[fic] A Matter of Trust (Wincest, NC-17)
This was more of a getting-into-the-groove exercise for me than a Serious Fic, but…I'm just ecstatic I finally finished something for once. :Dd!!
Title: A Matter of Trust
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6,242
Summary: In which Dean freaks out, and Sam tries to smooth things over.
(ETA: Podfic available here by applegeuse and here by heard_the_owl. :D)
The first time is an accident, but apparently no amount of swearing will get Dean to believe it.
Dean's got Sam up against the wall of their motel room, and his hands are unbuttoning Sam's shirt while his mouth is sucking on the skin just below Sam's left ear. The wet sounds mixed with Dean's breath right into his ear are making Sam's knees shake. The only thing better would be if Dean were groaning while he sucked, that gruff groan he always makes when Sam gets his hands on Dean's bare ass.
So Sam tries to put his hands down the back of Dean's jeans. Except his hands are big and Dean's jeans are tight, so there isn't much room. What's supposed to be Sam's hands firmly gripping both cheeks of Dean's ass ends up being one hand gripping one cheek and the other stuck in the crease, his fingers curling toward Dean's hole. It's an accident, pure and simple, but Dean apparently doesn't understand other people's accidents or how to properly respond to them.
He shoves Sam backward, grinding Sam's shoulder into the wall, and when Sam tries to jerk away from the pain, his chin nails Dean right in the eye.
"Son of a bitch," Dean hisses, palm covering his eye as it starts to water. He scowls at Sam and takes three steps back. "Dammit, Sam, how many times I gotta tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"That we're not doing the-" Dean waves one hand vaguely in the air like he honestly thinks he can convey information that way. His jaw clenches when he realizes Sam doesn't get it. "The fucking, Sam! You're not putting your dick in my ass!"
"Dean, you've never said that," Sam tells him. "And it was an accident!"
"Yeah, sure it was, Sam." Dean scans the room, still holding one hand over his eye, and zeroes in on the ice bucket sitting on the dresser. He stalks over to it and picks it up.
"Seriously, Dean, I was trying to grab your ass, not…not fuck it. Calm down. You know I wouldn't try to just spring that on you."
And he wouldn't. Sam knows he's a jerk sometimes, and being around Dean all these years is probably only making it worse, but he'd never try taking such a huge step without at least mentioning it beforehand and getting Dean's okay.
Dean makes a slashing, shut-the-hell-up motion in the air, except he's holding the ice bucket, so for a second Sam thinks he's about to throw it. If Dean notices the way Sam starts to duck, he ignores it. He kicks around the blankets piled on the floor until he finds his boots buried under them.
"Christ, Sammy," says Dean, "you're like one of those guys who agrees to keep it above the waist and then tries to sweet talk his girl into letting him under her skirt. And here I thought you were better than that."
"You're confusing me with you," Sam snaps.
Then Dean takes his hand off his eye so he can slip his boots on, and something about seeing how watery and bloodshot it is, how similar it looks to when Dean's full-on crying, makes Sam pause and really look at Dean. And realize Dean is seriously freaked out, more than Sam's seen him in a long time. Eyes fixing themselves on anything that isn't Sam, whole body hunched in on itself like he has something that needs protecting. Suddenly, accident or not, Sam feels awful for clearly scaring the hell out of his brother.
"Hey," Sam says, voice going soft. He steps closer, holding one hand out to touch Dean's shoulder. "Hey, I'm sorry. I wasn't trying-"
Dean slaps his hand away and still doesn't look up. "Yeah, I get it," he says. He stalks to the door and throws it open. "Whatever. I'm getting ice."
"You're supposed to put one of the plastic bags in the bucket before you put ice in it," Sam reminds him, but the door slams shut before he's finished speaking.
Sam's used to Dean storming out of motel rooms because what he hears Sam saying and what Sam actually is saying are totally different, but usually the topic of conversation is slightly more serious. This is close to ridiculous.
"And you call me moody," Sam mutters. He has a night of heavy silence ahead of him, and the next few days probably won't be much better. If the two of them have one thing in common, it's that they hold on to things far longer than they should.
*
Dean's never said a word to Sam about fucking. There's never been a reason to. Fucking would require forethought, and that's not how sex works with them. Since day one, it's been all handjobs in the shower, in the car, under tables at bars, and blowjobs in the morning, in diner bathrooms, after hunts. Spontaneous, quick, and easy, and Sam's never had reason to complain or want more.
So Sam didn't realize until now that Dean apparently has some serious issues with anal sex. And not that Sam's suddenly changed his mind about wanting more, but he figures this is something they'd better deal with, if it's thrown a wrench in even their brotherly relationship and if Dean's going to tense up every time Sam's hands drift even remotely near his ass-which, Sam's starting to realize, is often.
"Aren't you tired of talking about this yet?" Dean asks. He's fiddling with his electric razor, which started making sick whining noises five minutes ago. He says it so calmly, almost offhandedly, that Sam wonders for a minute if maybe Dean's gotten over this while Sam was busy trying to figure out how to approach it.
Then he remembers what kind of person Dean is and that his calm is inevitably a mask for something else.
"Not really," Sam says. He leans against the door frame and holds both arms casually at his sides. If Dean can play calm, then so can he.
"Well I am." Dean unplugs the razor and carries it out of the bathroom, making a point to knock his shoulder against Sam's bicep as he slides past.
Sam sighs and follows. Dean's standing in the space between the beds, twisting the razor around in his hand so he can examine it from all angles, and Sam knows instantly that he's trying to figure out the best way to take it apart.
Sam sits down on the edge of their bed. "Please tell me you're not gonna try and fix that yourself."
Dean shoots him a look. "Why not? I can do it." He glances down at the razor again, turns it once more in his hands, and then tosses it on the spare bed. "Just need to get my tools outta the car."
"We're not done talking," Sam reminds him.
Dean doesn't even glance at him, just pats his pockets and then scans the room when he can't feel his keys. They're next to the clock on the bedside table, and he picks them up, tosses them up in the air, and catches them.
"Thought we decided we were tired of talking," he says.
Sam fully expects him to walk calmly out the door, thinking he's put the conversation to rest for good, but he doesn't. Instead, Dean tosses his keys up once more and actually seems to be waiting for Sam to speak. Which is a little weird, but Sam's not going to question it.
"You decided," Sam tells him. "I didn't. I'd like us to at least have one conversation about this so I don't get punched the next time my hand slips."
"I never punched you," Dean says, frowning, but he pockets his keys and turns to face Sam. "So."
It's then that Sam realizes he doesn't know what they need to talk about, just that they do. If he tries to tackle Dean's issue, it'll look like he's trying to somehow cure it, and he's not. He just wants more information and then for Dean to understand that he's okay not fucking his brother up the ass, no need to make a big deal out of an accident.
"So," he repeats, and tries to find a way to word all that in a language Dean'll understand.
He doesn't get the chance to because Dean chooses that moment to climb into his lap, first facing Sam and then turning around so his back is pressed up against Sam's chest. Climbing into laps isn't exactly a Dean thing to do, so it's the last thing Sam's expecting. And Dean's not exactly the best size for it either, so it's really, really uncomfortable. Sam only barely manages to reign in the urge to dump Dean on the floor.
"Uh," he says, and yelps in surprise when Dean forcefully moves Sam's legs so he can get more comfortable. "Dude, what the hell are you doing? This is-"
"Shh," Dean says, and Sam shuts his mouth and freezes. It's the sound Dean makes when he comes up behind Sam, stands up on his tiptoes so he can kiss the side of Sam's neck, and starts touching Sam through his pants. It's a sound so ingrained in Sam's subconscious he's hard the second he hears it.
Dean shifts Sam's legs again, forces them apart enough that he fits perfectly in Sam's lap and his ass is right on top of Sam's dick. He leans back against Sam's chest, tilts his head so his temple is pressed against Sam's jaw, and squirms with clear intent.
"Is this what you want, Sammy?" he murmurs, voice getting deep and rough in the same way it does every time he tells Sam to suck him.
Sam responds to that sound too, wraps an arm loosely around Dean's chest and spreads his legs wider so Dean sinks deeper into his lap. Dean's breath hitches, and Sam really wishes he'd turn so Sam can see more of his face.
"You want to be the first one to give it to me?" Dean continues, hips moving in slow circles over Sam's cock. "I'm probably nice and tight, the best thing you ever felt. Is that what you want?"
The funny thing is that Sam doesn't, not really. His first impulse is to unzip Dean's jeans, pull his cock out, and jerk him off, put his free hand on Dean's forehead and hold his head back against his shoulder so he can see Dean's eyes squeeze shut as he comes. And sure, he'll probably get off on Dean rocking his ass into his lap, but he won't be thinking about what it'd be like if Dean were rocking down on Sam's cock instead.
Or he wouldn't be, anyway, if Dean wasn't suggesting it now and painting Sam a perfect picture. And if Dean didn't lean forward, clutching Sam's thighs to keep himself steady, and start raising his ass and then lowering back down, a perfect mime that makes Sam ache for Dean any way he can have him, including that way.
Dean grinds down and makes the tiniest little moan that hits Sam harder than the loudest scream. He presses his forehead against the space between Dean's shoulder blades, bites down on Dean's shirt, and groans, "Fuck, yes," into the fabric.
Dean stops abruptly, and Sam doesn't quite manage to hold back a whine. He palms Dean's hip, tries to coax him into moving again. When Dean only snorts and pats Sam's knee like Sam's just done something either sort of cute or incredibly stupid, Sam realizes he just got played. Big time.
"Yeah, you're doing a real good job of convincing me you don't want in my ass," Dean says.
He gets up and leaves before Sam can manage anything resembling a reply.
*
Sam can count the number of times on one hand that they've slept in separate beds since the seventh handjob, but still Dean insists on a room with two queens. "Don't want people thinking you're the best I can do," he says whenever Sam asks, but Sam knows it's really about needing the option to back away if this ever gets too heavy. It's not a big deal. Sam's been making room for Dean's issues most of his life, and this way no one has to sleep on the floor when they fight.
Of course, it has to be really, really bad if Dean actually wants to sleep in that spare bed. He has some kind of thing about touching. Not cuddling. Even if the word itself didn't give Dean hives, Sam sweats too much and they both hate it when their movement is restricted. But if they're going to sleep together, Dean always has to be touching Sam. It's usually feet-Dean's toes tickling the arch of Sam's foot-which was annoying as hell for the first month, but Sam's gotten used to it. Has trouble sleeping without it, the few times he's had to, and he thinks it's the same for Dean even if Dean'll never admit it.
So when Dean starts making use of the second bed at night only to crawl back in with Sam in the morning and keep his whole body-feet and all-on the opposite side of the mattress, Sam knows something's up. And when Dean starts standing behind Sam while he's brushing his teeth, running one finger up and down the seat of Sam's jeans until he succeeds in making Sam uncomfortable, Sam gets a pretty good idea of what that something is.
Then one morning Dean follows Sam into the shower, spends about five minutes sucking bruises onto Sam's shoulders, and spreads his ass cheeks apart so he can rub the head of his erection against Sam's hole. He beats a damn hasty retreat when Sam just opens his legs and lets him.
Sam's been trying to give the anal sex thing a rest. One week of encouraging Dean to talk it out is only making Dean more tight-lipped, so he figures the best thing to do is put it out of their minds and go about sex as they have for the last seven months. Except clearly just because it's out of Sam's mind doesn't mean it's out of Dean's.
They get breakfast at the restaurant down the street, and on the walk from the car to the front door, Dean smacks Sam on the ass and responds to Sam's hissed, "Dean!" with a lascivious wink and another pointed rub at the seam of Sam's jeans. While they're waiting to be seated, Dean reaches into Sam's back pocket, pulls out his wallet, puts it back in Sam's other back pocket, and says, "Sorry, Sammy. Your ass is so sweet I just couldn't help myself."
And maybe a family restaurant isn't the best place to be having a heart-to-heart about anal, but this has clearly gone far enough.
"You keep making this into a big deal, and I'll start worrying you're a little too fixated on my ass," Dean says calmly, as he squints down at the menu in his hands.
"No, Dean," Sam says, leaning across the table and trying to keep his voice down. "You're the one who's making a big deal out of this. I'm the one who's concerned."
"Nah, I'm pretty sure you got those two mixed up."
There's not even a trace of annoyance on Dean's face and nothing in his voice to suggest he's uncomfortable. Instead, he looks almost cheerful. He waggles his eyebrows at Sam's incredulous stare and grins like he's actually having fun.
It occurs to Sam that maybe Dean's been trying to get Sam to bring it up. That maybe he wants to…be talked into it? Know what concerns Sam has? Be forced to talk about what his own issues are? Sam has no idea, but if Dean's been trying to passive-aggressively push the conversation, that's something Sam can work with.
"Okay," Sam sighs. "Fine. So let's say I do…want it. Why don't you?"
Dean folds the menu and sets it back on the table, expression not getting even the slightest bit tense. He's been expecting the question, then. And, more than that, already knows his own answer, has probably been asking himself the same thing for the last week.
"'Cause," he answers evenly. "This thing's screwed up enough as it is. Our whole little-" He waves a finger back and forth between him and Sam, raising an eyebrow while he waits for Sam to interpret the gesture.
"Relationship?" Sam tries.
Dean makes a face and looks quickly away. "Sure. That. The-you know, the big I-word. Not too sure I want to be my little brother's bitch on top of it."
It takes a second for that to sink it, but when it does, Sam has to close his eyes and rub his palm over his face at the sheer idiocy of it. Dean's a genius about a lot of things. He can shoot a hole through a dime at fifty paces, recite the Latin for an exorcism practically in his sleep, and provide obscure pop culture references for every occasion. He's survived Hell, the biggest war Earth has ever seen, and the forces of both Heaven and Hell conspiring against him. And yet still, despite it all, Dean can be such a moron.
"Oh my god, Dean," says Sam, "anal sex doesn't make you anyone's bitch!"
Sam removes his palm, opens his eyes to see a new shadow on the table, and glances up into the face of their waitress, having apparently just approached their table with an order pad in hand and her face frozen in a full-blown deer-in-headlights stare.
"Sorry 'bout that," Dean tells her, smiling. "He's been trying to get in my ass for days. A little too enthusiastic about it too, if you ask me."
She blinks at Sam, and Sam feels his face redden. He keeps his mouth shut on the topic for the rest of the meal.
*
When they get back to the car after breakfast, though, Sam lets him have it. If giving the whole thing a rest is accomplishing nothing, he decides, then he's damn well going to push the issue. The moment Dean slams the driver's door, he leans across the seat so he's speaking almost directly into Dean's ear.
"It doesn't make you anyone's bitch," he says, slowly, voice low, making Dean hang on to every word. "Getting fucked doesn't make you the woman in the relationship. It doesn't say anything about your masculinity if you like it. It doesn't make you submissive if you want it. The only thing it does mean, if it means anything at all, is that you've got an open mind and you like sex."
Sam settles back into his own seat, feels Dean following the movement out of the corner of his eye.
"And," he continues, "if you've gotten this far thinking being fucked means anything else, it's amazing any woman wants to sleep with you."
They sit in silence for a long moment. Then, slowly, Dean turns the key in the ignition, and the car rumbles to life.
"And if I did it to you," says Dean, frowning at the steering wheel. "You'd be okay with that."
"Yes," Sam answers. And means it. No persuasion necessary.
"Huh," Dean says, shifting the car out of park.
They drive twenty miles before Dean remembers to turn the music on.
*
Things go back to normal after that. Or what passes for normal between the two of them. Dean starts spending nights in Sam's bed again, and the morning after the second night, Sam wakes to a hand on his cock, Dean's mouth against Sam's ear murmuring, "That feel good, Sammy? Listen to you. Just love this, don't you?"
Afterward, Dean lets him crawl between his thighs and suck him off, and when Sam's hand wanders to Dean's backside-an unconscious move, to urge Dean's hips to thrust-Dean only groans and arches up sharply enough that Sam chokes.
It's good, Sam thinks. Crisis averted, awkwardness diffused. He's happy to let the anal thing drop.
*
"I've been thinking," Dean says a week later, while he's got the whole gun collection spread out on the spare bed and is sitting in the middle of it, cleaning them one-by-one.
Sam raises his eyes from his laptop and waits for the conclusion of that statement, but it never comes.
"About anything in particular?" he prompts.
Dean makes a face down at the pistol in his hands. "Yeah. About, you know…the fucking thing."
Sam blinks, then sighs and slowly lowers the computer screen. "I thought we'd already dealt with that."
Dean's eyebrows rise, and one side of his lip quirks up mockingly. "Pretty sure I'd have felt it if you dealt with it, but maybe I'm overestimating your ability."
"That wasn't what I meant, Dean, and you know it."
"I was thinking," Dean continues, returning his attention to the pistol. "If you still want in my ass, you'd better be buying me dinner beforehand."
"Dean, I told you," Sam snaps, frustration rising quickly. "I don't want in your ass. And our money comes from the same place, anyway, so the gesture would kind of be-"
"I want steak," Dean interrupts. He sets the cleaned pistol down on the mattress and picks up a shotgun, all clogged with salt. His hands move more slowly now, looking less like the movements of the practiced hunter he is. "And none of that cheap shit either, dude. I'm talking thirty-fucking-dollar cuts of meat here."
"Dean, listen to me." Sam moves to stand up, but Dean shoots him a sharp don't-even-think-about-it look. So he stays where he is. "It was an accident. I wasn't trying anything. What we have now-"
The words stick in Sam's throat as he finally realizes what it is he's saying, what it means that he's saying it. What it means that this is the sort of discussion he might've had with Jess, if a situation like this had come up between them. He gets it now, finally sees the hidden edge to Dean's freak-out. This is a whole new kind of fucked up for them. Has been for a while now, of course, but this as good as cements it.
Sam swallows the words, then brings them back up fresh.
"-it's good. I don't want anything that'll screw it up."
Dean's hands still, and his eyes seek out and catch Sam's. Such intense determination in his gaze that, even if Sam doesn't know what his next words will be, he knows exactly what Dean will mean when he says them.
"You trying to get out of buying me steak, Sammy?"
Sam inhales deeply and reopens his laptop. "No," he says, keeping his tone casual. "Steak's fine."
*
The whole steak thing becomes a symbol for assfucking. A symbol which, once established, Dean clings to and refuses to see beyond. There is no sex. Like if either of them acknowledges it they'll bend the Matrix and expose the miserable reality beneath. And if Sam tries to suggest another food item for the dinner before the act, Dean makes like he's being deprived some basic human right. Never mind that the two of them survive off credit card scams and money won in pool games, and the expense of an upscale steakhouse might restrict them to sleeping in the car for the next two weeks.
It's so ridiculous. Sam can't believe this is what his life has come to. Holding his big brother's hand through incestuous anal sex.
Still, he goes along with it. He figures he doesn't have much choice, if Dean's got his mind set on this. To try and back out now would be disastrous. Dean might have issues with control and masculinity, but they're nothing compared to his fear of abandonment and feelings of unworthiness.
Which is why, four days later, in Texas, Sam finds himself across from Dean at a place called Matt's, watching his brother stuff himself full of a 16 oz rib eye, rare, and a plate of loaded cheese fries with ranch.
Dean's in a good mood. Such a good mood-and such a change from the guarded, anxious Dean of the last couple weeks-that Sam is almost concerned. Almost, except he can tell the cheer is genuine. Dean flirts with the hostess, the waitress, and even, for a few seconds, the women at the table behind theirs. He orders a beer and sips leisurely at it, for the taste rather than the effect. He hums "Ramble On" while he eats, occasionally bouncing his knee under the table to the drumbeat.
Sam doesn't know quite how to read the mood swing, but he also doesn't want to try and analyze it, lest it incite a regression. Regardless of the reasons behind it, Dean's pleasant mood is nice. Sam hadn't felt his own anxiety knotting in his shoulders until now, as it finally begins to loosen.
"I cleaned myself," Dean says suddenly, around a mouthful of cheese fries. At Sam's puzzled look, he swallows and repeats, "I, you know-" He gestures vaguely downward. "-cleaned myself. This morning. So there wouldn't be any surprises later. And I hope you don't have a thing for those kinda surprises, 'cause that's just one kink I can't get behind."
Sam's torn between feeling disgusted at the imagery and turned on by the implications, but when Dean grins at him-displaying a couple flecks of chives in his front teeth-he forgets about the disgust. Thinks only about Dean's thighs around his waist and his teeth clamped around a sliver of skin on Sam's shoulder, while he's nice and clean around Sam's dick.
Sam takes a deep breath, glances down at his own mostly eaten steak and fries, then sets his fork and knife down and nudges his plate to the side.
"No, that's…not my thing," he answers weakly. Then waits patiently for Dean to finish.
*
Something Sam never would've imagined about himself, if he'd ever thought of it before eight months ago, is how much he fucking loves giving blowjobs. He's got a strong gag reflex-even just a toothbrush too far back on his tongue will do it-so who'd have thought he'd enjoy an activity where the whole point is to stick something as far down your throat as you can get it?
But he does. It's one of his favorite things to do these days. And after they get back from the restaurant and Dean closes the motel door and starts peeling off his jacket, Sam's self-control stretches and snaps, and all he wants is to be gagging on Dean's cock.
He urges Dean flat on the bed and crawls between his legs, kisses him through his jeans and sucks a little at the denim while he waits for Dean to unzip and shimmy them off his hips. They bunch at his ankles, followed by his boxer-briefs, and then Sam's free to rub his lips all over the head of his dick-Dean likes a show, he knows, and he likes to tease himself, until he's craving the wicked jaw ache and raw throat he gets after his mouth's been well-fucked-and press his tongue gently into the slit.
He's about to swallow Dean down as far as he can, but then Dean's hand is in Sam's hair, tugging him roughly away rather than closer.
Sam tries to tug back. Dean can't let him have a taste one minute only to take it away the next. Not when his cock is already so pink and hard, when the tip is all wet with Sam's spit and the base looking so painfully dry in comparison. But Dean's grip holds.
"Chill, Sammy," he grunts. "Just-want my fucking legs free."
Sam moans quietly in protest, presses a firm kiss to Dean's thigh, and lets himself be pushed away so Dean can coax his jeans and underwear the rest of the way off. He glances up at Dean's face and finds Dean staring back, wide-eyed, bottom lip wet and freshly-bitten pink.
So absurdly pretty. It's a big part of why he can never feel too sick or guilty about falling into bed with his brother; there's not a person in the world who could resist this.
Sam sucks him into his mouth, hardly gagging at all even as Dean's cock hits the back of his throat. He loves the sound of blowjobs, the wet slide of a dick between spit-moist lips, and he lets himself drool all over just so he can hear it louder.
"I got condoms," Dean pants. "And lube. In my bag, over-" He lets go of Sam's head to gesture vaguely to one side.
Sam doesn't care. Condoms, lube, so much work when he's already got everything he wants right under his tongue. But it does remind him that he's not just restricted to Dean's dick; now he has Dean's express permission to explore the whole area. He gets both hands under Dean's thighs and lifts them until his knees are pressed against his chest, and then Sam leans back to look.
Several strands of wiry hair and, amidst them, Dean's hole, wrinkled and pink, clenching as Sam stares. I cleaned myself, Dean had said earlier, and thinking what else he might've done to prepare himself for this makes Sam a little crazy. Tried a finger or two, maybe, wriggled them around, rocked down on them, imagined what it'd feel like for Sam to pop his last remaining cherry, too scared to admit how much he wanted it.
"Sam?" says Dean, sounding concerned. The muscles in his legs tense.
Sam bends his head and drags his tongue over the hole, testing. A heavy, distinctive smell, not at all unpleasant, and it tastes mostly like sweat. Dean's whole body twitches, then freezes as Sam does it again. Then again with more pressure.
"Sh-shit," Dean says, voice halfway between a groan and a whisper. "Christ, Sammy, what-that's not-"
He doesn't hate it. Dean's never shy about telling Sam if he hates something; they've been codependent too long to bother with pretending like that. So Sam lets himself go, and before long he's lapping at the opening, moaning while Dean squirms and pants above him. It reminds him of the first time he went down on a girl, back in high school. How he moaned louder than she did, and she had to keep reminding him of her clit because all he wanted to do was lick the wet from her cunt.
Dean starts tugging at his hair again, and Sam thinks it's to do something similar, to guide Sam away from his ass and toward his cock. But instead, he tugs until he can get his hand behind Sam's head, then he tilts his hips up and thrusts his ass against Sam's face, whining when Sam's tongue prods more forcefully at him, stretching the muscle now rather than just licking at it.
Sam loses it. Gets a hand on either side of his mouth so he can spread Dean even farther, trying his damnedest to fit his entire tongue up inside. It doesn't work, though. Dean's too tight; he can't even breach the muscle. He groans in disappointment and wrenches himself away so he can soak his middle finger in saliva and slide it, gently, into Dean.
Time slows. Dean tenses up once Sam's nearly all the way to his knuckle, and Sam promptly freezes and glances worriedly up. Dean's staring at Sam's wrist, wide-eyed and looking overwhelmed, but his cock is just as hard as it was a minute ago.
"Okay?" Sam asks, and gets something that might be a nod in response. "How's it feel?"
"Fucked up," answers Dean, his voice hoarse. He swallows. "But I'm starting to think fucked up's my thing."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Dean wiggles his ass from side to side, knitting his brow as he considers the sensation. Then his expression smoothes, and he raises an eyebrow at Sam like he's the one who needed a moment to adjust. "Don't pussy out on me now, dude."
Sam laughs softly, then rubs his finger in a slow circle, grinning wide when Dean's breath catches and he rocks along with the motion. Soon he's thrusting, and Dean's arching for it, whispering, "Oh, oh," head back and staring up at the ceiling like he's struck dumb by how good it feels.
Sam lets himself, for the first time since Dean climbed into his lap a week and a half ago, imagine what it'll be like to fuck him. In the shower, Sam's face in Dean's wet hair and Dean grasping at the wall for leverage. In the morning, Dean half-asleep and moaning helplessly into the pillow. Right now, the only sound in the room louder than Dean's "Oh, oh," the obscene squelch of Sam's dick driving into Dean until he shakes.
Sam squeezes his eyes shut, bites his lip hard, and comes with a quiet whine. Just like that, in his pants which haven't even been so much as unbuttoned. He can't help it. It rises so soon and overwhelms him before he even realizes what's happening.
Dean stills even as Sam's hand keeps moving, though a bit shakier than before.
"Dude, seriously?" Dean asks, and Sam cracks his eyes open to see Dean up on his elbows, gaping down at him. "I know that sound, Sam. Did you just shoot in your pants like a virgin on his first touch?"
"You have no idea what you look like right now, Dean," Sam tells him, hips jerking into the mattress, riding out the aftershocks. Then, when he sees Dean preparing to unleash a whole load of mocking, he slips in a second finger and smirks a little when Dean sways on his elbows, then falls back against the mattress and sucks in a sharp breath. Whatever he'd planned to say is clearly forgotten.
He's stretched so tight around Sam's fingers-nothing in comparison to Sam's cock, of course, but still so much more than just the one, he has to be feeling so full now-and he's moving again, muscles clamping down with every inward thrust like he's so hungry for it he'd keep Sam permanently inside him if he could.
Sam meant what he said back when this first started, and what he's been saying this whole time. This is good. He's happy with just this, coming in his pants while he watches Dean slowly fall apart under (around) his hands. He wants Dean any way he can have him; fucking's just one possibility in a list of many.
Dean usually doesn't have a lot of precome, maybe only a couple drops, but he's leaking it now, down his dick and onto his stomach. It's too good an invitation for Sam to pass up.
He bends down and coats his tongue with it. Presses his lips to the side of Dean's cock and licks up to the tip, then back down. He stops thrusting his fingers and just rubs at Dean's inner wall, a trick that served him well with a couple women, though he isn't sure it'll have the same effect on a man. Dean seems to like it well enough, though. He fists the sheets by his head, and his mouth falls open, past the point of moaning now and into helpless panting. When Sam licks the precome dripping from his slit, Dean's dick twitches suddenly and streaks both Sam's cheek and his own abdomen with come.
Sam leans back, watches the muscles of Dean's thighs quiver and his hips continue to writhe, still gently fucking himself on Sam's hand as he comes down from his orgasm.
"Twenty seconds of me licking your dick, and you go off like a virgin on his first touch," Sam smirks.
"Shut up," answers Dean. He aims a weak kick at Sam's shoulder which misses completely.
"We'll do it later," Sam promises, keeping his fingers where they are as he inches up Dean's stomach to lick the come from his skin. "You'll probably need more of this, anyway, before you'll be comfortable enough to take it. A whole night of fingerfucking so when I finally give you my dick, it'll barely even be a stretch."
Dean groans and turns his head to the side, just short of bashful. "Fuck," he mutters.
Sam smiles and glances down to where his spit's starting to dry up and the penetration's probably about to burn soon, if it isn't already. He eases his fingers out slowly. The moan Dean lets out is low, and he arches like he's trying to follow, like he still hasn't gotten his fill. It makes Sam's chest ache sharply, and before he's totally aware of what he's doing, he shifts back down and has his mouth over Dean's hole again. His tongue slides in easier now, and Dean whimpers and circles his hips slowly, rubs himself all over Sam's face.
"Jesus, Sammy, you're downright depraved," he sighs. He runs a finger down Sam's cheek, scooping up his own come.
Sam turns his head to the side and sucks at the proffered finger until it's clean. "Yeah," he says. "Guess fucked up's my thing too."
Title: A Matter of Trust
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6,242
Summary: In which Dean freaks out, and Sam tries to smooth things over.
(ETA: Podfic available here by applegeuse and here by heard_the_owl. :D)
The first time is an accident, but apparently no amount of swearing will get Dean to believe it.
Dean's got Sam up against the wall of their motel room, and his hands are unbuttoning Sam's shirt while his mouth is sucking on the skin just below Sam's left ear. The wet sounds mixed with Dean's breath right into his ear are making Sam's knees shake. The only thing better would be if Dean were groaning while he sucked, that gruff groan he always makes when Sam gets his hands on Dean's bare ass.
So Sam tries to put his hands down the back of Dean's jeans. Except his hands are big and Dean's jeans are tight, so there isn't much room. What's supposed to be Sam's hands firmly gripping both cheeks of Dean's ass ends up being one hand gripping one cheek and the other stuck in the crease, his fingers curling toward Dean's hole. It's an accident, pure and simple, but Dean apparently doesn't understand other people's accidents or how to properly respond to them.
He shoves Sam backward, grinding Sam's shoulder into the wall, and when Sam tries to jerk away from the pain, his chin nails Dean right in the eye.
"Son of a bitch," Dean hisses, palm covering his eye as it starts to water. He scowls at Sam and takes three steps back. "Dammit, Sam, how many times I gotta tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"That we're not doing the-" Dean waves one hand vaguely in the air like he honestly thinks he can convey information that way. His jaw clenches when he realizes Sam doesn't get it. "The fucking, Sam! You're not putting your dick in my ass!"
"Dean, you've never said that," Sam tells him. "And it was an accident!"
"Yeah, sure it was, Sam." Dean scans the room, still holding one hand over his eye, and zeroes in on the ice bucket sitting on the dresser. He stalks over to it and picks it up.
"Seriously, Dean, I was trying to grab your ass, not…not fuck it. Calm down. You know I wouldn't try to just spring that on you."
And he wouldn't. Sam knows he's a jerk sometimes, and being around Dean all these years is probably only making it worse, but he'd never try taking such a huge step without at least mentioning it beforehand and getting Dean's okay.
Dean makes a slashing, shut-the-hell-up motion in the air, except he's holding the ice bucket, so for a second Sam thinks he's about to throw it. If Dean notices the way Sam starts to duck, he ignores it. He kicks around the blankets piled on the floor until he finds his boots buried under them.
"Christ, Sammy," says Dean, "you're like one of those guys who agrees to keep it above the waist and then tries to sweet talk his girl into letting him under her skirt. And here I thought you were better than that."
"You're confusing me with you," Sam snaps.
Then Dean takes his hand off his eye so he can slip his boots on, and something about seeing how watery and bloodshot it is, how similar it looks to when Dean's full-on crying, makes Sam pause and really look at Dean. And realize Dean is seriously freaked out, more than Sam's seen him in a long time. Eyes fixing themselves on anything that isn't Sam, whole body hunched in on itself like he has something that needs protecting. Suddenly, accident or not, Sam feels awful for clearly scaring the hell out of his brother.
"Hey," Sam says, voice going soft. He steps closer, holding one hand out to touch Dean's shoulder. "Hey, I'm sorry. I wasn't trying-"
Dean slaps his hand away and still doesn't look up. "Yeah, I get it," he says. He stalks to the door and throws it open. "Whatever. I'm getting ice."
"You're supposed to put one of the plastic bags in the bucket before you put ice in it," Sam reminds him, but the door slams shut before he's finished speaking.
Sam's used to Dean storming out of motel rooms because what he hears Sam saying and what Sam actually is saying are totally different, but usually the topic of conversation is slightly more serious. This is close to ridiculous.
"And you call me moody," Sam mutters. He has a night of heavy silence ahead of him, and the next few days probably won't be much better. If the two of them have one thing in common, it's that they hold on to things far longer than they should.
*
Dean's never said a word to Sam about fucking. There's never been a reason to. Fucking would require forethought, and that's not how sex works with them. Since day one, it's been all handjobs in the shower, in the car, under tables at bars, and blowjobs in the morning, in diner bathrooms, after hunts. Spontaneous, quick, and easy, and Sam's never had reason to complain or want more.
So Sam didn't realize until now that Dean apparently has some serious issues with anal sex. And not that Sam's suddenly changed his mind about wanting more, but he figures this is something they'd better deal with, if it's thrown a wrench in even their brotherly relationship and if Dean's going to tense up every time Sam's hands drift even remotely near his ass-which, Sam's starting to realize, is often.
"Aren't you tired of talking about this yet?" Dean asks. He's fiddling with his electric razor, which started making sick whining noises five minutes ago. He says it so calmly, almost offhandedly, that Sam wonders for a minute if maybe Dean's gotten over this while Sam was busy trying to figure out how to approach it.
Then he remembers what kind of person Dean is and that his calm is inevitably a mask for something else.
"Not really," Sam says. He leans against the door frame and holds both arms casually at his sides. If Dean can play calm, then so can he.
"Well I am." Dean unplugs the razor and carries it out of the bathroom, making a point to knock his shoulder against Sam's bicep as he slides past.
Sam sighs and follows. Dean's standing in the space between the beds, twisting the razor around in his hand so he can examine it from all angles, and Sam knows instantly that he's trying to figure out the best way to take it apart.
Sam sits down on the edge of their bed. "Please tell me you're not gonna try and fix that yourself."
Dean shoots him a look. "Why not? I can do it." He glances down at the razor again, turns it once more in his hands, and then tosses it on the spare bed. "Just need to get my tools outta the car."
"We're not done talking," Sam reminds him.
Dean doesn't even glance at him, just pats his pockets and then scans the room when he can't feel his keys. They're next to the clock on the bedside table, and he picks them up, tosses them up in the air, and catches them.
"Thought we decided we were tired of talking," he says.
Sam fully expects him to walk calmly out the door, thinking he's put the conversation to rest for good, but he doesn't. Instead, Dean tosses his keys up once more and actually seems to be waiting for Sam to speak. Which is a little weird, but Sam's not going to question it.
"You decided," Sam tells him. "I didn't. I'd like us to at least have one conversation about this so I don't get punched the next time my hand slips."
"I never punched you," Dean says, frowning, but he pockets his keys and turns to face Sam. "So."
It's then that Sam realizes he doesn't know what they need to talk about, just that they do. If he tries to tackle Dean's issue, it'll look like he's trying to somehow cure it, and he's not. He just wants more information and then for Dean to understand that he's okay not fucking his brother up the ass, no need to make a big deal out of an accident.
"So," he repeats, and tries to find a way to word all that in a language Dean'll understand.
He doesn't get the chance to because Dean chooses that moment to climb into his lap, first facing Sam and then turning around so his back is pressed up against Sam's chest. Climbing into laps isn't exactly a Dean thing to do, so it's the last thing Sam's expecting. And Dean's not exactly the best size for it either, so it's really, really uncomfortable. Sam only barely manages to reign in the urge to dump Dean on the floor.
"Uh," he says, and yelps in surprise when Dean forcefully moves Sam's legs so he can get more comfortable. "Dude, what the hell are you doing? This is-"
"Shh," Dean says, and Sam shuts his mouth and freezes. It's the sound Dean makes when he comes up behind Sam, stands up on his tiptoes so he can kiss the side of Sam's neck, and starts touching Sam through his pants. It's a sound so ingrained in Sam's subconscious he's hard the second he hears it.
Dean shifts Sam's legs again, forces them apart enough that he fits perfectly in Sam's lap and his ass is right on top of Sam's dick. He leans back against Sam's chest, tilts his head so his temple is pressed against Sam's jaw, and squirms with clear intent.
"Is this what you want, Sammy?" he murmurs, voice getting deep and rough in the same way it does every time he tells Sam to suck him.
Sam responds to that sound too, wraps an arm loosely around Dean's chest and spreads his legs wider so Dean sinks deeper into his lap. Dean's breath hitches, and Sam really wishes he'd turn so Sam can see more of his face.
"You want to be the first one to give it to me?" Dean continues, hips moving in slow circles over Sam's cock. "I'm probably nice and tight, the best thing you ever felt. Is that what you want?"
The funny thing is that Sam doesn't, not really. His first impulse is to unzip Dean's jeans, pull his cock out, and jerk him off, put his free hand on Dean's forehead and hold his head back against his shoulder so he can see Dean's eyes squeeze shut as he comes. And sure, he'll probably get off on Dean rocking his ass into his lap, but he won't be thinking about what it'd be like if Dean were rocking down on Sam's cock instead.
Or he wouldn't be, anyway, if Dean wasn't suggesting it now and painting Sam a perfect picture. And if Dean didn't lean forward, clutching Sam's thighs to keep himself steady, and start raising his ass and then lowering back down, a perfect mime that makes Sam ache for Dean any way he can have him, including that way.
Dean grinds down and makes the tiniest little moan that hits Sam harder than the loudest scream. He presses his forehead against the space between Dean's shoulder blades, bites down on Dean's shirt, and groans, "Fuck, yes," into the fabric.
Dean stops abruptly, and Sam doesn't quite manage to hold back a whine. He palms Dean's hip, tries to coax him into moving again. When Dean only snorts and pats Sam's knee like Sam's just done something either sort of cute or incredibly stupid, Sam realizes he just got played. Big time.
"Yeah, you're doing a real good job of convincing me you don't want in my ass," Dean says.
He gets up and leaves before Sam can manage anything resembling a reply.
*
Sam can count the number of times on one hand that they've slept in separate beds since the seventh handjob, but still Dean insists on a room with two queens. "Don't want people thinking you're the best I can do," he says whenever Sam asks, but Sam knows it's really about needing the option to back away if this ever gets too heavy. It's not a big deal. Sam's been making room for Dean's issues most of his life, and this way no one has to sleep on the floor when they fight.
Of course, it has to be really, really bad if Dean actually wants to sleep in that spare bed. He has some kind of thing about touching. Not cuddling. Even if the word itself didn't give Dean hives, Sam sweats too much and they both hate it when their movement is restricted. But if they're going to sleep together, Dean always has to be touching Sam. It's usually feet-Dean's toes tickling the arch of Sam's foot-which was annoying as hell for the first month, but Sam's gotten used to it. Has trouble sleeping without it, the few times he's had to, and he thinks it's the same for Dean even if Dean'll never admit it.
So when Dean starts making use of the second bed at night only to crawl back in with Sam in the morning and keep his whole body-feet and all-on the opposite side of the mattress, Sam knows something's up. And when Dean starts standing behind Sam while he's brushing his teeth, running one finger up and down the seat of Sam's jeans until he succeeds in making Sam uncomfortable, Sam gets a pretty good idea of what that something is.
Then one morning Dean follows Sam into the shower, spends about five minutes sucking bruises onto Sam's shoulders, and spreads his ass cheeks apart so he can rub the head of his erection against Sam's hole. He beats a damn hasty retreat when Sam just opens his legs and lets him.
Sam's been trying to give the anal sex thing a rest. One week of encouraging Dean to talk it out is only making Dean more tight-lipped, so he figures the best thing to do is put it out of their minds and go about sex as they have for the last seven months. Except clearly just because it's out of Sam's mind doesn't mean it's out of Dean's.
They get breakfast at the restaurant down the street, and on the walk from the car to the front door, Dean smacks Sam on the ass and responds to Sam's hissed, "Dean!" with a lascivious wink and another pointed rub at the seam of Sam's jeans. While they're waiting to be seated, Dean reaches into Sam's back pocket, pulls out his wallet, puts it back in Sam's other back pocket, and says, "Sorry, Sammy. Your ass is so sweet I just couldn't help myself."
And maybe a family restaurant isn't the best place to be having a heart-to-heart about anal, but this has clearly gone far enough.
"You keep making this into a big deal, and I'll start worrying you're a little too fixated on my ass," Dean says calmly, as he squints down at the menu in his hands.
"No, Dean," Sam says, leaning across the table and trying to keep his voice down. "You're the one who's making a big deal out of this. I'm the one who's concerned."
"Nah, I'm pretty sure you got those two mixed up."
There's not even a trace of annoyance on Dean's face and nothing in his voice to suggest he's uncomfortable. Instead, he looks almost cheerful. He waggles his eyebrows at Sam's incredulous stare and grins like he's actually having fun.
It occurs to Sam that maybe Dean's been trying to get Sam to bring it up. That maybe he wants to…be talked into it? Know what concerns Sam has? Be forced to talk about what his own issues are? Sam has no idea, but if Dean's been trying to passive-aggressively push the conversation, that's something Sam can work with.
"Okay," Sam sighs. "Fine. So let's say I do…want it. Why don't you?"
Dean folds the menu and sets it back on the table, expression not getting even the slightest bit tense. He's been expecting the question, then. And, more than that, already knows his own answer, has probably been asking himself the same thing for the last week.
"'Cause," he answers evenly. "This thing's screwed up enough as it is. Our whole little-" He waves a finger back and forth between him and Sam, raising an eyebrow while he waits for Sam to interpret the gesture.
"Relationship?" Sam tries.
Dean makes a face and looks quickly away. "Sure. That. The-you know, the big I-word. Not too sure I want to be my little brother's bitch on top of it."
It takes a second for that to sink it, but when it does, Sam has to close his eyes and rub his palm over his face at the sheer idiocy of it. Dean's a genius about a lot of things. He can shoot a hole through a dime at fifty paces, recite the Latin for an exorcism practically in his sleep, and provide obscure pop culture references for every occasion. He's survived Hell, the biggest war Earth has ever seen, and the forces of both Heaven and Hell conspiring against him. And yet still, despite it all, Dean can be such a moron.
"Oh my god, Dean," says Sam, "anal sex doesn't make you anyone's bitch!"
Sam removes his palm, opens his eyes to see a new shadow on the table, and glances up into the face of their waitress, having apparently just approached their table with an order pad in hand and her face frozen in a full-blown deer-in-headlights stare.
"Sorry 'bout that," Dean tells her, smiling. "He's been trying to get in my ass for days. A little too enthusiastic about it too, if you ask me."
She blinks at Sam, and Sam feels his face redden. He keeps his mouth shut on the topic for the rest of the meal.
*
When they get back to the car after breakfast, though, Sam lets him have it. If giving the whole thing a rest is accomplishing nothing, he decides, then he's damn well going to push the issue. The moment Dean slams the driver's door, he leans across the seat so he's speaking almost directly into Dean's ear.
"It doesn't make you anyone's bitch," he says, slowly, voice low, making Dean hang on to every word. "Getting fucked doesn't make you the woman in the relationship. It doesn't say anything about your masculinity if you like it. It doesn't make you submissive if you want it. The only thing it does mean, if it means anything at all, is that you've got an open mind and you like sex."
Sam settles back into his own seat, feels Dean following the movement out of the corner of his eye.
"And," he continues, "if you've gotten this far thinking being fucked means anything else, it's amazing any woman wants to sleep with you."
They sit in silence for a long moment. Then, slowly, Dean turns the key in the ignition, and the car rumbles to life.
"And if I did it to you," says Dean, frowning at the steering wheel. "You'd be okay with that."
"Yes," Sam answers. And means it. No persuasion necessary.
"Huh," Dean says, shifting the car out of park.
They drive twenty miles before Dean remembers to turn the music on.
*
Things go back to normal after that. Or what passes for normal between the two of them. Dean starts spending nights in Sam's bed again, and the morning after the second night, Sam wakes to a hand on his cock, Dean's mouth against Sam's ear murmuring, "That feel good, Sammy? Listen to you. Just love this, don't you?"
Afterward, Dean lets him crawl between his thighs and suck him off, and when Sam's hand wanders to Dean's backside-an unconscious move, to urge Dean's hips to thrust-Dean only groans and arches up sharply enough that Sam chokes.
It's good, Sam thinks. Crisis averted, awkwardness diffused. He's happy to let the anal thing drop.
*
"I've been thinking," Dean says a week later, while he's got the whole gun collection spread out on the spare bed and is sitting in the middle of it, cleaning them one-by-one.
Sam raises his eyes from his laptop and waits for the conclusion of that statement, but it never comes.
"About anything in particular?" he prompts.
Dean makes a face down at the pistol in his hands. "Yeah. About, you know…the fucking thing."
Sam blinks, then sighs and slowly lowers the computer screen. "I thought we'd already dealt with that."
Dean's eyebrows rise, and one side of his lip quirks up mockingly. "Pretty sure I'd have felt it if you dealt with it, but maybe I'm overestimating your ability."
"That wasn't what I meant, Dean, and you know it."
"I was thinking," Dean continues, returning his attention to the pistol. "If you still want in my ass, you'd better be buying me dinner beforehand."
"Dean, I told you," Sam snaps, frustration rising quickly. "I don't want in your ass. And our money comes from the same place, anyway, so the gesture would kind of be-"
"I want steak," Dean interrupts. He sets the cleaned pistol down on the mattress and picks up a shotgun, all clogged with salt. His hands move more slowly now, looking less like the movements of the practiced hunter he is. "And none of that cheap shit either, dude. I'm talking thirty-fucking-dollar cuts of meat here."
"Dean, listen to me." Sam moves to stand up, but Dean shoots him a sharp don't-even-think-about-it look. So he stays where he is. "It was an accident. I wasn't trying anything. What we have now-"
The words stick in Sam's throat as he finally realizes what it is he's saying, what it means that he's saying it. What it means that this is the sort of discussion he might've had with Jess, if a situation like this had come up between them. He gets it now, finally sees the hidden edge to Dean's freak-out. This is a whole new kind of fucked up for them. Has been for a while now, of course, but this as good as cements it.
Sam swallows the words, then brings them back up fresh.
"-it's good. I don't want anything that'll screw it up."
Dean's hands still, and his eyes seek out and catch Sam's. Such intense determination in his gaze that, even if Sam doesn't know what his next words will be, he knows exactly what Dean will mean when he says them.
"You trying to get out of buying me steak, Sammy?"
Sam inhales deeply and reopens his laptop. "No," he says, keeping his tone casual. "Steak's fine."
*
The whole steak thing becomes a symbol for assfucking. A symbol which, once established, Dean clings to and refuses to see beyond. There is no sex. Like if either of them acknowledges it they'll bend the Matrix and expose the miserable reality beneath. And if Sam tries to suggest another food item for the dinner before the act, Dean makes like he's being deprived some basic human right. Never mind that the two of them survive off credit card scams and money won in pool games, and the expense of an upscale steakhouse might restrict them to sleeping in the car for the next two weeks.
It's so ridiculous. Sam can't believe this is what his life has come to. Holding his big brother's hand through incestuous anal sex.
Still, he goes along with it. He figures he doesn't have much choice, if Dean's got his mind set on this. To try and back out now would be disastrous. Dean might have issues with control and masculinity, but they're nothing compared to his fear of abandonment and feelings of unworthiness.
Which is why, four days later, in Texas, Sam finds himself across from Dean at a place called Matt's, watching his brother stuff himself full of a 16 oz rib eye, rare, and a plate of loaded cheese fries with ranch.
Dean's in a good mood. Such a good mood-and such a change from the guarded, anxious Dean of the last couple weeks-that Sam is almost concerned. Almost, except he can tell the cheer is genuine. Dean flirts with the hostess, the waitress, and even, for a few seconds, the women at the table behind theirs. He orders a beer and sips leisurely at it, for the taste rather than the effect. He hums "Ramble On" while he eats, occasionally bouncing his knee under the table to the drumbeat.
Sam doesn't know quite how to read the mood swing, but he also doesn't want to try and analyze it, lest it incite a regression. Regardless of the reasons behind it, Dean's pleasant mood is nice. Sam hadn't felt his own anxiety knotting in his shoulders until now, as it finally begins to loosen.
"I cleaned myself," Dean says suddenly, around a mouthful of cheese fries. At Sam's puzzled look, he swallows and repeats, "I, you know-" He gestures vaguely downward. "-cleaned myself. This morning. So there wouldn't be any surprises later. And I hope you don't have a thing for those kinda surprises, 'cause that's just one kink I can't get behind."
Sam's torn between feeling disgusted at the imagery and turned on by the implications, but when Dean grins at him-displaying a couple flecks of chives in his front teeth-he forgets about the disgust. Thinks only about Dean's thighs around his waist and his teeth clamped around a sliver of skin on Sam's shoulder, while he's nice and clean around Sam's dick.
Sam takes a deep breath, glances down at his own mostly eaten steak and fries, then sets his fork and knife down and nudges his plate to the side.
"No, that's…not my thing," he answers weakly. Then waits patiently for Dean to finish.
*
Something Sam never would've imagined about himself, if he'd ever thought of it before eight months ago, is how much he fucking loves giving blowjobs. He's got a strong gag reflex-even just a toothbrush too far back on his tongue will do it-so who'd have thought he'd enjoy an activity where the whole point is to stick something as far down your throat as you can get it?
But he does. It's one of his favorite things to do these days. And after they get back from the restaurant and Dean closes the motel door and starts peeling off his jacket, Sam's self-control stretches and snaps, and all he wants is to be gagging on Dean's cock.
He urges Dean flat on the bed and crawls between his legs, kisses him through his jeans and sucks a little at the denim while he waits for Dean to unzip and shimmy them off his hips. They bunch at his ankles, followed by his boxer-briefs, and then Sam's free to rub his lips all over the head of his dick-Dean likes a show, he knows, and he likes to tease himself, until he's craving the wicked jaw ache and raw throat he gets after his mouth's been well-fucked-and press his tongue gently into the slit.
He's about to swallow Dean down as far as he can, but then Dean's hand is in Sam's hair, tugging him roughly away rather than closer.
Sam tries to tug back. Dean can't let him have a taste one minute only to take it away the next. Not when his cock is already so pink and hard, when the tip is all wet with Sam's spit and the base looking so painfully dry in comparison. But Dean's grip holds.
"Chill, Sammy," he grunts. "Just-want my fucking legs free."
Sam moans quietly in protest, presses a firm kiss to Dean's thigh, and lets himself be pushed away so Dean can coax his jeans and underwear the rest of the way off. He glances up at Dean's face and finds Dean staring back, wide-eyed, bottom lip wet and freshly-bitten pink.
So absurdly pretty. It's a big part of why he can never feel too sick or guilty about falling into bed with his brother; there's not a person in the world who could resist this.
Sam sucks him into his mouth, hardly gagging at all even as Dean's cock hits the back of his throat. He loves the sound of blowjobs, the wet slide of a dick between spit-moist lips, and he lets himself drool all over just so he can hear it louder.
"I got condoms," Dean pants. "And lube. In my bag, over-" He lets go of Sam's head to gesture vaguely to one side.
Sam doesn't care. Condoms, lube, so much work when he's already got everything he wants right under his tongue. But it does remind him that he's not just restricted to Dean's dick; now he has Dean's express permission to explore the whole area. He gets both hands under Dean's thighs and lifts them until his knees are pressed against his chest, and then Sam leans back to look.
Several strands of wiry hair and, amidst them, Dean's hole, wrinkled and pink, clenching as Sam stares. I cleaned myself, Dean had said earlier, and thinking what else he might've done to prepare himself for this makes Sam a little crazy. Tried a finger or two, maybe, wriggled them around, rocked down on them, imagined what it'd feel like for Sam to pop his last remaining cherry, too scared to admit how much he wanted it.
"Sam?" says Dean, sounding concerned. The muscles in his legs tense.
Sam bends his head and drags his tongue over the hole, testing. A heavy, distinctive smell, not at all unpleasant, and it tastes mostly like sweat. Dean's whole body twitches, then freezes as Sam does it again. Then again with more pressure.
"Sh-shit," Dean says, voice halfway between a groan and a whisper. "Christ, Sammy, what-that's not-"
He doesn't hate it. Dean's never shy about telling Sam if he hates something; they've been codependent too long to bother with pretending like that. So Sam lets himself go, and before long he's lapping at the opening, moaning while Dean squirms and pants above him. It reminds him of the first time he went down on a girl, back in high school. How he moaned louder than she did, and she had to keep reminding him of her clit because all he wanted to do was lick the wet from her cunt.
Dean starts tugging at his hair again, and Sam thinks it's to do something similar, to guide Sam away from his ass and toward his cock. But instead, he tugs until he can get his hand behind Sam's head, then he tilts his hips up and thrusts his ass against Sam's face, whining when Sam's tongue prods more forcefully at him, stretching the muscle now rather than just licking at it.
Sam loses it. Gets a hand on either side of his mouth so he can spread Dean even farther, trying his damnedest to fit his entire tongue up inside. It doesn't work, though. Dean's too tight; he can't even breach the muscle. He groans in disappointment and wrenches himself away so he can soak his middle finger in saliva and slide it, gently, into Dean.
Time slows. Dean tenses up once Sam's nearly all the way to his knuckle, and Sam promptly freezes and glances worriedly up. Dean's staring at Sam's wrist, wide-eyed and looking overwhelmed, but his cock is just as hard as it was a minute ago.
"Okay?" Sam asks, and gets something that might be a nod in response. "How's it feel?"
"Fucked up," answers Dean, his voice hoarse. He swallows. "But I'm starting to think fucked up's my thing."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Dean wiggles his ass from side to side, knitting his brow as he considers the sensation. Then his expression smoothes, and he raises an eyebrow at Sam like he's the one who needed a moment to adjust. "Don't pussy out on me now, dude."
Sam laughs softly, then rubs his finger in a slow circle, grinning wide when Dean's breath catches and he rocks along with the motion. Soon he's thrusting, and Dean's arching for it, whispering, "Oh, oh," head back and staring up at the ceiling like he's struck dumb by how good it feels.
Sam lets himself, for the first time since Dean climbed into his lap a week and a half ago, imagine what it'll be like to fuck him. In the shower, Sam's face in Dean's wet hair and Dean grasping at the wall for leverage. In the morning, Dean half-asleep and moaning helplessly into the pillow. Right now, the only sound in the room louder than Dean's "Oh, oh," the obscene squelch of Sam's dick driving into Dean until he shakes.
Sam squeezes his eyes shut, bites his lip hard, and comes with a quiet whine. Just like that, in his pants which haven't even been so much as unbuttoned. He can't help it. It rises so soon and overwhelms him before he even realizes what's happening.
Dean stills even as Sam's hand keeps moving, though a bit shakier than before.
"Dude, seriously?" Dean asks, and Sam cracks his eyes open to see Dean up on his elbows, gaping down at him. "I know that sound, Sam. Did you just shoot in your pants like a virgin on his first touch?"
"You have no idea what you look like right now, Dean," Sam tells him, hips jerking into the mattress, riding out the aftershocks. Then, when he sees Dean preparing to unleash a whole load of mocking, he slips in a second finger and smirks a little when Dean sways on his elbows, then falls back against the mattress and sucks in a sharp breath. Whatever he'd planned to say is clearly forgotten.
He's stretched so tight around Sam's fingers-nothing in comparison to Sam's cock, of course, but still so much more than just the one, he has to be feeling so full now-and he's moving again, muscles clamping down with every inward thrust like he's so hungry for it he'd keep Sam permanently inside him if he could.
Sam meant what he said back when this first started, and what he's been saying this whole time. This is good. He's happy with just this, coming in his pants while he watches Dean slowly fall apart under (around) his hands. He wants Dean any way he can have him; fucking's just one possibility in a list of many.
Dean usually doesn't have a lot of precome, maybe only a couple drops, but he's leaking it now, down his dick and onto his stomach. It's too good an invitation for Sam to pass up.
He bends down and coats his tongue with it. Presses his lips to the side of Dean's cock and licks up to the tip, then back down. He stops thrusting his fingers and just rubs at Dean's inner wall, a trick that served him well with a couple women, though he isn't sure it'll have the same effect on a man. Dean seems to like it well enough, though. He fists the sheets by his head, and his mouth falls open, past the point of moaning now and into helpless panting. When Sam licks the precome dripping from his slit, Dean's dick twitches suddenly and streaks both Sam's cheek and his own abdomen with come.
Sam leans back, watches the muscles of Dean's thighs quiver and his hips continue to writhe, still gently fucking himself on Sam's hand as he comes down from his orgasm.
"Twenty seconds of me licking your dick, and you go off like a virgin on his first touch," Sam smirks.
"Shut up," answers Dean. He aims a weak kick at Sam's shoulder which misses completely.
"We'll do it later," Sam promises, keeping his fingers where they are as he inches up Dean's stomach to lick the come from his skin. "You'll probably need more of this, anyway, before you'll be comfortable enough to take it. A whole night of fingerfucking so when I finally give you my dick, it'll barely even be a stretch."
Dean groans and turns his head to the side, just short of bashful. "Fuck," he mutters.
Sam smiles and glances down to where his spit's starting to dry up and the penetration's probably about to burn soon, if it isn't already. He eases his fingers out slowly. The moan Dean lets out is low, and he arches like he's trying to follow, like he still hasn't gotten his fill. It makes Sam's chest ache sharply, and before he's totally aware of what he's doing, he shifts back down and has his mouth over Dean's hole again. His tongue slides in easier now, and Dean whimpers and circles his hips slowly, rubs himself all over Sam's face.
"Jesus, Sammy, you're downright depraved," he sighs. He runs a finger down Sam's cheek, scooping up his own come.
Sam turns his head to the side and sucks at the proffered finger until it's clean. "Yeah," he says. "Guess fucked up's my thing too."