SPN Fic: Know when to walk away and know when to run
What the hell? More than 4000 words in twenty-four hours?? WHAT. THE. HELL?
Title: Know when to walk away and know when to run
Author: deirdre_c
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~4100
Summary: Dean challenges Sam to a game of strip poker.
Author’s Note: Written for salt_burn_porn for thehighwaywoman’s prompt of “house of cards.” Finished about three seconds ago and unbeta'd, so please let me know of any errors. And now, excuse me while I go collapse into a wrung-out heap…
Tonight they’re trapped in the motel room, six more days until the next full moon and the possible appearance of the maybe werewolf they’re investigating. The TV says they’re supposed to get over a foot of snow overnight, on top of the eight to ten inches they got this morning. (And if Dean doesn’t stop with the “ten inches” jokes, Sam might just smother him in his sleep.)
Sam should never have allowed Dean to make the run for supplies either, seeing as how he walks in clutching a whole case of Budweiser, a bottle of Jack balanced on top, and a couple plastic grocery bags dangling from his wrists full of-- from what Sam can tell-- nothing but snacks.
Dean kicks the door closed with his heel and marches over to dump everything onto the dresser with a thump.
“Thanks for the help, asshole.”
“This is your idea of stocking up?”
“What?” Dean says innocently, patting the bags. “We’ve got all four food groups represented: Cheetos, Doritos, Fritos, and Tostitos.”
He rips open the top of the cardboard case and tosses Sam a beer, then pops the top on one of his own, taking his first drink with a loud slurp. “Ah, ice cold. The beauty of shopping at the party store.” He grins and licks his lips, leaving them pink and glistening.
Sam looks away guiltily. It’s thoughts like that which remind him that drinking with Dean is never a good idea.
Two hours later, the snow outside is coming down in thick sheets, white and silent. Sam’s stretched out on one of the beds, just finishing up another Law & Order episode. Dean’s methodically working his way through the beer, hassling Sam to hurry and drink his sixth-or is it seventh?- so Dean can add it to pyramid of cans he’s stacking.
Sam’s surprised by how high the stack has gotten. “Is this your way compensating for missing out on frat life?”
“It’s my way of demonstrating what a rockin’ architect I could’ve been.”
“Specializing in aluminum structures for tiny Egyptian mice?”
“Specializing in kicking your ass for speaking ill of my masterpiece.”
Dean eventually gets up to piss, wobbling a bit on the way to the bathroom, and it turns out Sam’s just buzzed enough to allow himself a long look at Dean’s ass as he walks past. And, see, this was why drinking around Dean is so stupid. Just makes it harder for Sam to keep his guard up.
Sam lets his head thunk back against the headboard.
“Hey, I have an idea.” Suddenly Dean’s standing next to him between the beds, patting himself all over, on the hips, on the ass. Right there, in front of Sam’s face. But before Sam can ask what the hell he’s doing, Dean thrusts out his arm and holds out a pack of cards two inches in front of Sam’s nose. He waves it in what Sam can only imagine is supposed to be an enticing manner. It mostly just makes him dizzy.
“Cards? Really? Man, I’m too tired to concentrate and you’re too drunk to tell the difference between a king and a jack.”
Dean turns at the waist to speak to the imaginary audience in the room, “Once again, ladies and gentlemen, my little brother wusses out.”
“Am not,” Sam growls.
Dean focuses-well, that’s not quite the term for it, his eyes are a bit glazed and soft (and really green)- back on Sam. “Scared are you?”
“No.”
Dean walks over to the table, plops down in his chair, and pulls the deck out of its sleeve. He starts shuffling, not even looking at the cards, just staring intently at Sam. “How ya gonna ever learn, if you don’t sit here at my feet and let me instruct you in the ways of The Master?”
Of course that leads to thoughts of why Sam would rather be kneeling at Dean’s feet and, oh god, he needs another beer.
He hauls himself up out of bed and stumbles to the other seat across from Dean, grabbing a can in one hand and reaching out to cut the deck with the other. “I already know everything you know. Probably more. Who saved you from that Patrick guy, huh, oldtimer? Oh, that’s right. I did.” He pops the top and throws his head back to take a long drink, tilting in his chair until it almost tips over and he flails a bit, slamming it back down onto four legs. “Uh, deal.”
They play a couple of rounds, fumbling and swearing at the slippery cards, warming up, friendly insults slipped in here and there. Sam keeps getting crap hands, nothing turning for him, and is having a tough time bluffing while Dean’s happily sucking the orange dust from the Doritos off the tips of his fingers. It's like live porn.
“Ha! Gotcha!” Sam exclaims when he finally wins a hand. He does a little victory dance in his chair, then blushes and sits back, crossing his arms over his chest.
Dean raises one eyebrow very slowly, smirking, and, honestly, there’s nothing Sam loves more than putting that light in Dean’s eyes, even if it means acting like a dork.
“How about we up the ante a little, huh?” Dean says.
Sam shrugs, loose-limbed and floating. “What do you have in mind?”
Dean reaches back behind him to grab the unopened bottle of Jack from the corner of the dresser and twists the top off with a loud snap of the plastic seal. “How ‘bout start with an oldie-but-goodie? Loser does a shot now and laundry tomorrow.”
Sam warns himself again that this is a bad, bad idea. He scoops up the cards anyway, feathering them together. “You’re on. But I’m dealing, you fucking cheater.”
Dean chuckles. “I don’t need to deal, sucker. Either way, it’s like taking candy from a baby.”
The hand takes less than three minutes to play, and inevitably Dean wins. Sam raises the bottle to his lips and does his shot, then insists they keep going.
“Loser has to vacuum out the Impala.”
“Loser hustles pool in the next bar we hit.”
“Loser has to dance, on a table, in the next bar we hit.”
“Loser has to call Castiel and ask if he knows how babies are made.”
“Loser has to call Bobby and proclaim his undying love.”
Sam’s going to have a very busy day tomorrow. “Okay, I’m done.” he says and throws his new hand down. “I am all out of ideas and there’s only so much alcohol I can stand and/or public humiliation I can think of.”
Dean glances down and fiddles with the cards in his hand. “I know what we can do next.”
“Yeah?” Sam says, jerking his chin in the air. Except, oh, woozy-- maybe not a good idea. Now there are two Deans across from him. “What?”
“We switch to strip poker.” Sam starts, peers at him, can’t tell if it’s a joke. Dean holds Sam’s gaze steadily, his face smooth and unreadable.
"Man,” Sam says, casual as can be, "I’ve seen you naked more times than I can count."
But inside, Sam feels the familiar twinge of panic in his chest when he thinks about taking his clothes off in front of Dean. Normally, when the occasion requires, he can wall off the part of him that thinks of Dean that way, peel down on the way to the shower or drop his pants to get sewn up or whatever, without too much trouble. But tonight he’s getting strange vibes from Dean, and he’s lit-- no straight-up wasted, to be honest-enough to allow himself to imagine Dean’s gaze on him like a touch, to let himself fantasize about stripping down to nothing, running his hands over chest and groin, touching himself while Dean watches.
Abruptly Sam shakes off the mental picture, the panic growing stronger when he realizes the very non-platonic things Dean would see if Sam has to take off his pants right now. The panic ebbs a bit, however, at realizing what a good excuse this is to see Dean without his clothes on.
"Come on, Sammy, it'll be fun," Dean prods, the shuffling deck a soft whisper in his hands.
“Yeah. Alrigh’.” And if it’s said with a bit of a slur, Dean doesn’t comment, just distributes the cards.
Sam’s hoodie goes first. Sam gets one arm stuck because he forgets to let go of the cards in his hand before pulling through the sleeve, but he finally worms his way out of it and drops the jacket onto the floor.
Dean deals again.
Next goes Sam’s left shoe. Then his right.
Finally, Sam gets lucky with three of a kind and Dean’s flannel comes off.
Sam loses his plaid button-down and then his left sock.
Dean can’t draw for the straight he’s chasing and leans down to take off a boot. Sam watches as Dean’s fingers pluck cleverly at the laces, opening them quick and sure, how he tugs at the boot’s tongue to make room to pull his foot out, broad palms wrapped around the heel. How the hell does he make taking off a boot look so sexy?
Sam’s right sock comes off.
Shit, he thinks. Why didn’t he put on a belt today? He’s down to three items-- his tee, jeans, and boxers-while Dean’s pretty much still fully dressed. It’s not like he didn’t he see this coming. He finds Dean looking at him strangely and Sam notices himself fidgeting at the neckline of his tee, fingers worrying and twisting in the fabric. He snatches them away, but knows Dean caught the tell.
"Need a card, Sammy? I’m pretty sure you've got nothing."
"Oh, I've got something," Sam answers, turning in a nine of diamonds and a two of clubs, hoping to draw a miracle.
"Hmmm. I'm sure you do," Dean replies mildly, his eyes never moving from his own cards.
Sam takes his shirt off, reaching back behind him with his right hand, yanking it up by the collar, pulling his head through, and tossing it on the pile next to him.
If you’d asked Sam a few minutes ago, he’d’ve said the room was a bit stuffy from the thermostat battling the storm outside. But the minute he’s shirtless, cool air wafts over his bare torso making his skin pebble and his nipples harden. He struggles for nonchalance, forcing himself not to cross his arms over his chest like someone’s maiden aunt, all the while keenly aware of an anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach, like a flutter and a clenching at the same time.
Sam gets on a roll, wins three in a row, and Dean loses his other boot and both socks.
Then, Dean wins with trip sixes.
Sam stares at the reveal for a second, heart hammering, then reaches to undo the button on his jeans. He fumbles with the zipper and finally there’s nothing more to do than lift his hips just enough off the chair to shimmy out.
Sam can hear his own breathing; it sounds as if he just ran a sprint and while he knows that probably means Dean can hear it, he can't quite bring himself to care at that moment. Because right now he’s more than half hard in his boxers, and if Dean happens to look under the table, he’s going to get an eyeful of the way Sam’s dick is unmistakably tenting out the fabric.
Dean merely sits back, linking his hands behind his head, motioning with his chin for Sam to deal the last hand. (Somehow Sam knows for certain it’s the last hand, that there will be no reprieve, however slight, for him tonight.) For a moment, a swift, fleeting moment, Sam thinks he sees something flash in Dean’s eyes, dark and hooded over his cards, something in the way his glance keeps flashing to Sam’s arms, darting over his bare shoulders, his chest, the way he’s shifting in his seat.
Then it’s gone.
They play the hand through. Sam loses, of course. He closes his eyes and hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers, edging the material down a little and a little more. It’s not like he’s being a tease or trying to draw this out, it just that he’s scrambling for excuses and willing his erection to die and he just so fucking turned on by the whole situation, it’s as if he’s frozen in place while the lust gathers and pools, molten just under the spot where his hands brush his belly.
Dean lets out a small, choked sound, but when Sam opens his eyes to look at him Dean simply makes a ‘get-on-with-it’ motion with his hand. His eyes don’t leave Sam’s.
His boxers are low on his hips, low enough to reveal where the light arrow of hair darkens and thickens, not low enough to show anything else, bunched up enough to hide the swell of Sam’s cock. He takes a breath and then pushes them past his cock, balls, thighs, knees, lets them puddle at his feet and then kicks them to the side. Fuck trying to play it cool, he cups his privates with his hands, almost gasping at the shiver it sends racing through him.
Dean nods approvingly and Sam wonders whether it’s acknowledging the honor of going through with the game to the end, or just at him in general. But that approval’s only going to last as long as Sam can keep his uncooperative, unnatural desires hidden.
Sam reaches down to the floor, gathering his pile of clothes into a ball and dragging them into his lap. He stands up, swaying. “You won. Congratulations.” He grits the syllables through a tight smile. “I’m going to bed.”
Dean fidgets, lowering his head. “Wait,” he says, voice low.
“What?” Sam snaps. He needs to get to the bathroom and take care of this. Now.
“One more hand.”
“What?” Sam says again, befuddled.
Dean says simply, “Sit down. We play one more round. Winner take all.”
Sam’s head is buzzing and he falls back into his chair like he has no will of his own. He doesn’t even know what Dean means, but here he is nevertheless, trying to concentrate on keeping track of how many cards he’s dealt out-three, three, four, four, five, five. Sam doesn’t even think to question, just plays.
It’s quiet in the room, enough so Sam can hear the hiss of the heater and the drip of the faucet in the bathroom and his blood pumping in his veins.
Into the silence, he hears Dean’s voice, gentle and gruff, ask, “So. What have you got?”
They lower their hands at the same time; Sam can barely see the cards. He blinks, and they waver into focus. “I won,” Sam whispers.
“Yeah,” Dean replies. Slowly, he stands up and walks around the table, standing over Sam so that Sam has to crane his neck to look at him.
“You cheated,” Sam says. He doesn’t understand, can’t think. Only knows that he’s sitting in front of Dean, naked and hungry. The entire room is filled with Dean’s presence and Sam thinks he can actually feel the heat that comes from him.
“Yeah,” Dean says again.
Dean grabs his arm and hauls him up to standing. Sam drops all his clothes and makes a noise that’s somewhere between a squeak and a grunt. Dean’s hand wraps around the back of his neck, gently, far more gently than Sam would expect, and pulls his head downward to look into Dean's eyes.
He can feel Dean’s belt buckle dig into his hip, the thick, rough fabric of his jeans against his legs, and the soft whisper of t-shirt against his chest and where his cock’s pressing against Dean’s belly. Sam's face grows warmer and warmer under Dean’s stare, breath trapped in his throat, and the points where Dean brushes against him sensitized to the tiniest motion. Sam swallows hard, but does not move, doesn’t dare to move.
The silence that stretches out between them seems strong enough to vibrate the walls of the motel room until finally, finally Dean leans up and kisses him. Slowly, carefully, as if he was something fragile, as if Sam didn’t scare people with his size when he walked in the room, as if he wasn’t hard and scarred like the mercenary Dad taught him to be, as if Sam hadn’t freed Lucifer and brought Hell to earth, as if he’d never failed Dean. As if he was precious.
It takes Sam a second to comprehend that this is really happening and then he surges in and loops his arms around Dean’s back, pressing up against him, licking into his mouth, urging for more. But Dean keeps it slow and gentle and maddening with a firm arm around his waist and a warm hand on the back of his neck.
God, it’s good.
Dean breaks away and Sam staggers backwards a little. Dean grabs him by the shoulders. Sam starts to laugh, laughs high and fast. Standing in the middle of the motel room with his brother, naked and incredibly aroused.
Dean looks at him, concerned, then his expression shifts to predatory. “Time to collect your winnings,” he growls, and Sam shivers at the sound of it.
"The table," Dean continues, heavy and dark. "Lean back against the table."
Sam nods and takes a few stumbling steps backwards until the table bumps into the backs of his thighs. The pyramid of cans comes tumbling down with a huge clatter and crash, but Sam ignores it and spreads his arms out to either side of him, has to arch his shoulders back a little to get his palms down against the flat surface of the table. On display. "Like this?" he whispers.
“Jesus, Sam.”
Dean stalks towards him, stops and places both hands against Sam's bare chest and slides them down, down, then drops to his knees in a surprisingly graceful motion. Sam has to hold on to the table to stop his legs from shaking and giving way.
Shooting him a wicked grin, Dean leans forward, blowing lightly against the thin skin on Sam’s hip. "Watch." But Sam has to look away or come right then and there.
Dean’s mouth is burning hot and wet and it slides over Sam’s rigid cock in a slow, deep swallow. Sam can feel his arms trembling, and he makes a truly pathetic sound when Dean pulls back for a moment, but he doesn't have the willpower to open his eyes and look down.
But then it’s okay, because Dean's mouth is back on his cock, sucking and licking, making these unbelievable, messy sounds. In the darkness behind his eyelids, Sam concentrates on staying upright, on keeping his hips still, on not just grabbing Dean's head and thrusting in.
He leans back and back, clinging to the table top, lower arms pressed against the wood and his back arched. He can vaguely feel the playing cards, slippery and smooth, underneath him. But over all else, he's centered on Dean's mouth, tight around his cock. It’s hot and demanding, and he moans as Dean's tongue flutters over the head and along the underside, working around him.
Dean sucks again, quick pulses, then draws a wet finger under Sam's balls and around to his ass, barely touching, a press inside and then it’s gone. “Fuck,” Sam breathes. “Again.”
Dean does it again, pressing and pressing, each time deeper, until finally his finger is crooking and twisting inside Sam, inside him. Dean keeps sucking and licking hard, and then again. And again. Sam is too far gone to care what he's yelling now. He's tense and straining, his whole body shuddering as Dean thrusts in and swallows down again. Then Sam is grabbing Dean's shoulder, holding him still as he spasms, shooting down Dean's throat for an impossible stretch of time, Dean taking everything Sam can give.
Panting, Sam collapses back onto the table, hoping he doesn’t have to move. Ever.
He gets his wish for a few moments, then Dean starts tentatively stroking his leg, thigh, shin, almost petting, soothing. He feels the soft press of Dean's lips against his hip. Sam flaps an arm around loosely until it lands gently in Dean's soft hair. Sam runs his fingers through it and sighs.
“Goddammit, Sam, look at you. So beautiful. So tight. The way you taste.” Sam feels Dean press his forehead against Sam’s thigh, barely catches the words he whispers into the skin there. “I want to fuck you into this table, I swear to God.”
“Do it,” Sam mumbles, struggling in the simple act of turning over against post-orgasm lassitude and drunkenness and the weight of Dean against his leg. He twists, shifts around Dean as he sits, still as a statue on his knees. Sam gets on his belly and rests his face against the cool wood. “I want you to. Want you in me.” Just the thought of it has his spent cock giving a little twitch of interest.
Dean’s breath catches, almost a sob, and he’s right there mouthing against the underside of the curve where Sam’s ass joins his leg. “You been fucked before, Sammy?” Dean’s hot breath ghosts across his skin, his hands, shaking slightly, skate up the tender skin of his calves and knees. Sam feels pin-prick nips, tiny bites as Dean works his way upward, the stubble on Dean's jaw a harsh scrape and scratch.
Sam twitches involuntarily as he lolls against the table, unanchored, eagerness and anxiety surging through him. “Thought about it,” he gasps out. “Thought about you.”
Dean moans, hands taking hold of Sam’s hips, yanking him back off the table a few inches, forcing Sam’s thighs wider around his shoulders. He feels Dean slide his thumbs down the crease, pressing his cheeks apart, exposing everything.
Sam shudders, squirms, can’t take the idea of Dean just sitting there, holding him open, looking at him. Embarrassment wars with the desire that twists his gut for a minute, but then it drowns in an insane wave of sensation as Dean leans in, the tip of his wet, heated tongue lapping out gently, tentatively along the edge of Sam’s hole.
Sam bites down on his arm to keep from screaming, jolts of electricity shooting up his spine as Dean alternates between tongue and finger, flicking, teasing, almost breeching him and then pulling back. Sam’s hands scrabble against the smooth tabletop, frantic for something to cling to.
“Do it,” Sam whimpers again, when he can finally get some words out. His head is swimming and his cock is bobbing in the air where he hangs off the table, desperately hard all over again, as if he hadn’t come just a few minutes before. He tries to scoot forward, searching for some kind of friction, pressure, but Dean’s grip holds him firmly in place. “Please, Dean. I… Whatever you want. Just- You’ve got to. I can’t--”
Dean doesn’t stop licking him, massaging his thumbs in circles around Sam’s hole, and Sam doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore. He’s begging, he’ll do anything to get Dean to fuck him, to fill him up, to just… do something.
“Next time. When I’m sober. When you’re sober, Sammy. Christ, I can't believe... please, please still want this when you’re sober.” Sam hears the sounds of Dean unzipping his fly, and then Dean stands quickly, draping himself across Sam’s back. He’s still fully clothed, but his pants are open wide, cock out, and Dean’s shoving against him, sliding up and down in the spit-slick valley of his ass, the head of his cock catching once, twice against the rim of Sam’s entrance.
Dean’s hand slides around Sam’s hip, pulling him into the motion, rhythmic, pounding, searing, fingers digging into the hard muscle and bone. His teeth graze the nape of Sam’s neck, then bear down, sharp, his other hand coming around to grip Sam's cock, stripping it in quick strokes, making Sam thrash and thrust and finally, gratefully spill into Dean’s palm.
Sam falls forward as Dean pulls back from where he’s plastered to Sam’s spine, standing straight and letting Sam sprawl boneless on the table. He brings his hand around, smears Sam's come up and down the length of his cock where it rests in the crease of Sam's ass, then slides both hands into Sam’s hair, tangling his fists in handfuls.
Dean makes a noise- a breathy, broken sound-- and pumps his hips against Sam's skin five times, six times, and Sam feels thick globs of come shoot all over him, his ass, up his back, splashing, branding him. The hands gripping his hair yank hard enough to make his eyes water, craning his neck back taut as Dean leans in to kiss him, frantic, mindless and messy, tongues twisting like they're fighting, collision of teeth, the final spurts from Dean's release getting trapped between their bodies.
Sam drops back to the table, half-conscious, used up, and lays there for long seconds-- feeling like he's been kicked in the head, but in a good way-- until Dean urges him upright and leads him stumbling over to the bed, tipping him down and covering him with the blanket.
Dean whispers something into Sam's hair. It sounds like, "Sorry. I'm so sorry, Sam. Sammy."
He reaches for Dean, tries to grab at his wrist to drag him down next to him on the pillow, but his muscles fail him and his eyes fall shut.
Next time. Sam rolls the words around in his head just before darkness falls completely. That’s what Dean had said. Next time, he wants to see what happens when Dean wins.
Title: Know when to walk away and know when to run
Author: deirdre_c
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~4100
Summary: Dean challenges Sam to a game of strip poker.
Author’s Note: Written for salt_burn_porn for thehighwaywoman’s prompt of “house of cards.” Finished about three seconds ago and unbeta'd, so please let me know of any errors. And now, excuse me while I go collapse into a wrung-out heap…
Tonight they’re trapped in the motel room, six more days until the next full moon and the possible appearance of the maybe werewolf they’re investigating. The TV says they’re supposed to get over a foot of snow overnight, on top of the eight to ten inches they got this morning. (And if Dean doesn’t stop with the “ten inches” jokes, Sam might just smother him in his sleep.)
Sam should never have allowed Dean to make the run for supplies either, seeing as how he walks in clutching a whole case of Budweiser, a bottle of Jack balanced on top, and a couple plastic grocery bags dangling from his wrists full of-- from what Sam can tell-- nothing but snacks.
Dean kicks the door closed with his heel and marches over to dump everything onto the dresser with a thump.
“Thanks for the help, asshole.”
“This is your idea of stocking up?”
“What?” Dean says innocently, patting the bags. “We’ve got all four food groups represented: Cheetos, Doritos, Fritos, and Tostitos.”
He rips open the top of the cardboard case and tosses Sam a beer, then pops the top on one of his own, taking his first drink with a loud slurp. “Ah, ice cold. The beauty of shopping at the party store.” He grins and licks his lips, leaving them pink and glistening.
Sam looks away guiltily. It’s thoughts like that which remind him that drinking with Dean is never a good idea.
Two hours later, the snow outside is coming down in thick sheets, white and silent. Sam’s stretched out on one of the beds, just finishing up another Law & Order episode. Dean’s methodically working his way through the beer, hassling Sam to hurry and drink his sixth-or is it seventh?- so Dean can add it to pyramid of cans he’s stacking.
Sam’s surprised by how high the stack has gotten. “Is this your way compensating for missing out on frat life?”
“It’s my way of demonstrating what a rockin’ architect I could’ve been.”
“Specializing in aluminum structures for tiny Egyptian mice?”
“Specializing in kicking your ass for speaking ill of my masterpiece.”
Dean eventually gets up to piss, wobbling a bit on the way to the bathroom, and it turns out Sam’s just buzzed enough to allow himself a long look at Dean’s ass as he walks past. And, see, this was why drinking around Dean is so stupid. Just makes it harder for Sam to keep his guard up.
Sam lets his head thunk back against the headboard.
“Hey, I have an idea.” Suddenly Dean’s standing next to him between the beds, patting himself all over, on the hips, on the ass. Right there, in front of Sam’s face. But before Sam can ask what the hell he’s doing, Dean thrusts out his arm and holds out a pack of cards two inches in front of Sam’s nose. He waves it in what Sam can only imagine is supposed to be an enticing manner. It mostly just makes him dizzy.
“Cards? Really? Man, I’m too tired to concentrate and you’re too drunk to tell the difference between a king and a jack.”
Dean turns at the waist to speak to the imaginary audience in the room, “Once again, ladies and gentlemen, my little brother wusses out.”
“Am not,” Sam growls.
Dean focuses-well, that’s not quite the term for it, his eyes are a bit glazed and soft (and really green)- back on Sam. “Scared are you?”
“No.”
Dean walks over to the table, plops down in his chair, and pulls the deck out of its sleeve. He starts shuffling, not even looking at the cards, just staring intently at Sam. “How ya gonna ever learn, if you don’t sit here at my feet and let me instruct you in the ways of The Master?”
Of course that leads to thoughts of why Sam would rather be kneeling at Dean’s feet and, oh god, he needs another beer.
He hauls himself up out of bed and stumbles to the other seat across from Dean, grabbing a can in one hand and reaching out to cut the deck with the other. “I already know everything you know. Probably more. Who saved you from that Patrick guy, huh, oldtimer? Oh, that’s right. I did.” He pops the top and throws his head back to take a long drink, tilting in his chair until it almost tips over and he flails a bit, slamming it back down onto four legs. “Uh, deal.”
They play a couple of rounds, fumbling and swearing at the slippery cards, warming up, friendly insults slipped in here and there. Sam keeps getting crap hands, nothing turning for him, and is having a tough time bluffing while Dean’s happily sucking the orange dust from the Doritos off the tips of his fingers. It's like live porn.
“Ha! Gotcha!” Sam exclaims when he finally wins a hand. He does a little victory dance in his chair, then blushes and sits back, crossing his arms over his chest.
Dean raises one eyebrow very slowly, smirking, and, honestly, there’s nothing Sam loves more than putting that light in Dean’s eyes, even if it means acting like a dork.
“How about we up the ante a little, huh?” Dean says.
Sam shrugs, loose-limbed and floating. “What do you have in mind?”
Dean reaches back behind him to grab the unopened bottle of Jack from the corner of the dresser and twists the top off with a loud snap of the plastic seal. “How ‘bout start with an oldie-but-goodie? Loser does a shot now and laundry tomorrow.”
Sam warns himself again that this is a bad, bad idea. He scoops up the cards anyway, feathering them together. “You’re on. But I’m dealing, you fucking cheater.”
Dean chuckles. “I don’t need to deal, sucker. Either way, it’s like taking candy from a baby.”
The hand takes less than three minutes to play, and inevitably Dean wins. Sam raises the bottle to his lips and does his shot, then insists they keep going.
“Loser has to vacuum out the Impala.”
“Loser hustles pool in the next bar we hit.”
“Loser has to dance, on a table, in the next bar we hit.”
“Loser has to call Castiel and ask if he knows how babies are made.”
“Loser has to call Bobby and proclaim his undying love.”
Sam’s going to have a very busy day tomorrow. “Okay, I’m done.” he says and throws his new hand down. “I am all out of ideas and there’s only so much alcohol I can stand and/or public humiliation I can think of.”
Dean glances down and fiddles with the cards in his hand. “I know what we can do next.”
“Yeah?” Sam says, jerking his chin in the air. Except, oh, woozy-- maybe not a good idea. Now there are two Deans across from him. “What?”
“We switch to strip poker.” Sam starts, peers at him, can’t tell if it’s a joke. Dean holds Sam’s gaze steadily, his face smooth and unreadable.
"Man,” Sam says, casual as can be, "I’ve seen you naked more times than I can count."
But inside, Sam feels the familiar twinge of panic in his chest when he thinks about taking his clothes off in front of Dean. Normally, when the occasion requires, he can wall off the part of him that thinks of Dean that way, peel down on the way to the shower or drop his pants to get sewn up or whatever, without too much trouble. But tonight he’s getting strange vibes from Dean, and he’s lit-- no straight-up wasted, to be honest-enough to allow himself to imagine Dean’s gaze on him like a touch, to let himself fantasize about stripping down to nothing, running his hands over chest and groin, touching himself while Dean watches.
Abruptly Sam shakes off the mental picture, the panic growing stronger when he realizes the very non-platonic things Dean would see if Sam has to take off his pants right now. The panic ebbs a bit, however, at realizing what a good excuse this is to see Dean without his clothes on.
"Come on, Sammy, it'll be fun," Dean prods, the shuffling deck a soft whisper in his hands.
“Yeah. Alrigh’.” And if it’s said with a bit of a slur, Dean doesn’t comment, just distributes the cards.
Sam’s hoodie goes first. Sam gets one arm stuck because he forgets to let go of the cards in his hand before pulling through the sleeve, but he finally worms his way out of it and drops the jacket onto the floor.
Dean deals again.
Next goes Sam’s left shoe. Then his right.
Finally, Sam gets lucky with three of a kind and Dean’s flannel comes off.
Sam loses his plaid button-down and then his left sock.
Dean can’t draw for the straight he’s chasing and leans down to take off a boot. Sam watches as Dean’s fingers pluck cleverly at the laces, opening them quick and sure, how he tugs at the boot’s tongue to make room to pull his foot out, broad palms wrapped around the heel. How the hell does he make taking off a boot look so sexy?
Sam’s right sock comes off.
Shit, he thinks. Why didn’t he put on a belt today? He’s down to three items-- his tee, jeans, and boxers-while Dean’s pretty much still fully dressed. It’s not like he didn’t he see this coming. He finds Dean looking at him strangely and Sam notices himself fidgeting at the neckline of his tee, fingers worrying and twisting in the fabric. He snatches them away, but knows Dean caught the tell.
"Need a card, Sammy? I’m pretty sure you've got nothing."
"Oh, I've got something," Sam answers, turning in a nine of diamonds and a two of clubs, hoping to draw a miracle.
"Hmmm. I'm sure you do," Dean replies mildly, his eyes never moving from his own cards.
Sam takes his shirt off, reaching back behind him with his right hand, yanking it up by the collar, pulling his head through, and tossing it on the pile next to him.
If you’d asked Sam a few minutes ago, he’d’ve said the room was a bit stuffy from the thermostat battling the storm outside. But the minute he’s shirtless, cool air wafts over his bare torso making his skin pebble and his nipples harden. He struggles for nonchalance, forcing himself not to cross his arms over his chest like someone’s maiden aunt, all the while keenly aware of an anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach, like a flutter and a clenching at the same time.
Sam gets on a roll, wins three in a row, and Dean loses his other boot and both socks.
Then, Dean wins with trip sixes.
Sam stares at the reveal for a second, heart hammering, then reaches to undo the button on his jeans. He fumbles with the zipper and finally there’s nothing more to do than lift his hips just enough off the chair to shimmy out.
Sam can hear his own breathing; it sounds as if he just ran a sprint and while he knows that probably means Dean can hear it, he can't quite bring himself to care at that moment. Because right now he’s more than half hard in his boxers, and if Dean happens to look under the table, he’s going to get an eyeful of the way Sam’s dick is unmistakably tenting out the fabric.
Dean merely sits back, linking his hands behind his head, motioning with his chin for Sam to deal the last hand. (Somehow Sam knows for certain it’s the last hand, that there will be no reprieve, however slight, for him tonight.) For a moment, a swift, fleeting moment, Sam thinks he sees something flash in Dean’s eyes, dark and hooded over his cards, something in the way his glance keeps flashing to Sam’s arms, darting over his bare shoulders, his chest, the way he’s shifting in his seat.
Then it’s gone.
They play the hand through. Sam loses, of course. He closes his eyes and hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers, edging the material down a little and a little more. It’s not like he’s being a tease or trying to draw this out, it just that he’s scrambling for excuses and willing his erection to die and he just so fucking turned on by the whole situation, it’s as if he’s frozen in place while the lust gathers and pools, molten just under the spot where his hands brush his belly.
Dean lets out a small, choked sound, but when Sam opens his eyes to look at him Dean simply makes a ‘get-on-with-it’ motion with his hand. His eyes don’t leave Sam’s.
His boxers are low on his hips, low enough to reveal where the light arrow of hair darkens and thickens, not low enough to show anything else, bunched up enough to hide the swell of Sam’s cock. He takes a breath and then pushes them past his cock, balls, thighs, knees, lets them puddle at his feet and then kicks them to the side. Fuck trying to play it cool, he cups his privates with his hands, almost gasping at the shiver it sends racing through him.
Dean nods approvingly and Sam wonders whether it’s acknowledging the honor of going through with the game to the end, or just at him in general. But that approval’s only going to last as long as Sam can keep his uncooperative, unnatural desires hidden.
Sam reaches down to the floor, gathering his pile of clothes into a ball and dragging them into his lap. He stands up, swaying. “You won. Congratulations.” He grits the syllables through a tight smile. “I’m going to bed.”
Dean fidgets, lowering his head. “Wait,” he says, voice low.
“What?” Sam snaps. He needs to get to the bathroom and take care of this. Now.
“One more hand.”
“What?” Sam says again, befuddled.
Dean says simply, “Sit down. We play one more round. Winner take all.”
Sam’s head is buzzing and he falls back into his chair like he has no will of his own. He doesn’t even know what Dean means, but here he is nevertheless, trying to concentrate on keeping track of how many cards he’s dealt out-three, three, four, four, five, five. Sam doesn’t even think to question, just plays.
It’s quiet in the room, enough so Sam can hear the hiss of the heater and the drip of the faucet in the bathroom and his blood pumping in his veins.
Into the silence, he hears Dean’s voice, gentle and gruff, ask, “So. What have you got?”
They lower their hands at the same time; Sam can barely see the cards. He blinks, and they waver into focus. “I won,” Sam whispers.
“Yeah,” Dean replies. Slowly, he stands up and walks around the table, standing over Sam so that Sam has to crane his neck to look at him.
“You cheated,” Sam says. He doesn’t understand, can’t think. Only knows that he’s sitting in front of Dean, naked and hungry. The entire room is filled with Dean’s presence and Sam thinks he can actually feel the heat that comes from him.
“Yeah,” Dean says again.
Dean grabs his arm and hauls him up to standing. Sam drops all his clothes and makes a noise that’s somewhere between a squeak and a grunt. Dean’s hand wraps around the back of his neck, gently, far more gently than Sam would expect, and pulls his head downward to look into Dean's eyes.
He can feel Dean’s belt buckle dig into his hip, the thick, rough fabric of his jeans against his legs, and the soft whisper of t-shirt against his chest and where his cock’s pressing against Dean’s belly. Sam's face grows warmer and warmer under Dean’s stare, breath trapped in his throat, and the points where Dean brushes against him sensitized to the tiniest motion. Sam swallows hard, but does not move, doesn’t dare to move.
The silence that stretches out between them seems strong enough to vibrate the walls of the motel room until finally, finally Dean leans up and kisses him. Slowly, carefully, as if he was something fragile, as if Sam didn’t scare people with his size when he walked in the room, as if he wasn’t hard and scarred like the mercenary Dad taught him to be, as if Sam hadn’t freed Lucifer and brought Hell to earth, as if he’d never failed Dean. As if he was precious.
It takes Sam a second to comprehend that this is really happening and then he surges in and loops his arms around Dean’s back, pressing up against him, licking into his mouth, urging for more. But Dean keeps it slow and gentle and maddening with a firm arm around his waist and a warm hand on the back of his neck.
God, it’s good.
Dean breaks away and Sam staggers backwards a little. Dean grabs him by the shoulders. Sam starts to laugh, laughs high and fast. Standing in the middle of the motel room with his brother, naked and incredibly aroused.
Dean looks at him, concerned, then his expression shifts to predatory. “Time to collect your winnings,” he growls, and Sam shivers at the sound of it.
"The table," Dean continues, heavy and dark. "Lean back against the table."
Sam nods and takes a few stumbling steps backwards until the table bumps into the backs of his thighs. The pyramid of cans comes tumbling down with a huge clatter and crash, but Sam ignores it and spreads his arms out to either side of him, has to arch his shoulders back a little to get his palms down against the flat surface of the table. On display. "Like this?" he whispers.
“Jesus, Sam.”
Dean stalks towards him, stops and places both hands against Sam's bare chest and slides them down, down, then drops to his knees in a surprisingly graceful motion. Sam has to hold on to the table to stop his legs from shaking and giving way.
Shooting him a wicked grin, Dean leans forward, blowing lightly against the thin skin on Sam’s hip. "Watch." But Sam has to look away or come right then and there.
Dean’s mouth is burning hot and wet and it slides over Sam’s rigid cock in a slow, deep swallow. Sam can feel his arms trembling, and he makes a truly pathetic sound when Dean pulls back for a moment, but he doesn't have the willpower to open his eyes and look down.
But then it’s okay, because Dean's mouth is back on his cock, sucking and licking, making these unbelievable, messy sounds. In the darkness behind his eyelids, Sam concentrates on staying upright, on keeping his hips still, on not just grabbing Dean's head and thrusting in.
He leans back and back, clinging to the table top, lower arms pressed against the wood and his back arched. He can vaguely feel the playing cards, slippery and smooth, underneath him. But over all else, he's centered on Dean's mouth, tight around his cock. It’s hot and demanding, and he moans as Dean's tongue flutters over the head and along the underside, working around him.
Dean sucks again, quick pulses, then draws a wet finger under Sam's balls and around to his ass, barely touching, a press inside and then it’s gone. “Fuck,” Sam breathes. “Again.”
Dean does it again, pressing and pressing, each time deeper, until finally his finger is crooking and twisting inside Sam, inside him. Dean keeps sucking and licking hard, and then again. And again. Sam is too far gone to care what he's yelling now. He's tense and straining, his whole body shuddering as Dean thrusts in and swallows down again. Then Sam is grabbing Dean's shoulder, holding him still as he spasms, shooting down Dean's throat for an impossible stretch of time, Dean taking everything Sam can give.
Panting, Sam collapses back onto the table, hoping he doesn’t have to move. Ever.
He gets his wish for a few moments, then Dean starts tentatively stroking his leg, thigh, shin, almost petting, soothing. He feels the soft press of Dean's lips against his hip. Sam flaps an arm around loosely until it lands gently in Dean's soft hair. Sam runs his fingers through it and sighs.
“Goddammit, Sam, look at you. So beautiful. So tight. The way you taste.” Sam feels Dean press his forehead against Sam’s thigh, barely catches the words he whispers into the skin there. “I want to fuck you into this table, I swear to God.”
“Do it,” Sam mumbles, struggling in the simple act of turning over against post-orgasm lassitude and drunkenness and the weight of Dean against his leg. He twists, shifts around Dean as he sits, still as a statue on his knees. Sam gets on his belly and rests his face against the cool wood. “I want you to. Want you in me.” Just the thought of it has his spent cock giving a little twitch of interest.
Dean’s breath catches, almost a sob, and he’s right there mouthing against the underside of the curve where Sam’s ass joins his leg. “You been fucked before, Sammy?” Dean’s hot breath ghosts across his skin, his hands, shaking slightly, skate up the tender skin of his calves and knees. Sam feels pin-prick nips, tiny bites as Dean works his way upward, the stubble on Dean's jaw a harsh scrape and scratch.
Sam twitches involuntarily as he lolls against the table, unanchored, eagerness and anxiety surging through him. “Thought about it,” he gasps out. “Thought about you.”
Dean moans, hands taking hold of Sam’s hips, yanking him back off the table a few inches, forcing Sam’s thighs wider around his shoulders. He feels Dean slide his thumbs down the crease, pressing his cheeks apart, exposing everything.
Sam shudders, squirms, can’t take the idea of Dean just sitting there, holding him open, looking at him. Embarrassment wars with the desire that twists his gut for a minute, but then it drowns in an insane wave of sensation as Dean leans in, the tip of his wet, heated tongue lapping out gently, tentatively along the edge of Sam’s hole.
Sam bites down on his arm to keep from screaming, jolts of electricity shooting up his spine as Dean alternates between tongue and finger, flicking, teasing, almost breeching him and then pulling back. Sam’s hands scrabble against the smooth tabletop, frantic for something to cling to.
“Do it,” Sam whimpers again, when he can finally get some words out. His head is swimming and his cock is bobbing in the air where he hangs off the table, desperately hard all over again, as if he hadn’t come just a few minutes before. He tries to scoot forward, searching for some kind of friction, pressure, but Dean’s grip holds him firmly in place. “Please, Dean. I… Whatever you want. Just- You’ve got to. I can’t--”
Dean doesn’t stop licking him, massaging his thumbs in circles around Sam’s hole, and Sam doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore. He’s begging, he’ll do anything to get Dean to fuck him, to fill him up, to just… do something.
“Next time. When I’m sober. When you’re sober, Sammy. Christ, I can't believe... please, please still want this when you’re sober.” Sam hears the sounds of Dean unzipping his fly, and then Dean stands quickly, draping himself across Sam’s back. He’s still fully clothed, but his pants are open wide, cock out, and Dean’s shoving against him, sliding up and down in the spit-slick valley of his ass, the head of his cock catching once, twice against the rim of Sam’s entrance.
Dean’s hand slides around Sam’s hip, pulling him into the motion, rhythmic, pounding, searing, fingers digging into the hard muscle and bone. His teeth graze the nape of Sam’s neck, then bear down, sharp, his other hand coming around to grip Sam's cock, stripping it in quick strokes, making Sam thrash and thrust and finally, gratefully spill into Dean’s palm.
Sam falls forward as Dean pulls back from where he’s plastered to Sam’s spine, standing straight and letting Sam sprawl boneless on the table. He brings his hand around, smears Sam's come up and down the length of his cock where it rests in the crease of Sam's ass, then slides both hands into Sam’s hair, tangling his fists in handfuls.
Dean makes a noise- a breathy, broken sound-- and pumps his hips against Sam's skin five times, six times, and Sam feels thick globs of come shoot all over him, his ass, up his back, splashing, branding him. The hands gripping his hair yank hard enough to make his eyes water, craning his neck back taut as Dean leans in to kiss him, frantic, mindless and messy, tongues twisting like they're fighting, collision of teeth, the final spurts from Dean's release getting trapped between their bodies.
Sam drops back to the table, half-conscious, used up, and lays there for long seconds-- feeling like he's been kicked in the head, but in a good way-- until Dean urges him upright and leads him stumbling over to the bed, tipping him down and covering him with the blanket.
Dean whispers something into Sam's hair. It sounds like, "Sorry. I'm so sorry, Sam. Sammy."
He reaches for Dean, tries to grab at his wrist to drag him down next to him on the pillow, but his muscles fail him and his eyes fall shut.
Next time. Sam rolls the words around in his head just before darkness falls completely. That’s what Dean had said. Next time, he wants to see what happens when Dean wins.