him everywhere in front of Sam. “Need to feel you come inside.” He rotated his hips, tentative, searching for the perfect angle.

Dean surged up, dragged one hand from Sam’s ass to cup the back of his neck, and pulled him down until their mouths met again. Sam arched his back, and rolled his hips, slid along Dean’s cock as his brother kissed him deep and messy. “Then don’t stop,” Dean said, voice halting between the slide of their tongues. Sam hadn’t planned on it.

He rode Dean that way—fucking himself on Dean’s cock, ass bouncing against Dean’s thighs—until they were both shaking, heads thrown back. "You gonna--?" Sam asked, breathless. He could feel it building in the way Dean gripped his hips and fucked into him, the unsteady rhythm of their bodies sliding together.

Dean bent forward and he held Sam around the middle, arms tight around his back, hands pressed into the muscles over his shoulders. He nodded his head against Sam's chest. "Tell me to, Sammy, and I will."

Sam pounded down against him, let Dean hold him close as he bent over his brother's head, breathed against his hair. "C'mon, Dean," he begged. "Come for me."

Sam felt Dean’s fingernails dig into his skin as his brother stilled, pumping his hips up in a final rush as he came inside Sam’s body. His mouth was open, panting humid and shallow against the sweat-damp skin over Sam’s heart. Dean’s cock pulsed deep in Sam’s ass and he felt it like a shock through his core. Sam gripped the back of Dean’s head as his brother let out a deep groan of satisfaction. “So fucking good, Dean." Sam's voice was high, stretched thin, overwhelmed by the flood of slick heat inside him.

Dean’s arms slid down Sam’s sides and he dropped bonelessly back against the cushions, chest heaving, still buried inside. They both sat still for a long moment, just watching each other and breathing.

Then Dean looked up at Sam, eyes dark and glassy, and he ran his tongue over the straight line of his front teeth, lips quirked up. “Think it’s your turn to beg for it, little brother.” He sounded like he was back at the bar, setting up another hustle.

But this was Sam's game, and they both knew it.

Sam actually laughed, shocked and aroused and already so fucking close. His cock twitched at just the suggestion. “Mmm,” he purred. “You think so?” He let his fingers tighten in the hair at the back of Dean’s head, pulled sideways, and exposed the flushed skin along the side of Dean’s neck. He bent and bit against Dean’s pulse, licked over the red crescent his teeth left behind. Dean hissed and squirmed under him. “Or are you going to ask me to come down your throat?”

He pushed himself up and off of Dean, felt the slick leak of come as Dean’s cock left him empty again. He reached back and circled the tip of his finger over his hole. He watched Dean’s eyes go wide as he brought the finger to his own mouth, sucked it in, tasted Dean’s come there, salty and thick.

“We, uh--” Dean breathed, dumbfounded, watching Sam suck his finger clean. “We could do that, yeah.” He reached out and wrapped a hand around Sam’s cock, slid once along the length of it. “Do you want that, Sam?” he asked. “Do you wanna come in my mouth?”

It wasn’t something they had done much when they were younger. Dean had sucked his dick before, but Sam had always come so fast back then that he’d wanted to move on to the fucking – draw out the experience as long as he could. “Yeah,” he shifted back, slid from Dean’s lap until his feet were on the floor, then stood over his brother, Dean’s hand still wrapped around his cock. “Think I do.”

“Okay,” Dean breathed. He pulled himself forward to the edge of the cushion, ran his free hand up the back of Sam’s thigh, and squeezed the firm muscle right below his ass. “Anything, baby. Anything.” It was like he was in a trance, still high from his orgasm, staring at Sam’s cock, almost transfixed, like he couldn’t believe that Sam was letting Dean touch him. His hand moved up over Sam’s ass, fingers pushing against his hole, sliding in easy through his own come.

Dean fingered Sam slow as he took his cock into his mouth, and Sam almost came right then, watching his big brother close his eyes and slip his plush lips down over the head. But then Dean pushed further, wasted no time, breathing heavy through his nostrils as he took Sam in as far as he could, almost down to the base. Sam slid his left hand to Dean's cheek, felt the little hollow where it was sucked tight around his dick. Dean’s fingers curled in his ass, and Sam bucked his hips with a sudden, plaintive cry.

Dean pulled off with a gasp and leaned back to catch his breath. A single strand of saliva spanned the distance between his shining lips and Sam’s leaking cock. Dean used the slick of his spit to stroke his fist tight over the head, down the shaft, circling his wrist as he went in a perfect corkscrew that made Sam shudder.

Dean’s eyelashes were wet, and for some reason, it struck Sam as so heartachingly beautiful that he let out a hitching sigh of devotion. He swiped his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone. “You’re everything, Dean,” he said. “Never--” he gasped as Dean slid his mouth back down over Sam’s cock. “Never stopped wanting you.” Dean only gripped him tighter in response.

He fucked Dean’s mouth in shallow thrusts as Dean’s fingers curled over and over inside him. He was right on the edge, could feel it building like a pressure deep down in his core. He’d been close since before he'd even left the bathroom after his shower, and suddenly Dean was looking up at him with his wet green eyes and that was it; he clenched around Dean’s fingers, dropped his hand to grip tight at his brother’s freckled shoulder as he finally came.

It was like a gunshot went off inside his chest, rocking down his spine and searing a white-hot brand on every nerve it touched along the way. His cock pulsed and he emptied it all into Dean’s eager mouth, tight bands like iron constricting around the pit of his stomach. Dean stroked him through it, steady and even, swallowed it all as he let Sam's lungs catch back up with his body.

Dean pulled off, licked his lips, and pressed his forehead against Sam's skin, breathed messy and hot over Sam’s shaking thigh. Sam's hand came down and he stroked his brother's hair, a bone-deep affection flowing in to fill the space his arousal had been.

Sam helped Dean back to his feet once their equilibriums returned, and they both skipped the couch in favor of crashing, limbs tangled, into one of the double beds.

They lay there for an hour or more, neither of them sleeping, just luxuriating in the silence, in the ability to touch, to kiss again. Their hands and tongues were lazy, tracing old patterns and new over each other's skin. Sam had the oddest desire to slide the mattresses together even though there was more than enough space for the both of them.

Dean pressed his lips gently against Sam's temple, held them there for a long moment, then whispered into his brother's hair. "Hey, Sammy?"

Sam trailed his fingers idly up and down Dean's stomach, circling soft against the fine hair at his brother's navel. "Yeah?"

Dean kissed his cheekbone, his lips, met his eyes, and looked into them fondly before speaking again. "We could push the beds together, y'know, for old times' sake."

It wasn't really a question, but Sam answered anyway. "Yeah, okay. Let's do it."