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Touch of Rivalry

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There were six, not four, dumbass, Dean thought, and Great. His idiot captors had tied him face-first to the wall. The weirdly warm wall. Arms stretched above his head, he groped with his fingers. More fingers. The wall rumbled.



Okay, sit rep. They were roped at the wrists, dangling from the same—meathook, probably. Dean’s toes scraped the floor. Every move triggered (he coughed) intimate contact and, Goddamn, Sammy. Little excited there? “We gotta get outta here.”

“If I give you a boost can you unhook your wrists?” Being taller—the height of injustice—Sam had firmer footing.

“Probably.” Dean planted a boot against Sam’s thigh, tried to climb. But Sam lost his precious footing and down Dean went. They swung in their bonds and their eyes popped a little when one half-mast, jean-clad cock banged against the other. “Too much to hope that’s a gun in your pocket…” Dean joked.

Sam choked.

“Okay, look. If I—” Dean swallowed. “Sorta. Wrap my legs around—”

“Oh for god’s sakes just do it.” Sam’s eyes darted and cheeks pinked.

Dean’s face heated to match. Gripping the ropes above their heads he hoisted, hooked his ankles behind Sam’s hips and Wow. That ain’t a gun it’s a goddamn bazooka. Brotherly rivalry warred with surprising and bone-melting arousal. No big deal, he assured himself. Dicks are dumb. By force of will, he held his grip, and inch by inch rocked up his brother’s body. Feeling Sam’s length, his thickness. Once or twice he felt it throb. Sam hissed every time Dean squeezed. Groaned as they dragged together. Dean didn’t fare much better.

“C’mon, hurry up,” Sam said, jagged.

And Dean thought, Right? Been ten years since one of us had to hunt with come in our pants. He wriggled them free—yup, meathook—and crammed down the awkwardness, standing there wishing his dick soft.

Sam didn’t say anything and Dean sure as hell didn’t either, all through the ganking and digging and salting and burning.

He was jerking off in the motel shower, perfectly harmlessly picturing red lips and titties when wham! Sense memory: Sam’s face. Flushed hot and embarrassed, shoulders straining. Grinding that monster against him.

Dean froze. That’ll shrivel a guy’s balls, except, it hadn’t. Kinda pissed him off, in fact. He looked down, palmed himself. No way Sam beats this. Dean’s dick was awesome. Long and fat. More than a handful that made girls lick their lips and cross their legs both. Slight upward hook and a perfect head: spongy and a little pointy. Turned the best shade of red when he squeezed behind it, thumbed his sweet spot. Dean pumped out a little precome, mixed it up with the soap. There’s a reason I always get numbers…



It’s not possible, Sam thought. He was the bigger brother, birth order notwithstanding. Never mind Dean had always bragged about how hung he was. Indicated on his jeans how far down he stuffed. Sam had always preferred to keep quiet about his assets, confident after his last growth spurt that he must have surpassed Dean. Not that Sam had spent lots of time thinking about his brother’s… business.

Well. Until Dean squeezed him between his thighs. The friction ruined him. He got hard and Dean got hard and—he couldn’t believe it—enormous. Billy club, spray paint can, fucking fire hose.

Water gurgled in the pipes and Sam considered the odds Dean was jacking off in there. Pretty good, he imagined. Then he imagined the fallout if he marched in and looked for himself. And that thought, mercifully, was sufficient to check his latest inappropriate boner.

The bastard probably wasn’t gonna leave Sam enough hot water to rub one out on his turn.

Dean strolled out of the bathroom in jeans, fly open. Water drops slid down his chest and he rubbed at his head with a towel. “So I was thinkin. College town means college bars. College bars mean college girls. Whaddaya say? TV producers? Modeling scouts?”

Classic Dean Winchester. Drink it and fuck it away.

“Yeah, all right.” If Dean took off with some chick Sam would have all the spank time he wanted. “Lemme shower real quick.”

Dean’s eyes… fluttered. Glanced at Sam’s crotch and back up in a flicker. Sam might have thought he’d imagined it, but Dean immediately turned his back and zipped up. “Hurry up, Rapunzel, before you turn into a pumpkin.”

“Dude, that’s… You know what? Never mind.”

Indeed, Sam barely had enough hot water to rinse his hair. Asshole. And when he finished, something about Dean’s cruising-for-chicks jeans hit him like he’d never seen them before. He caught Dean’s profile, backlit. Sunset filtered through the crappy curtains. Dean stretched and Sam took in lines, curves, the slope of Dean’s neck and the plane of his abs. The bulge…

Sam blinked. Obviously Dean was beautiful. Blind, dead, salted, and burned people knew that. But—

“Earth to Sam.” Dean’s eyes probed. “Yo. I said, you ready?”

“Yeah.” Sam tracked down his wallet. “Whenever you are.”

Two or three rounds in and Dean brought over a pair of roommates, giggling drunk and all invitation. Sam almost rolled out his knee-jerk “no” before he smelled the opportunity. Dean beamed when Sam scooted deeper into the booth, put on his best smile and slow-sipped his beer.



Little brother’s got moves! Dean ordered a third round of shots. Dylan, a leggy redhead PR major wasn’t exactly sitting in Sam’s lap. But she raked nails through his hair and felt up his bicep like she was shopping for produce.

Anita, a New York Dominican third-year accounting student, pressed a glass to Dean’s mouth. “Open up…”

“You spill this on me it’s alcohol abuse.”

She laughed like she’d just heard the joke of her life. Dean curled his hand around hers and tipped, let his tongue brush her thumb.

Dylan murmured something against Sam’s ear. “…fucking hot,” Dean deciphered and agreed. Whoever she’d said it about.

“We should head out,” he declared, “while I’m still fit to drive. Can we offer the ladies a ride?”

Dylan giggled and Anita shot her a look, then tilted her chin at Dean. “Can you bring me back here to my car in the morning?”

Sam’s eyes about plopped on the table.

“Yes ma’am.” Dean stood, dazzling smile firmly in place. “Shall we?”

Four slamming doors and Dean reached across the seat, tucked an arm behind Anita and tugged her close. Dylan crossed the back toward Sam.

Maybe halfway to the girls’ place, Dean eyed the rearview at the exact time a truck turned a corner and blasted a spotlight on Dylan’s hand moving in Sam’s pants. Sam’s head rolled back, eyes shut. Taut muscles and tiny spasms. Dean wished he’d been looking earlier. He’d have loved to have seen her face when she got her hand around that python. Assuming she’d made it around.

He pulled to a stoplight and warm breath hit his neck. Anita stretched up for a kiss and he returned it, open eyed, watched Sam. Anita smelled like flowers and kind of like beer and she tasted like lipstick. And all at once Dean wished Dylan would go for it, pull Sam’s gigantor cock out and give em all a show.

A blaring horn snapped them back toward reality. Dean sped away from the light.

The girls shared a plain, prefab student apartment. Chalk white walls and gray carpets. Salvation Army and Target appointments. Dylan dragged Sam down the hall.

“You-uh, said something about a nightcap…” Sam stumbled behind her.

“I have tequila and limes in my room.” Dylan tugged at his shirt. “You wanna do body shots in front of your brother?”

Sam met Dean’s eyes, less than a breath and he locked onto Dylan. “Mm.” He palmed her jaws and his hands nearly swallowed her head. Kissed her so deep Dean’s knees went weak. “Lead the way.”

Anita shook her head. “They’re gonna be so loud. That bitch is a screamer, you don’t even know.”

Dean trailed his knuckles across her cheek, tucked hair behind her ear. “Aw, don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m gonna make you forget all about em.”



Sam’s next best opportunity arose at the Hilldale Suites. Upscale on the Winchester scale, their room had a walk-in shower with clear glass doors. Mirrors all over the opposite wall made the shower-er visible from almost any point in the room.

He gave Dean about six minutes to wash his hair and get to whacking. Taking a cleansing breath Sam flung open the door, trying to look while trying to make it look like he was trying not to look.

“What the hell, Sam?”

“Sorry, man. I’m sorry.” Sam grabbed the novel he’d left on the toilet back. “I was reading this on the can earlier and—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

Sam fled, frustrated. Turned out the glass at the Hilldale Suites fogged up spectacularly. Dean’s modesty and Sam’s curiosity remained intact. He flopped on his bed. He’d never have attempted so bold a move if he weren’t half convinced Dean was creeping him right back. Two nights ago he’d launched pay-per-porn and asked Sam what he wanted to watch. Yesterday, all he’d wanted to do was swap stories about their conquests.

Meanwhile Sam’s sanity was slipping. He couldn’t hold a Maglite without making mental comparisons. Dean ordered a chili dog— “Footlong,” wink-wink— and Sam nearly bit off his tongue.

He needed proof Dean wasn’t the size he’d imagined. One look. One simple, visual confirmation that yes, Sam was the bigger man.

Dean strolled out of the bathroom in jeans, fly open, again. This time though… Sam jerked his eyes away. For all the world it looked like Dean had… framed himself with his zipper. And he must have been wearing the thinnest, raggedest pair of tighty whiteys he owned because he was no short of on display. Sam could make out the ridge of his head.

“That’s it.” Sam stood. No. Loomed.


Careful, deliberate eye contact. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Dean gave him a bug-eyed look: Sam, I think you’re unhinged.

Sam was unhinged. “Fuck you, man. Just. Fuck you.” He stormed into the bathroom. “Motherfuck” and, Way to use your words, Sammy. He heard the outside door slam and peeked out. No Dean, but a note:

Gone to get you food and a truckload of Midol. Text me requests.

Sam methodically shredded the note into confetti.



Chickenshit! Sam had been right there, raring to go. Hell. Sam had stalked him in the shower. It pained him to realize he’d backed down because… maybe. Maybe. Sam had him beat. And Dean had taken considerable comfort, knowing Sam couldn’t measure up to him that way. Learned to endure being shorter, prettier, partly because he was packing a third leg.

No. Sooner or later Sam would crack and demand to see the magnificence that was Dean’s cock. He vowed to be patient.

And get lunch at Subway. Sam would be all giddy over the greens. Plus, Dean figured, subs were about the most phallic food he could get away with at that point.

The seafood place Sam picked for dinner served hurricanes in half yard glasses. Sam looked at Dean like he was nuts, until he lounged back in the booth and set the tall drink on his thigh. He basically ruined it, melted it way too fast with the palming and stroking. Totally worth it. Sam’s jaws clenched and eyes darted. Knuckles paled around his beer mug.

Sam nearly did him in though, bucket of crawdads steaming between them. Kid ate the tails, only ever ate the tails. Heathen. It was a tired discussion:

“That’s their brains you’re slurping, Dean,”


“Yes, they’re fucking delicious, Sam,”

so he was in no way ready for,

“That’s it. Suck that head.”

And choke on it, is what Dean did. Tunnel vision. In the half second or so during which he was sure he’d breathed his last, his worst regret was, he would die like a moron. He coughed at last, punched his chest.

Sam hooted, “Dude, you should see your face!”

Dean kicked him under the table. “Laugh it up, Chewbacca.”


His crawdads were ruined. Dean plucked out a corn cob. Eyed Sam, still smug and snickering. Bitch. Dean drew a breath. Summoned his filthiest sin grin and spread a line of butter up the side of his corn. Chased it with his tongue. Victory. Sam shut right the fuck up.



It all came to a head when Sam opened his laptop and found, not Dean’s usual, cartoon porn or ridiculous boob jobs, but. Right there, full screen: two sets of cut abs, hairy thighs, hard cocks and dangling balls. Ignoring his better judgment Sam pressed play.

No way, little brother, I’m thicker, see?

Sam slammed the laptop shut.

Five minutes later Dean rolled in with fast food bags. “Soup’s on, Sammy.”

“Shut the door.” Sam unbuckled his belt.

“Okaay.” Dean smiled, slow and smoldering.

Sam had other priorities, or he’d have punched that smile clean off. “Pants.” Jeans pooled at his feet.

Dean somehow stripped his boots, jeans, and boxers in one tight motion. Sam repressed being impressed. Dean spread his arms and opened his mouth, surely concocting some blood-boiling comment when— “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Sam mumbled. “Holy shit.”

Dean had not been exaggerating. Flaccid, his dick dangled low between his thighs, lower than Sam’s. Goddammit.



Dean wrinkled his nose. “You’re almost as long as me, but you got those fuckin giraffe legs. I can’t—”

“Wait.” Sam went for the dental floss. Pulled two generous lengths. “Here. Measure and tie a knot at each end. We can line up the strings.”

“That’s my college boy!” Dean made like to chuck Sam on the arm, seemed to recall they were pantsless, and balked.

Five minutes later, they had two problems. One, all the handling (hardly distinguishable from fondling) had the unfortunate outcome of notable stiffening. Two, no matter how many times they tried, the knots matched, length and girth.

“You gotta be doing it wrong,” Sam said, at the same time Dean observed,

“Soft ain’t where it counts anyway.”

Right. Dean could totally be a show-er. “Okay, so you wanna…” Sam dragged his fingers over his dick and made it jump.

Dean blew out his cheeks. “Yeah we’ll just…”

Sam closed his eyes, illusion of privacy. Spit in his palm and dragged it up and down. Tried not to fixate on Dean, two feet away, doing the same. Tried to ignore the soft breathing and wet skin sounds.

“S-Sammy?” Dean’s cock stuck out, swaggered like the rest of him. Dark and pink and curved toward the ceiling. Lazy strokes. “How bad you wanna settle this?”

“How bad you wanna settle it?”

Dean huffed. Touché. He closed on Sam. “The string ain’t workin.”

“I know.” Too close to call, this angle. “Your shirt’s in the way.”

“Yours too.”

Two piles of cotton hit the floor. Sam focused on the freckles dotting Dean’s shoulders. “We gotta… get em even.”

“If I you tell me to stand on the phone book I’ll fucking clock you.”

Snicker. “That’s, actually not a bad—”

“Just crouch down, Sasquatch.”

“Or we could…” Sam nodded at the bed.

“What kinda girl dya think I am, Sammy?”



“Oof!” Dean bounced off the mattress and Sam knelt above him. No fair, shithead, and When did this kid get those shoulders? Sam sat back against Dean’s thighs so their nuts snugged together. Dean was sincerely rethinking his choices but Sam rocked forward and he sort of, clucked. First time he’d ever rubbed dicks with another dude and it should’ve freaked him out a lot more especially since, hey, his brother but—

“Line em up,” Sam breathed. Forearms bracketed Dean’s shoulders, rippling.

Dean’s eyes trailed down the acres of Sam’s chest. Took in the hair dusted over his pecs, the small brown nipples. Six pack and belly button. Crazy, how different it all looked from underneath. He shifted up, shade to the right. Sam moaned low and his treasure trail raked Dean’s underside. Heads bumped together.

Dead even.

“That all you got?” Dean asked through his teeth.

Sam rolled them together. Dean shuddered.

“I dunno. Stop me when you’re close.” He shoved Dean’s legs apart and slipped between. Clutched his hands where they clawed at the sheets.

Sam fucked with him. Up on his knees, teasing. Dean convulsed, strained for more contact. Down then, cocks pinned between them and sliding together. Dean grabbed on with his legs. Dragged Sam closer. Skin and sweat, sensory overload.

“Aw, fuck, Sammy,” he tried to warn, but

“Ohhoho God” and Sam blew. Head back, neck shining.

I’m gonna give you so much shit for comi— But he never completed that thought. Sam kissed him, stunned him, shook above him. Dean came in a storm of cusswords. Thrashed under his brother and soaked them both.

Sam rolled off before they got too uncomfortable. Side by side they got a handle on their breathing, mixed come cooling sticky.

“Well, that was a bust,” Dean griped.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sam’s glare could’ve killed a lesser man.

“We still don’t know who’s bigger.” He poked Sam with an elbow. “Though I’ve obviously got you beat in stamina.”

“My ass. You were right there.”

“Yeah, well.” Sooner or later, Sam would insist on the Big-T Talk, Dean was sure. Hell. He himself kind of wanted to ask what that kiss was about. But until then, “Whatever, man. We’ll have a rematch later.”