Fic: How It Started (Dean/Sam)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: drunk!Sam, Impala!sex
Notes: Sequel (prequel?) to This New Sin - might not make sense without it.
Summary - When Dean finally explains to his brother how they ended up making out and getting tattoos together, he glosses over a few of the edges...
So when he explains how it started to Sam, he kind of glosses over some edges. He talks about the pool game - which Sam mostly remembers - and how they got drunk and Sam kissed him - which is just wildly untrue, but Sammy doesn't need to know that - and how they just happened to pass the tattoo parlor on the way into town and this stupid joke about Dean branding his name on Sam turned real - which is completely legit. It's not that Dean enjoys lying to Sam, he feels like shit about it really. The thing is, to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, Dean would have to go into a whole other level of things he never told Sammy, and he's just so not ready to go there - maybe someday, but not yet.
See, he'd never told Sam, but sometimes, when the kid was still at Stanford, Dean had checked up on him. Not like, stalking or anything, just checking in on his trouble-magnet little brother, making sure he was ok.
For the most part he'd camped out in front of the library and watched Sammy study through one of the windows - what? Bad shit can happen in libraries! - and occasionally he'd rolled into town on a night when Sam had a date - it had been his brotherly duty to keep a close eye then, couldn't have Sam accidentally making out with a succubus or something - but his favorites had been the occasions when Sam would sneak into a bar. Not just because Dean liked bars - though that was true too, even if most of Sam's bars sucked - but because it was something brand new for Dean. Hanging back in the corner of some lame college pub, he got to see Sam in a whole new way - the way the rest of the world saw him.
He knew that he got a special side of Sam, the real Sam, the one no one else would ever know as completely as Dean could, but it had never really occurred to him that all of these strangers got something he didn't; Sam without the walls, without worrying about being teased later or looking over his shoulder for a witness to question or a pool game to hustle. Just Sam, relaxed and smiling, in control.
It was hard to remember sometimes, after all of the years of Sammy being this chubby little kid, then this big gawky teen that Sam was all grown up now; bigger and stronger and smarter than pretty much anyone else in the room and without Dean's big brother goggles on he could really see that guy.
God help him, Dean had never wanted anyone so bad in his whole life.
Sam was just magnetic; not in the ways Dean had tried to teach him, not flashy or obvious or stand out, never looking for attention, just getting it, because he’s Sam. He gave that smile, an easy nod, and it was like you could pour out the darkest secrets of your soul to this guy, wanted to trust him completely even when you were standing on the far side of the room.
Everyone noticed him, even the ones that weren't brave enough to go up to him. Sammy was the center of whatever room he walked into and he wore that burden like it was nothing at all, like he couldn't feel everybody in the place straining to get closer to him, hungry to be his.
Dean felt it deep in his gut, could hardly breathe through it some nights, and there was more than one time he'd almost given himself away, almost lingered too long in one spot when Sam's eyes turned in his direction - he knew that more than a little part of him wanted to get caught, just to see what Sam would do.
He spent more time than he'd ever care to admit thinking about how it would go down, had whole scenarios worked out in his head on an almost endless loop. A couple of them ended with him buying Sam a drink, maybe playing a game of darts together, comparing new stories, new scars; the more realistic ones ended with fists. Most of them though… well, most of them ended with him and Sam in the back of the Impala, sweaty and kiss-bitten and desperate for more.
Sometimes he imagined that Sam would see him through the smoke haze; there'd be that flash of recognition, that breath-stealing instant, but then they'd fold back, pretend they didn't know each other. Maybe Sam would offer to buy him a drink, or hell, just have the waitress take one over to him - Jack, straight up, of course. They'd talk then, stupid flirty stuff like they'd never met before, just two hot guys in a bar, looking for some action.
Sometimes he imagined they'd dance - Dean had a strict no dancing policy, but the idea of grinding back slow and dirty against Sam in front of all of those people, Sammy pressed up tight against him, pulling him back onto the slowly hardening line of his dick... yeah, Dean figured he'd be pretty ok about dancing with Sam.
It got bad for a while, really bad; enough that after the night he drove from a hunt in Kentucky straight to Palo Alto without stopping, he knew he had to stop. He went cold turkey, just like that, and for two years, it worked brilliantly. Not that he ever stopped thinking about Sam, stopped coming up with those scenarios in his head, but at least he wasn't worried he was just going to give in one night and break into Sam's dorm room to ravage the poor kid.
In a way, he was glad that he missed those couple of years, because he honestly wasn't sure if, after seeing Sammy with Jessica, he wouldn't have come up with some excuse to drag Sam away a hell of a lot sooner than he had. He could never say it to Sam, not in a million years, but Dean didn't know if his heart could have taken seeing his baby brother happy like that with someone else. So he was a selfish bastard, so what?
Anyway, the point is, Dean had figured that those little barroom fantasies of his would go away once the kid was around more and he started seeing Sam as just Sammy again. They didn't. But despite what Sam might say, Dean was pretty much the king of self-denial, so he still held it back, even the times when Sam got drunk enough he knew he could get away with it. Because, incestuous gay fantasies aside, Dean was a pretty awesome brother.
So that was how he lived and it actually worked all this time. It was harder when they'd go to a bar, and worse still when they'd hustle pool because the real money isn't in the game, it's on all of the side bets. That meant that Sam had to come in, pretending like he'd never met Dean - like Dean had imagined so many times - and start betting with the other barflies about who was going to win. It was a good scam, and Sammy was the best Dean had ever seen at it; those honest eyes and easy smile, people just trusted him and Dean glowed with a screwed up kind of pride every time. It would have been perfect, except for the way it left Dean so damn hungry for his brother he could hardly think straight.
Even then, he could have probably dealt with it - he certainly had before - if it hadn't been for sheer stupid luck. They'd driven half an hour or so out of their way to hit this bar, smack in the middle of college country - local chapter of Georgia Tech on one side of town and an arts institute on the other - nothing like yuppies begging to be fleeced. The thing about college towns, though, especially ones with arts institutes, is that even though you're below the Mason/Dixon, things are a little more 'open'.
So there they were, running their game - Dean had just lost the first round, just barely, to put on a good front - and Sam was starting to get a couple of side bets going with the locals when Dean noticed that one of the guys Sam was chatting with was, well, 'chatting'. He was a skinny little fucker, some kind of artsy twink - what? Dean knows stuff - and he was giving Sam this smirk that he obviously thought was sexy and Sammy... Sammy was rolling with it, flirting right back. Not obviously, just not really putting the guy off either. And ok, the guy was putting some money in on the game - even though he probably didn't know a damn thing about pool, just using it as an excuse to keep talking to Sam - but that didn't mean Sam had to brush against the guy whenever he reached for his - fourth or fifth - beer.
Dean maybe didn't handle it as well as he should have. He'd always imagined Sam being receptive to HIM in a bar, but he'd never really thought Sam would go for guys in general and to see him flirting with this dipshit - even if it was just for a con - well, it did bad things to Dean's head.
He was in the middle of the second game - which he was probably winning a little too obviously, but he was kind of distracted by the way art-boy's fingers kept kind of gliding over Sam's - when he did something stupid.
"Hey, babe," he snapped at Sam. His brother looked at Dean like he'd suddenly bust into neon-green flame, "Why don't you go up to the bar and grab a bottle of Jack. Liven things up a little back here."
More than one of the guys Sam had bets going with stared and if Sammy wasn't so damn good at this, they probably would have been run right out of the place, but Sam WAS that good, so he just said,
"That bottle gonna be on you, um..." he lifted his eyebrows in a question.
"Dean."
"Dean," Sam echoed with consideration, making a big show of looking Dean up and down. Dean leaned back against the pool table and hit that hips out pose that always got him some appreciative glances. Sam scooted off of his stool and walked over, all up in Dean's space and holy shit he hadn't gotten hard that fast in years.
"Sam," his brother nodded his introduction with this voice like burnt sugar. Dean had to fight the urge to go down on his knees right then and there.
"Sam," he muttered and maybe it was the way his voice broke, but something flickered behind hazel eyes, something genuine and curious and all Sammy.
To be honest, the hour or so after that were mostly a blur in Dean's mind. He played a little more, eyes almost completely on Sam, watching his baby brother get more and more drunk as the bottle of whiskey slowly emptied. Apparently Twink Dipshit - as Dean was now mentally referring to him - thought he and Dean were in competition for who got to take Sammy home that night and the little fucker wasn't giving it up. He kept edging in closer to Sam, brushing his hands over Sam's arm and using basically any excuse he could find to fucking TOUCH him.
Sam was always pretty pliant when he was drunk, comfortable and loose and easy, so he was just letting it go on, grinning and laughing when Twink Dipshit made some joke Dean didn't catch. Then the little fucker actually went so far as to lean in to whisper in Sam's ear and motherfucking licked right over his earlobe. And that was pretty much it.
Dean had had a few drinks himself and coupled with some brotherly protectiveness and more than a little jealous rage, he just snapped. He stopped right in the middle of lining up his shot and stomped over to where Sam and Twink Dipshit were sitting, grabbed Sammy by the belt and hauled him into a hard, wet kiss. Sam made a little surprised sound against Dean's mouth about three seconds too late, but like he said, Sam was pliant, so he just kind of sank into it, opened right up for the press of Dean's tongue.
His mouth was hot and slick, the lingering sting of liquor mellowed by the flavor of Sam. One of Dean's hands palmed Sam's skull, angling his heavy head exactly the way he wanted it while the other one, already conveniently at Sam's belt, rubbed across the rapidly thickening heat of his brother's dick. He would have mounted up right there in front of the whole damn bar. Instead he pulled back, Sam's tongue chasing Dean's mouth and he really couldn't resist that, so he wasted another minute or two giving Sam's tongue some really quality head that made his little brother keen.
Dean did eventually manage to pull himself away, thumbing at the slick swell of Sam's bottom lip before he flashed an ugly smile at Twink Dipshit and turned around to sink every last ball he had on the table in rapid succession. The guy he was playing stared openmouthed and Dean took the opportunity to grab the money off the edge of table and drag a stumbling Sam through the noisy college crowd and right out of the bar before they got their asses kicked.
Dean kept his hand spread over the bulge of Sam's dick while he drove, so hot it was making his palm sweat as he rubbed the rigid flesh with slow strokes. Sammy moaned for it, sloppily kissing and licking at Dean's neck, sucking on his earlobe. Forget driving drunk, driving hard just might get them both killed.
His own cock was pitching a fit, trapped in his tight jeans and completely neglected but no way was Dean taking his hand off of Sam. His brother seemed to get it though, or maybe it just occurred to him through the haze of alcohol that a little reciprocation would be nice and he finally cupped that big paw of his over Dean's cock and they really did almost run off the road then.
He pulled hastily onto the shoulder of a dark stretch of back road - thank fuck! - cutting the engine the second he got her in park. He used his now free hand to grab Sam's wrist, keep his palm pressed firmly against Dean's aching erection.
"Please, God, Sammy, please," he begged, not even really sure what he was asking for beyond anything and everything.
"Yeah, Dean," Sam slurred, nudging his head at Dean for another kiss.
They ended up laid back on the front seat, Sam writhing up into Dean’s hand and kissing him like he was going to consume his big brother from the mouth down. There was a fair amount of cursing and tugging before Dean finally managed to get both of their cocks free and then he just stalled out. Sam was pretty, so fucking pretty like this with his hair all messy and his lips swollen, everything about him just looking wrecked and ready and Dean knew he shouldn't do it, shouldn't let himself. But Sammy was so hard for it that his dick was almost purple even in the dim light, a steady leak of precome pouring from the tip, and he’s making these soft pleading little sounds that are so much like permission .
"Want me to suck you?" Dean asked, because at the very least, he needed Sam to say yes if he was going to try and talk himself out of walking into traffic tomorrow.
Sam's hips bucked like he was already buried in Dean's throat, groaning and squirming helplessly. "Yeah, fuck yeah. Do it, Dean, please," he babbled and Dean scrambled into the floorboard to make room for himself.
The rubber floor mats dug into his knees and his legs were bunched up awkwardly beneath him - they were both way too big to be pulling this shit - his neck was cocked at an uncomfortable angle to get a good seal with the ring of his lips and it was the best he'd felt since that first night he'd picked Sam up from Stanford.
Sam's cock was as big as he'd expected and heavy on his tongue, his taste bitter-sweet and sharp and heavenly. It was a tar-black viscous thrill, replacing his spinal fluid until it oozed along every single one of his nerves, his whole body quivering with pure raw energy like he'd had nothing but straight caffeine for days. Adrenaline and sex-haze battling in his system, hitting each other head on and he was lost in it, drowning in the taste of sweat-salt and Sam, the scent of leather and rubber and dirt and need hanging in the air like fog as Dean gave himself over to loud, hard sucks.
Sam was loud, needy, hips bucking up urgently into Dean’s mouth, long fingers trying to find a hold in Dean’s short hair and just smoothing through the soft strands instead. He pushed too deep, too hard, gagged himself and just fucking refused to pull off because he wanted it like this, to burn and ache, to carry the throb of it with him for days. He was stroking himself in time with the pull of his mouth around his brother's dick, fingers slick as his swollen, tense flesh dripped in sympathy with every pulse of salty-sweet precome on his tongue.
Sam didn't last long, came with a choked off shout and his fingers digging red crescents into Dean's scalp. Dean was still swallowing down the thick fluid, savoring it on the flat of his tongue when he spilled into his own fist with jolting spurts that shocked the air from his lungs.
Sam petted through his hair as they came down, Dean's forehead plastered to the cut of his brother's hip. Sammy was humming something that sounded suspiciously like "Pearl Necklace" - he remembered explaining that song to Sammy when he was 14, how the kid had blushed beet red and had to run to the bathroom - but Dean decided to let it go, taking those last few moments to enjoy to roll of Sam's thumb at the tender base of his skull before he had to get them up and moving again.
"Possessive bastard," Sam muttered groggily when Dean urged him to sit back up in the seat, wiping spit and come off with a wad of fast-food napkins from the glove box.
"What?" Dean laughed into the comfortable silence of the car. Crickets chirped loudly outside and from the weight of Sam's eyelids as he watched Dean with a smile, his brother was somewhere in the tenuous space between drunken sleep and fuzzed-out excitement.
Sam held off on answering, breaths coming steadily deeper and that was the moment it really hit Dean that his brother might not remember this. The thought hollowed out his gut, left a cold, clammy hole in its wake that was almost swallowed up by the hot rush of panic in his chest.
"Hey," he shouted, grabbing Sam's chin between his fingers and shook. Sam groaned and slapped him off, but at least he was still conscious, still Dean's for the moment. "What did you say?" he asked after a second, needing to keep Sammy talking.
Sam looked at him confused for a second before he could see the words click into place in his brother’s head. "Oh!" Sam laughed darkly, "Said, possessive bastard. Gonna brand your name on my ass next?" Dean laughed too, relief bubbling up ridiculously that he could stretch out this perfect, happy moment a little longer.
He thumped Sam's leg with his hand and roughly dragged his little brother up against his side as he revved up the car and slung an arm around Sam's shoulders.
That was the start of it, the tattoo thing - which totally was Sam's idea, for the record. As Dean lays in bed at night on the flimsy motel sheets, arms wrapped tight around the smooth heat of Sam's naked body, he figures that if he’d known it was going to end this way, he’d have done it all a lot sooner.
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: drunk!Sam, Impala!sex
Notes: Sequel (prequel?) to This New Sin - might not make sense without it.
Summary - When Dean finally explains to his brother how they ended up making out and getting tattoos together, he glosses over a few of the edges...
So when he explains how it started to Sam, he kind of glosses over some edges. He talks about the pool game - which Sam mostly remembers - and how they got drunk and Sam kissed him - which is just wildly untrue, but Sammy doesn't need to know that - and how they just happened to pass the tattoo parlor on the way into town and this stupid joke about Dean branding his name on Sam turned real - which is completely legit. It's not that Dean enjoys lying to Sam, he feels like shit about it really. The thing is, to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, Dean would have to go into a whole other level of things he never told Sammy, and he's just so not ready to go there - maybe someday, but not yet.
See, he'd never told Sam, but sometimes, when the kid was still at Stanford, Dean had checked up on him. Not like, stalking or anything, just checking in on his trouble-magnet little brother, making sure he was ok.
For the most part he'd camped out in front of the library and watched Sammy study through one of the windows - what? Bad shit can happen in libraries! - and occasionally he'd rolled into town on a night when Sam had a date - it had been his brotherly duty to keep a close eye then, couldn't have Sam accidentally making out with a succubus or something - but his favorites had been the occasions when Sam would sneak into a bar. Not just because Dean liked bars - though that was true too, even if most of Sam's bars sucked - but because it was something brand new for Dean. Hanging back in the corner of some lame college pub, he got to see Sam in a whole new way - the way the rest of the world saw him.
He knew that he got a special side of Sam, the real Sam, the one no one else would ever know as completely as Dean could, but it had never really occurred to him that all of these strangers got something he didn't; Sam without the walls, without worrying about being teased later or looking over his shoulder for a witness to question or a pool game to hustle. Just Sam, relaxed and smiling, in control.
It was hard to remember sometimes, after all of the years of Sammy being this chubby little kid, then this big gawky teen that Sam was all grown up now; bigger and stronger and smarter than pretty much anyone else in the room and without Dean's big brother goggles on he could really see that guy.
God help him, Dean had never wanted anyone so bad in his whole life.
Sam was just magnetic; not in the ways Dean had tried to teach him, not flashy or obvious or stand out, never looking for attention, just getting it, because he’s Sam. He gave that smile, an easy nod, and it was like you could pour out the darkest secrets of your soul to this guy, wanted to trust him completely even when you were standing on the far side of the room.
Everyone noticed him, even the ones that weren't brave enough to go up to him. Sammy was the center of whatever room he walked into and he wore that burden like it was nothing at all, like he couldn't feel everybody in the place straining to get closer to him, hungry to be his.
Dean felt it deep in his gut, could hardly breathe through it some nights, and there was more than one time he'd almost given himself away, almost lingered too long in one spot when Sam's eyes turned in his direction - he knew that more than a little part of him wanted to get caught, just to see what Sam would do.
He spent more time than he'd ever care to admit thinking about how it would go down, had whole scenarios worked out in his head on an almost endless loop. A couple of them ended with him buying Sam a drink, maybe playing a game of darts together, comparing new stories, new scars; the more realistic ones ended with fists. Most of them though… well, most of them ended with him and Sam in the back of the Impala, sweaty and kiss-bitten and desperate for more.
Sometimes he imagined that Sam would see him through the smoke haze; there'd be that flash of recognition, that breath-stealing instant, but then they'd fold back, pretend they didn't know each other. Maybe Sam would offer to buy him a drink, or hell, just have the waitress take one over to him - Jack, straight up, of course. They'd talk then, stupid flirty stuff like they'd never met before, just two hot guys in a bar, looking for some action.
Sometimes he imagined they'd dance - Dean had a strict no dancing policy, but the idea of grinding back slow and dirty against Sam in front of all of those people, Sammy pressed up tight against him, pulling him back onto the slowly hardening line of his dick... yeah, Dean figured he'd be pretty ok about dancing with Sam.
It got bad for a while, really bad; enough that after the night he drove from a hunt in Kentucky straight to Palo Alto without stopping, he knew he had to stop. He went cold turkey, just like that, and for two years, it worked brilliantly. Not that he ever stopped thinking about Sam, stopped coming up with those scenarios in his head, but at least he wasn't worried he was just going to give in one night and break into Sam's dorm room to ravage the poor kid.
In a way, he was glad that he missed those couple of years, because he honestly wasn't sure if, after seeing Sammy with Jessica, he wouldn't have come up with some excuse to drag Sam away a hell of a lot sooner than he had. He could never say it to Sam, not in a million years, but Dean didn't know if his heart could have taken seeing his baby brother happy like that with someone else. So he was a selfish bastard, so what?
Anyway, the point is, Dean had figured that those little barroom fantasies of his would go away once the kid was around more and he started seeing Sam as just Sammy again. They didn't. But despite what Sam might say, Dean was pretty much the king of self-denial, so he still held it back, even the times when Sam got drunk enough he knew he could get away with it. Because, incestuous gay fantasies aside, Dean was a pretty awesome brother.
So that was how he lived and it actually worked all this time. It was harder when they'd go to a bar, and worse still when they'd hustle pool because the real money isn't in the game, it's on all of the side bets. That meant that Sam had to come in, pretending like he'd never met Dean - like Dean had imagined so many times - and start betting with the other barflies about who was going to win. It was a good scam, and Sammy was the best Dean had ever seen at it; those honest eyes and easy smile, people just trusted him and Dean glowed with a screwed up kind of pride every time. It would have been perfect, except for the way it left Dean so damn hungry for his brother he could hardly think straight.
Even then, he could have probably dealt with it - he certainly had before - if it hadn't been for sheer stupid luck. They'd driven half an hour or so out of their way to hit this bar, smack in the middle of college country - local chapter of Georgia Tech on one side of town and an arts institute on the other - nothing like yuppies begging to be fleeced. The thing about college towns, though, especially ones with arts institutes, is that even though you're below the Mason/Dixon, things are a little more 'open'.
So there they were, running their game - Dean had just lost the first round, just barely, to put on a good front - and Sam was starting to get a couple of side bets going with the locals when Dean noticed that one of the guys Sam was chatting with was, well, 'chatting'. He was a skinny little fucker, some kind of artsy twink - what? Dean knows stuff - and he was giving Sam this smirk that he obviously thought was sexy and Sammy... Sammy was rolling with it, flirting right back. Not obviously, just not really putting the guy off either. And ok, the guy was putting some money in on the game - even though he probably didn't know a damn thing about pool, just using it as an excuse to keep talking to Sam - but that didn't mean Sam had to brush against the guy whenever he reached for his - fourth or fifth - beer.
Dean maybe didn't handle it as well as he should have. He'd always imagined Sam being receptive to HIM in a bar, but he'd never really thought Sam would go for guys in general and to see him flirting with this dipshit - even if it was just for a con - well, it did bad things to Dean's head.
He was in the middle of the second game - which he was probably winning a little too obviously, but he was kind of distracted by the way art-boy's fingers kept kind of gliding over Sam's - when he did something stupid.
"Hey, babe," he snapped at Sam. His brother looked at Dean like he'd suddenly bust into neon-green flame, "Why don't you go up to the bar and grab a bottle of Jack. Liven things up a little back here."
More than one of the guys Sam had bets going with stared and if Sammy wasn't so damn good at this, they probably would have been run right out of the place, but Sam WAS that good, so he just said,
"That bottle gonna be on you, um..." he lifted his eyebrows in a question.
"Dean."
"Dean," Sam echoed with consideration, making a big show of looking Dean up and down. Dean leaned back against the pool table and hit that hips out pose that always got him some appreciative glances. Sam scooted off of his stool and walked over, all up in Dean's space and holy shit he hadn't gotten hard that fast in years.
"Sam," his brother nodded his introduction with this voice like burnt sugar. Dean had to fight the urge to go down on his knees right then and there.
"Sam," he muttered and maybe it was the way his voice broke, but something flickered behind hazel eyes, something genuine and curious and all Sammy.
To be honest, the hour or so after that were mostly a blur in Dean's mind. He played a little more, eyes almost completely on Sam, watching his baby brother get more and more drunk as the bottle of whiskey slowly emptied. Apparently Twink Dipshit - as Dean was now mentally referring to him - thought he and Dean were in competition for who got to take Sammy home that night and the little fucker wasn't giving it up. He kept edging in closer to Sam, brushing his hands over Sam's arm and using basically any excuse he could find to fucking TOUCH him.
Sam was always pretty pliant when he was drunk, comfortable and loose and easy, so he was just letting it go on, grinning and laughing when Twink Dipshit made some joke Dean didn't catch. Then the little fucker actually went so far as to lean in to whisper in Sam's ear and motherfucking licked right over his earlobe. And that was pretty much it.
Dean had had a few drinks himself and coupled with some brotherly protectiveness and more than a little jealous rage, he just snapped. He stopped right in the middle of lining up his shot and stomped over to where Sam and Twink Dipshit were sitting, grabbed Sammy by the belt and hauled him into a hard, wet kiss. Sam made a little surprised sound against Dean's mouth about three seconds too late, but like he said, Sam was pliant, so he just kind of sank into it, opened right up for the press of Dean's tongue.
His mouth was hot and slick, the lingering sting of liquor mellowed by the flavor of Sam. One of Dean's hands palmed Sam's skull, angling his heavy head exactly the way he wanted it while the other one, already conveniently at Sam's belt, rubbed across the rapidly thickening heat of his brother's dick. He would have mounted up right there in front of the whole damn bar. Instead he pulled back, Sam's tongue chasing Dean's mouth and he really couldn't resist that, so he wasted another minute or two giving Sam's tongue some really quality head that made his little brother keen.
Dean did eventually manage to pull himself away, thumbing at the slick swell of Sam's bottom lip before he flashed an ugly smile at Twink Dipshit and turned around to sink every last ball he had on the table in rapid succession. The guy he was playing stared openmouthed and Dean took the opportunity to grab the money off the edge of table and drag a stumbling Sam through the noisy college crowd and right out of the bar before they got their asses kicked.
Dean kept his hand spread over the bulge of Sam's dick while he drove, so hot it was making his palm sweat as he rubbed the rigid flesh with slow strokes. Sammy moaned for it, sloppily kissing and licking at Dean's neck, sucking on his earlobe. Forget driving drunk, driving hard just might get them both killed.
His own cock was pitching a fit, trapped in his tight jeans and completely neglected but no way was Dean taking his hand off of Sam. His brother seemed to get it though, or maybe it just occurred to him through the haze of alcohol that a little reciprocation would be nice and he finally cupped that big paw of his over Dean's cock and they really did almost run off the road then.
He pulled hastily onto the shoulder of a dark stretch of back road - thank fuck! - cutting the engine the second he got her in park. He used his now free hand to grab Sam's wrist, keep his palm pressed firmly against Dean's aching erection.
"Please, God, Sammy, please," he begged, not even really sure what he was asking for beyond anything and everything.
"Yeah, Dean," Sam slurred, nudging his head at Dean for another kiss.
They ended up laid back on the front seat, Sam writhing up into Dean’s hand and kissing him like he was going to consume his big brother from the mouth down. There was a fair amount of cursing and tugging before Dean finally managed to get both of their cocks free and then he just stalled out. Sam was pretty, so fucking pretty like this with his hair all messy and his lips swollen, everything about him just looking wrecked and ready and Dean knew he shouldn't do it, shouldn't let himself. But Sammy was so hard for it that his dick was almost purple even in the dim light, a steady leak of precome pouring from the tip, and he’s making these soft pleading little sounds that are so much like permission .
"Want me to suck you?" Dean asked, because at the very least, he needed Sam to say yes if he was going to try and talk himself out of walking into traffic tomorrow.
Sam's hips bucked like he was already buried in Dean's throat, groaning and squirming helplessly. "Yeah, fuck yeah. Do it, Dean, please," he babbled and Dean scrambled into the floorboard to make room for himself.
The rubber floor mats dug into his knees and his legs were bunched up awkwardly beneath him - they were both way too big to be pulling this shit - his neck was cocked at an uncomfortable angle to get a good seal with the ring of his lips and it was the best he'd felt since that first night he'd picked Sam up from Stanford.
Sam's cock was as big as he'd expected and heavy on his tongue, his taste bitter-sweet and sharp and heavenly. It was a tar-black viscous thrill, replacing his spinal fluid until it oozed along every single one of his nerves, his whole body quivering with pure raw energy like he'd had nothing but straight caffeine for days. Adrenaline and sex-haze battling in his system, hitting each other head on and he was lost in it, drowning in the taste of sweat-salt and Sam, the scent of leather and rubber and dirt and need hanging in the air like fog as Dean gave himself over to loud, hard sucks.
Sam was loud, needy, hips bucking up urgently into Dean’s mouth, long fingers trying to find a hold in Dean’s short hair and just smoothing through the soft strands instead. He pushed too deep, too hard, gagged himself and just fucking refused to pull off because he wanted it like this, to burn and ache, to carry the throb of it with him for days. He was stroking himself in time with the pull of his mouth around his brother's dick, fingers slick as his swollen, tense flesh dripped in sympathy with every pulse of salty-sweet precome on his tongue.
Sam didn't last long, came with a choked off shout and his fingers digging red crescents into Dean's scalp. Dean was still swallowing down the thick fluid, savoring it on the flat of his tongue when he spilled into his own fist with jolting spurts that shocked the air from his lungs.
Sam petted through his hair as they came down, Dean's forehead plastered to the cut of his brother's hip. Sammy was humming something that sounded suspiciously like "Pearl Necklace" - he remembered explaining that song to Sammy when he was 14, how the kid had blushed beet red and had to run to the bathroom - but Dean decided to let it go, taking those last few moments to enjoy to roll of Sam's thumb at the tender base of his skull before he had to get them up and moving again.
"Possessive bastard," Sam muttered groggily when Dean urged him to sit back up in the seat, wiping spit and come off with a wad of fast-food napkins from the glove box.
"What?" Dean laughed into the comfortable silence of the car. Crickets chirped loudly outside and from the weight of Sam's eyelids as he watched Dean with a smile, his brother was somewhere in the tenuous space between drunken sleep and fuzzed-out excitement.
Sam held off on answering, breaths coming steadily deeper and that was the moment it really hit Dean that his brother might not remember this. The thought hollowed out his gut, left a cold, clammy hole in its wake that was almost swallowed up by the hot rush of panic in his chest.
"Hey," he shouted, grabbing Sam's chin between his fingers and shook. Sam groaned and slapped him off, but at least he was still conscious, still Dean's for the moment. "What did you say?" he asked after a second, needing to keep Sammy talking.
Sam looked at him confused for a second before he could see the words click into place in his brother’s head. "Oh!" Sam laughed darkly, "Said, possessive bastard. Gonna brand your name on my ass next?" Dean laughed too, relief bubbling up ridiculously that he could stretch out this perfect, happy moment a little longer.
He thumped Sam's leg with his hand and roughly dragged his little brother up against his side as he revved up the car and slung an arm around Sam's shoulders.
That was the start of it, the tattoo thing - which totally was Sam's idea, for the record. As Dean lays in bed at night on the flimsy motel sheets, arms wrapped tight around the smooth heat of Sam's naked body, he figures that if he’d known it was going to end this way, he’d have done it all a lot sooner.