How did they get here? Sam wonders. How did they get from talking about his sex life with Jess, to him cuffing his naked brother to the headboard of some no-name motel bed while they wait for some stranger to come and fuck him?
Fuck if Sam knows, but he thinks it started when he found the folder of bondage porn on his laptop that definitely had not been put there by him. Next thing he knows, he’s telling Dean he’ll help him get what he wants and placing ‘come fuck my brother while I watch’ ads in the casual encounters section of Craig’s list. Jesus.
His hands shake as he works the buckles on the leather cuffs, but he doubts Dean can separate that from the trembling in his own arms. Sam risks a look down Dean’s gorgeous body to see his dick already erect and gleaming at the tip. Dean’s chest heaves like he’s half-way to orgasm and the guy isn’t even here yet. Sam grinds his teeth, jaw clenching, as he jerks the specially purchased silken rope. Research is important.
“Hey, careful with the merchandise,” Dean complains.
“Sorry,” Sam snaps out, cinching the cuff.
Dean yanks at it, testing that he can’t get out. He strains and twists. The headboard thumps against the wall, but the cuffs hold. He should have known Sam knows how to keep him tied down. He shudders, nipples hard points, eyes fluttering closed. Sam sees a drop of precome fall from Dean’s dick to the soft skin of his stomach, and he bites his lip so hard he can taste blood.
Nothing to do but wait now. This asshole has five minutes to show up before Sam calls the whole thing off. Sam paces the room, his back to the bed. He hears Dean behind him, yanking against the cuffs, breathing heavily with cut off moans. Fuck, if the guy isn’t here in five minutes, Dean might come without him. Sam knows that if he walked over there, grabbed Dean’s cock and pulled hard and fast like he knew Dean liked from years of hearing Dean jerk it, Dean would come it a hot second. Then, when he got free, he’d possibly beat the shit of Sam. And not in a good way. So Sam didn’t touch his brother, though his palm ached with the imagined weight. He just paced the room, waiting for some random guy to fuck his brother. Nothing odd to see here, just move along.
The guy, when he gets there, is nothing special. Barely average. “Holy shit,” he whispers, when he sees Dean. Damn right this guy should be impressed. He should get down on his knees and thank whatever god he believes in that he gets to even look at Dean like this, let alone fuck him. Actually, Sam still hasn’t decided if this guy is going to get to fuck his brother. Maybe Sam will kick his ass, then kick him out the door while Dean watches. Dean will probably get off on that just as fast.
But no, this is what Dean wants. The one thing he can’t do for himself. The one thing Sam can give him. Dean can let go, give up control, because he’s giving it to Sam. Dean trusts Sam to keep him safe, to make him feel good. For the first time, Sam realizes he’s rock hard inside his jeans. Has been since he put the soft leather cuff around Dean’s arm. And he knows; knows he’s going to let this guy, and let any other guy or girl who answers the ad, fuck Dean anyway Dean wants to be fucked.
He gives the guys the ground rules, no pain, safe word is black and turns away from the bed. Dean’s heavy breathing and the sound of the guy unzipping his pants are all Sam hears. It’s too soon, not nearly enough time for real prep, when he hears the bed creak as the guy crawls over Dean. There’s a grunt as he pushes into Dean, a high-pained whine from Dean in Dean’s throat, and Dean’s coming with a helpless moan before the guy’s even halfway in.
Sam’s fingernails leave bloody crescents in the palms of his hands.
After the guy leaves, Sam unlocks Dean’s right wrist, and disappears into the bathroom to rub himself raw.
That’s the first time.
It’s awkward, for sure, the first few times Dean strips in front of Sam and lays himself out on the bed like an offering to the gods of sex. Sam tries to touch him as little as possible in the beginning, but he can’t miss the way Dean arches into his touch as he stretches Dean’s arms further than he can do it by himself. He finds himself dragging his hands down the tight length of Dean’s arms, feeling the taut muscle and soft hair with his palms. One night, rather than walking around the bed to do the second cuff, he kneels up on the bed. He swings his legs over Dean’s chest, straddling but not touching his body, as he drags Dean’s arm up to the restraint. Dean’s face is bright red, and neither of them breathes as Sam buckles the cuff. When he climbs off, the tails of his over shirt drag across Dean’s skin. He pretends not to hear the shaky breath Dean gives.
Over the months, he refines the ad, based on what Dean likes. He learns that by listening to the sounds Dean makes as they fuck him, by watching his expression when he presses on the bruises they’ve left behind. It’s always guys. No sane girl is going to answer that ad.
It’s the talking that surprises Sam the most; how much Dean likes being called all kinds of filthy things while he’s being fucked. Sam’s always known about the guys. And the need for a little pain with his pleasure and the wanting to be tied up is so textbook it would be more surprising if Dean didn’t like it. But the first time some scrawny blonde called Dean a cock-hungry fucking slut, and Dean had shot off before the guy could even get a hand on his dick, Sam almost pulled the arms off the chair he’d been sitting in.
The not-talking is almost as disconcerting. The guys can say whatever they want, but Dean never talks during. He doesn’t beg, doesn’t ask for harder or more. Doesn’t even say yes or god or fuck. Just lays there, taking whatever they want to give him.
Tonight’s guy had fucked him, gotten off, and left before Dean could come. Dean’s hand flies to his cock as soon as Sam unlocks the first cuff. He’s coming with a guttural yell before Sam can get the bathroom door open. Sam’s orgasm drives him to his knees on the worn linoleum floor. Braced on the edge of the tub, gasping in a lungful of air, he realizes his throat feels raw. There is no way Dean hasn’t heard him. The neighbors on either side had to have heard him. He tries, and fails, to care.
The sun is sinking low, bleeding pink over the weedy parking lot, reflecting in the soapy puddles around the Impala. Sam watches the muscles of Dean’s back flex as he buffs the hood to a low sheen. “How come when they say thanks, it's always to you?” Dean asks, not looking at Sam. “I mean, I'm right there.”
Sam's hand on the chamois stutters, then resumes its rhythmic circles. His mouth is dry. “I guess they think you're mine,” he says after a minute.
“Huh,” Dean grunts. His shoulder muscles clench, then relax. He shakes his head slowly, then turns to look at Sam, one eyebrow raised and a wry twist to his lips. A question his doesn’t ask in his eyes. Sam doesn’t answer it.
Sam checks his watch. Ten minutes until Dean’s next…appointment. Sam can feels his mouth tighten. He stands up, and turns to Dean sitting on the bed, eyes flicking between the television and the clock on the wall. Dean turns to him, expectantly. Sam feels anger and frustration welling up inside him, twined around the arousal. Why is Dean still dressed? He knows what time it is and what time the guy is due as well as Sam does. Fuck, does Sam have to do everything? Find the guys, vet them, look at dick pic after dick pic. Hell, he’s the one who ties Dean up and frees him afterwards. Even during the fucking Dean just has to lay there while strangers use his body however they want. Fucking pillow princess. Now Dean can’t do the one thing he’s supposed to? Goddamn it. “Strip,” he barks, without thinking, staring at Dean, eyes hard.
Dean scrambles out of bed, yanks his clothes off, then stands in place, naked, rock hard, and looking at Sam like he’s waiting for Sam to tell him what to do next.
Sam’s got a death grip on the back of the chair. “Fuck,” Sam says softly. He tears his gaze away from Dean’s wide-eyed look of lust mixed with surprise. He hears a creak from the wooden chair. With a deep breath, he pries his fingers off and walks to the bathroom without turning back. The door closes behind him with a soft click.
He comes twice, arm and forehead braced against the back of the door. Dean is still standing there, hard, when he comes out of the bathroom. He doesn’t move until Sam tells him to get on the bed.
They’re in Mississippi looking half-heartedly into a possible case. Could it really be trolls? Sam wonders, and is it worth a ten hour drive to find out? Not like they have anywhere else to be, and hurricane season is coming. Good a time as any to leave the South. Dean’s cleaning the guns, the click of metal and the scraping of the wire brush through the barrel the soundtrack to Sam’s life.
Sam turns to ask Dean’s opinion on the likelihood of the existence of trolls. Dean’s staring at him, half assembled gun in one hand. “You can whack it in the room,” Dean says, carefully reassembling the clip and sliding it back into the gun without looking down. “If you want.”
Sam’s brain whirls, catches up to what Dean is implying, and grinds to a halt. He can only blink, hands gripping the edge of the laptop.
Dean’s eyes flick over Sam’s face. He sees a flush start to form on Dean’s cheeks, and Dean drops his eyes back to the gun. “Or not –“
Sam cuts him off with a throat clearing. “You’d, um…that would, that’d be…okay with you?” He can barely hear himself. He hopes Dean heard him because he doesn’t want to ask again.
Of all the things he expects to see on Dean’s face when he looks back up at Sam, relief is the last one. Dean gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Honestly? It'd be kind of reassuring. I mean, talk about letting it all hang out, right?” His laugh isn’t quite genuine.
Sam puts a new ad in that night.
Sam sits in the corner of the room on a hard plastic chair. His hand works his cock slowly, clenching on the edge of pain, when the guy slides a forth finger into Dean before sucking his cock back in his mouth. Dean’s fly open and lock on Sam’s even as his back is arching off the bed. Sam forces his eyes to stay open, watching Dean shake apart, even as his own orgasm punches though him, sending come, hot and wet, up his stomach and chest.
He doesn’t bother doing himself up as he kicks the guy out. He doesn’t know if the guy got off and he doesn’t care. It’s not about the guys. This isn’t for them. Sam veers away from the contemplation of who, exactly, it is for. Dean’s eyes stay closed as Sam unlocks both cuffs. He stands next to the bed for a long minute before going into the bathroom.
He stays in the shower even longer. Dean is asleep when Sam comes out, and Sam covers him with the sheets before sliding into his own bed.
The next morning, Dean wrinkles his nose but doesn’t say anything as he peels the sheet away from his skin. He doesn’t look at Sam as he goes into the bathroom, but he leaves the door open as he starts the shower. Sam watches as he stands under the spray and slowly washes off the traces of the night. Sam slides his hand under the blanket. When he comes with a low grunt, Dean freezes, hands in his hair. Sam closes his eyes.
They’re flying down the road, nowhere to be, all day to get there. Sam’s driving, some random college alt-rock band in the radio, more to annoy Dean than because Sam likes the group. Driver picks the music.
“I was thinking," Dean says, tapping his fingers on the dash as he stares out the window.
Sam was, too, so he says nothing.
“I'd like to try a blindfold.”
Sam’s hands tighten around the steering wheel. The car picks up speed as his foot pushes hard against the pedal, his breath loud the confined space. With Dean blindfolded, he could look at Dean all he wanted. Blindfolded, Dean would stop looking for – and finding – Sam’s gaze every time he came. For better or worse, Sam can’t decide.
Forcing himself to relax, he backs off the accelerator. He flexes his finger, letting the blood flow back into them. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.” Like it’s his to allow, his permission to give.
“Okay,” Dean echoes, nodding, like he knows it is.
With the blindfold, made from strips of Dean’s softest and oldest t-shirt, Dean drops down even faster, going limp as soon as the fabric covers his eyes. The air is thick between them. Dean writhing slightly on the bed, unable to stop himself. Sam silently watching.
With the blindfold, the men touch him more, as if he won’t stop them if he can’t see what they are doing. The first time a guy puts his hands all over Dean's chest and shoulders, feeling him up like he was his prom date, Sam almost grabs him and pulls him away. He must have made some kind of sound, (not a growl, despite what Dean said later) because the guy just stops dead.
“Sorry,” Sam says through clenched teeth. “Keep going.” Dean moans his approval and Sam wants to hit somebody. Anybody.
The mountains of Virginia are on fire with the red, yellow, and gold leaves of autumn. They stay a week in the same place, finishing up some protective rituals as a favor to a hoodoo practitioner Bobby knows. Sam checks the email he set up for the ad this time. As usual, there are dozens of responses. Even without the picture of Dean from shoulders to knee, they get a respectable number each day. With it, Sam can’t even read them all. He starts from the first one chronologically, first come, first…come, going through until he finds someone he doesn’t get a bad feeling about.
"Tonight?" Dean asks, when Sam’s annoyed grunting and incredulous exhalations (some people, really) come to a stop.
Sam nods. Dean spends the rest of the day humming to himself, body loose and inviting.
Sam’s not sure how much more of this he can take. He’d almost beaten one guy who tried to get Sam to let him come back another time, making some crude remark about Dean being the hottest, easiest lay he’d ever had. He wonders if Dean knows.
As the sun sets, Sam knows Dean is waiting. He can feel the anticipation in the air, pheromones slinking around the caveman part of his brain. After six nights and no housekeeping, the whole room smelled like them, sweat and takeout, familiar from a thousand other nights. Dean exhales heavily, and Sam sits at the table, wondering if tonight is the night he finally breaks.
But Dean breaks first, clearing his throat nervously. “C'mon, Sammy,” he says with a forced laugh. “This fine ass isn't gonna tie itself up.”
Sam rubs circles into his temples with his fingertips and wishes his dick wasn’t already getting hard. The silence stretches. “Okay,” he breathes. “Strip.”
Dean’s eyes never leave his as he wraps the blindfold around his head. Sam knows, when he takes it off, which he always does before un-cuffing him, that Dean’s eyes will still be looking into his.
The guy is ten minutes late and Dean is started to twitch, and not in the good way. He sighs, his cock at half-mast. It wouldn’t be the first time they had a no-show. Sam is always a little selfishly glad. It’s almost worth Dean’s foul mood for the rest of the night.
But tonight is different. Tonight Sam wants it as much as Dean does. Without either one of them acknowledging it, Dean’s sexual outlet had become their sexual outlet. Neither one of them picked up anyone outside of these nights anymore. They flirted, they chatted. You couldn’t stop Dean from flirting, and you could sooner stop the earth rotating than stop people from people flirting with Dean. But by unspoken agreement, they only went home with each other.
Another five minutes, and Sam’s out the door with a murmured, “Hold on,” to Dean.
The night air is cool, but it does nothing to assuage the heat in Sam’s veins. Damn it, he wanted this to happen tonight. He needed it. Dean needs it. They need it. He paces back and forth. “It’s not like it would be any worse than what we’d already done, right?” he asks the vending machine rhetorically. He passes by the room again, light slipping through the cracks in the mini-blinds. He resists pushing his hands against the window, trying to see if Dean is visible from the outside. “Fuck it,” he says out loud. He rubs his sweaty hands on his jeans. “What’s the worse than could happen?” he asks, picturing Dean’s look of betrayal, hearing his yell of denial. Too bad, imaginary Dean, Sam thinks. I know you want this, too. And if he’s wrong? Well, Sam will burn that bridge when they get to it.
He opens the door, seeing his brother’s body relax, thighs splaying open when he registers the click of the door, the touch of the night air on his naked skin. He pulls against the bonds, flexing the thick muscles of his arms.
Dean doesn’t move as Sam methodically strips. His heart is a lump in his throat, the blood rushing in his ears deafening. He sees Dean lick his lips as he hears Sam’s boots thud onto the ground, sees his cock jump at the jingling of the belt buckle as Sam undoes it. He wonders if Dean knows who is undressing.
Taking a deep breath, he climbs onto the bed, bracing himself over Dean’s body on his hands and knees. He can feel the heat pouring off of Dean’s body, can feel Dean’s breath brushing through his hair as he looks down the length of Dean’s body. Surely Dean must know now. Must be able to feel that it is Sam leaning over him, claiming him. At the very least, he must realize that only one person had come into the room.
It’s not until his teeth are locked into the thin skin of Dean’s neck, that he feels Dean truly register what is happening. Dean’s entire body jolts and he shouts into the room.
After months of listening to Dean’s worldless cries, of watching his responses to the fumbling attention of strangers, Sam is a virtuoso at playing Dean’s body. He steadies Dean with a hand to his heart, leaning his weight into him, trapping him against the mattress. As if he could leave.
His mouth works on Dean, licking and biting down the column of his neck. His fingers squeeze his trembling biceps, and press into the soft hair of his underarm. When his mouth follows, licking at the sweat and scent there, Dean groans like he’s dying, and a huge shudder wracks his body. He’s panting now. Sam’s cock paints stripes wherever it touches Dean’s body. His stomach, the hair on his groin, the skin above his knee, as Sam works his way down his body.
Sam keeps his hand on Dean’s heart, feels it pounding, feels Dean’s chest expanding with each labored breath. When his teeth dig into Dean’s hip bones, his hair dragging across his rock hard cock, Dean breaks, and Sam hears him speak for the first time ever while this is happening.
“Sam,” he moans. “Oh god, Sammy, please.”
Sam drops his head down onto Dean’s hip, rests his forehead on the bone there. Oh, thank god.
“Anything,” Dean begs. “Anything you want. I want it. God, I want it.”
“Fuck, Dean,” Sam groans, rough and helpless.
Dean gives a shaky laugh, relief in every line of his body now they’ve acknowledged each other. His “yeah, Sam” turns into a wordless grunt when Sam bites down again. Sam had watched for months as the marks from other me bloom and fade on his brother’s body. He bites deeper, sucks harder thinking about them. From now on, the only marks on Dean’s body will be his. Dean shouts his agreement.
There’s no way it can be soft and gentle, and that’s fine. Neither of them wants it to be. There will be time for that later. Tonight is about claiming each other, about years of heaven and hell trying to separate them, trying to pull them apart. Tonight, Sam is going to put them together the way they should have always been.
He tells Dean everything, says everything no one else had, ever could have said to Dean. How beautiful he is, how strong, how brave, how he’s Sam’s whole world. Dean can only moan Sam’s name, legs locked around Sam’s hips as Sam bites and sucks and presses his ownership into Dean with his mouth and hands.
The night air blows cool between them when Sam reaches for the lube. He’s shaking so hard, he almost drops it as he slicks up his fingers. Dean chuckles, and Sam suddenly wants desperately to see the laugh lines surrounding his brother’s bottle-green eyes. But he can’t, he can’t spare the time to yank the blindfold down. He slips two fingers into Dean, pushing against the resistance. “Oh, shit, goddamn it,” he curses as Dean’s body swallows him up, drawing him even deeper inside. Dean tenses, tendons straining on his neck as it arches up.
Sam’s prep is perfunctory at best. He can’t wait, and he knows Dean can take it, knows Dean likes it. One day, he’s going to get his whole hand in there, break Dean down with the intensity of it and put him back together. But not now. He surges up over Dean, cock pressed against Dean’s slicked up entrance. “I can’t wait, I have to…” He pushes in, sobbing with the intensity of it, as he falls inch by inch into Dean.
Dean’s legs are clamped around his hips, pulling Sam closer. Sam braces his hands on either side of Dean. Deeper, he has to be deeper. He pushes up to his knees, pushes Dean’s legs up by the backs of his thighs and rolls his hips off the bed.
He pounds into Dean, the bed shaking, headboard slamming against the wall. He can’t stop staring at Dean. Sweat runs down both their bodies, stinging Sam’s eyes and plastering Dean’s hair to his head. The fabric around Dean’s eyes is wet, and Sam sees a tear slip out from under the blindfold. Dean’s face blazes as he registers the tear, but he doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t try to hide from Sammy and this thing between them. “Sammy,” he chokes out. His cock is red and hard. Sam can feel the heat of it.
His hand slips on the sweat-slick skin of Dean’s leg, and he readjusts himself, punching a shout out of Dean. “Fuck, fuck.” He braces himself on one arm and reaches for Dean’s cock. “Come for me, Dean. Come on,” he begs, as he wraps his hand around Dean’s hot length.
Dean sucks in a huge breath, then clenches down around Sam’s cock, trapping him inside, as he comes, shooing over and over. Body strung tight, come arching up over him and onto Sam’s chest, Dean’s chin. After what feels like minutes, he drops back down to the bed, limp. His inner walls throb around Sam, matching the pulse of his heartbeat. Sam pushes in deep, once, twice, and follows Dean down over the edge.
Sam counts time by Dean’s heartbeat. Both of them content just to breathe, still connected, Sam laying on top of Dean. Eventually Dean has to move. At the sound of the ropes dragging across the sheets, Sam rolls off and unbuckles the cuffs and slides the blindfold up over Dean’s head.
Dean rubs his wrists as he shifts over to make more room for Sam. He makes a small frown, and Sam gives him a questioning look.
“Dude,” he says, voice light, “ever heard of condoms?”
Sam leans over Dean, mouth almost touching his. “Anything I want,” he says, Dean’s warm breath tickling his lips. “That's what you said. And if I want you wet for me, then that's how it's gonna be.”
Dean swallows and nods, pupils expanding. Sam bends down, and they’re kissing. Lips and tongue as soft and gentle as their bodies were hard and demanding.
That’s the first time.
Later, when the room is full dark, Sam hears a knocking at the door. He’ll be damned if he’s getting out of bed to deal with it. When he feels Dean start to roll out of bed, reaching the gun out from under the pillow, he tries to grab him, but Dean slides away. He hears Dean pull on his jeans and walk to the door.
“I’m really sorry,” he hears a male voice say, and Sam smirks. Damn right, you’re sorry, he thinks.
“Am I too late?” the guy continues. Sam knows without looking his eyes are glued to Dean’s half naked body, unbuttoned jeans barely hanging on his hips.
“Yeah, you are,” Sam says out loud. He pushes up to a sitting position. Dean holds his hand up in Sam’s direction, stopping him from getting out of bed. Dean knows that Sam’s a possessive bastard. Sam settles for glaring at the man, even if he can’t see it in the near dark of the room.
“Sorry,” Dean says to the guy, even as he’s closing the door. He sounded like he meant it a little, and Sam’s going to have to do something about that.
“So,” he says, as Dean saunters towards him, grin on his face, looking like sin on legs. “A while back, you said something about choking?”
Dean falters in his stride, and then shoves his jeans to floor with a groan. He stands next to the bed, looking down at Sam. “Think you can do it?” he asks, challenge clear in his voice.
Sam grabs him and drags his back down to bed, pulling him into place for kiss after kiss until they are a warm tangle of sheets and skin. Sam slides one hand up, wrapping his long fingers around Dean’s neck. He squeezes the barest amount, just an ounce of pressure but more than enough to make Dean’s back arch, and his eyes close to slits. “I want it all," Sam tells Dean, serious as prophecy. “And you're gonna take everything I give you.”
Dean opens his eyes and smiles. “Love you, too, Sammy,” he says, laughing at the shock and joy on Sam’s face.
Sam drags him back down to lay next to him. As they slip into sleep, Sam says a prayer of thanks to whatever fate or luck led him to that folder all those months ago. Before he falls completely under, he wonders if he should rewrite the ad or delete it entirely. He’ll ask Dean in the morning.