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“Buttery Nipples!” Sam snickered into the bar. The tiny brunette who’d just ordered the shots to their left gave him an annoyed glare, then noticed Dean and immediately smiled.
“Hi! I’m—” she started, reaching her hand out over Sam’s head.
Dean bared his teeth at her in an unfriendly grin and pulled Sam to his feet, letting his brother’s broad back knocking the girl’s arm away. He really wasn’t in the mood tonight, and even if he had been, he certainly wasn't leaving Sam alone in this condition. Predictably enough, Sam lost his balance as soon as he didn’t have the barstool underneath him anymore and fell into Dean. Dean ducked a little, slinging his brother’s arm around his shoulder.
“Come on, dude,” he muttered, ignoring the girl’s offended sniff as she turned away from them. “Little help here.”
Sam giggled and Dean sighed. He totally should have cut his brother off about five shots ago, or at least gotten hammered himself. But he hadn’t wanted to leave both of them shit-faced and defenseless, and when he realized that Sam was gunning for drunken oblivion, he’d backed off. Sam had been so far gone that he hadn’t even noticed: probably assumed Dean was as giddy as he was.
Sam stumbled even though they weren’t moving and Dean rolled his eyes. Kid was going to regret this in the morning. Hell, Dean was regretting it now. Then Sam’s head lolled sideways, his breath warm and moist against Dean’s neck, and Dean went straight from regret to dismay as his dick hardened. Not now, damn it.
But Sam was draped all over him, still laughing that goofy, open laugh that Dean rarely heard anymore these days, and he was sweating a little in the muggy bar, which meant that that smell—that Sammy scent—was stronger than usual. Was rubbing into his skin and fuck if Dean wasn’t going to do a little rubbing himself after he got Sam tucked in for the night.
Sick bastard, Dean berated himself as he stumbled toward the exit, dragging Sam along with him. He’s your brother, for fuck’s sake. But apparently, his libido didn’t care that the warm body pressed against his was Sam’s—or it did, but that was exactly the problem. He knew and he wanted it anyway: wanted it more, really, and how messed up was that?
Sam’s giggles had tapered off by the time Dean pushed through the bar door. Rain pattered down from the night sky, muddying up the parking lot, and they were both going to be soaking wet before Dean got them to the car. He envisioned puddles of water seeping into the floorboards, into the worn seats, and winced. Maybe he should lean Sam up against the wall and bring the car around. Of course, if he tried that then his brother would probably end up face down in the mud, and wouldn’t that be hell on the upholstery. His baby had to put up with enough as it was.
Dean adjusted his grip on Sam and fished around in his pocket for the keys. Best to get them out and ready now, before they plunged into the downpour. “You ready?” he asked, when he’d found them.
Sam nuzzled at his neck and Dean cursed as it sent electric lines of fire straight down to his dick. “You smell good,” Sam murmured, ignoring or just not noticing the way Dean had gone stiff—ha ha, pun definitely intended—at the movement.
“Fucking wasted, man,” Dean said. His voice was high and thready, but he figured Sam was too drunk to notice. “Come on.”
Sam made a brief noise of protest when the rain first hit his skin, but by the time they had reached the car he was tilting his head back and letting it run into his open mouth. Dean did his best not to look at the shining line of his brother’s throat. At the wet curl of hair across his cheek. At the way the rain was flattening out Sam’s clothes, slicking layers of cloth against his brother’s skin.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Dean shoved Sam against the Impala a little harder than he meant to, and Sam, startled out of his fascination with the rain, gave him a wounded look. Dean wanted to apologize, but he also wanted to press his mouth against his brother’s throat, and he wasn’t going to do that either. Frowning, Sam stared at Dean as though trying to solve a complex math problem.
“Stay there,” Dean ordered, moving to unlock the door. “You fall in the mud and I’m leaving your ass here.”
He had the key in the lock when he found himself grabbed from behind and spun around into the side of the car. Blinking up in surprise, he found Sam standing in front of him—looming over him, actually—and his brother’s eyes were half-hooded, dark with some undecipherable emotion. Dean scowled and pushed Sam’s hands away, making his brother stagger a little as he tried to keep his balance.
“What the hell, dude?”
But Sam’s face had gone slack. Drunken shit was zoning out again, his eyes hovering somewhere in the vicinity of Dean’s mouth.
Dean snorted. “Yeah, whatever.”
He reached for the keys again and then Sam was shoving him back against the car. Sam’s body was pressed against his in a long, hard line. Sam was caging him in, his hands catching Dean’s wrists as they came up to push Sam away. Dean’s heart beat bird-fast in his chest, and his breath came shallowly. Sam was looking down at him—so fucking huge—and he might not be the drunken one here, but Dean was pretty sure that he couldn’t get Sam off of him right now even if he wanted to.
“Okay, I’m sorry I pushed you,” Dean offered. That had to be what this was about. Sam’s eyes only went that color—a green so dark it was almost black—when he was pissed off. Any second now, his brother was going to haul off and punch him, or dig his fingers into the pressure points of Dean’s wrists.
Then Sam’s fingers were moving, but not in the way Dean was expecting. Instead, they were tracing little circles across his skin, sending thrills through him and yeah, there was Dean Jr. perking up and ready to party. Jesus Christ, Sam was right there pressed up against him, and there was no way he was going to miss that, and how the fuck was Dean supposed to explain this?
“S-Sam,” he stuttered, and knew that he should be trying to get away, useless as that might be. He should be trying, damn it, not just standing here and taking it, whatever ‘it’ was. But Sam’s hands released Dean’s wrists and came up to cup his face, and Dean still didn’t move. He hardly dared to breathe as Sam ducked his head down and started licking the rain from his lips.
Dean’s brain short-circuited, caught on a loop of ‘holy shit’ and ‘yes’ and ‘Sam’.
Then Sam started nipping at Dean’s lower lip, his fingers running across Dean’s cheekbones. And he was talking between bites, saying stupid shit like, “So fucking pretty” and “God, Dean,” and “Just open up for me.”
Dean’s dick twitched wildly against the confines of his jeans and he bit back on a moan that Sam must have heard anyway because the pressure against Dean’s lips become more insistent, and Sam started begging, “Please, Dean. Just let me. Please.”
And Dean wasn’t actually thinking about doing this, was he? Because this was his brother—this was Sam—and Sam was piss ass drunk, and had no fucking clue what he was doing. Sam probably wouldn’t even remember this in the morning. So Dean forced himself to turn his head to the side and opened his mouth to tell his brother “no” for once.
Sam followed him, taking the opportunity to capture Dean’s lips in a deep kiss, and oh hell, that was Sam’s tongue in his mouth. Sam was kissing Dean the way he kissed everyone else, eager and intent and so damned focused that it felt like he was trying to funnel himself into Dean through his mouth. Like he was trying to push his way inside to stay, and Dean wasn’t kissing back, was he? Those weren’t his hands coming up to drag his brother closer. That wasn’t Sam’s hair threaded through his fingers.
Except that it was, and that was Sam’s dick grinding into his as Sam thrust forward. The kiss was disintegrating into this needy, living thing: teeth clicking and tongues flicking around each other, lips bruised and swollen. Sam’s hands were slipping down Dean’s chest to paw at his belt. He was too drunk to actually achieve anything, and finally gave it up with a grunt of frustration and reached lower to grab Dean through his jeans.
Dean’s eyes shot open at the feel of Sam’s fingers, and his stomach turned over. Oh Christ, how the hell had he let it get this far? Panicked, he planted his hands against his brother’s chest and shoved.
Sam went over backwards with a surprised yell. He landed heavily in a puddle, and then sat there, staring up at Dean with his mouth hanging open and his chest rising and falling and his cock a solid bulge in his jeans.
“Dean,” Sam slurred.
“Shut the fuck up,” Dean snapped, and took a moment to adjust himself before turning his back on his brother and twisting the key in the lock. He slid into the driver’s seat instantly and sat there, back rigid and hands clenched on the steering wheel. Rivulets of rain ran down his forehead and into his eyes.
The need to run pulsed through him. To just jam the keys in the ignition and peel out of the parking lot, leaving his drunk, stupid brother to sleep it off in the mud. Of course, if he did that then he’d probably have to bail Sam out of the drunk tank in the morning. And if the local cops recognized him …
“Damn it!” Dean snarled. He forced himself to climb out of the car and stomped through the rain to Sam’s side. Hauled his brother up by one arm.
“Dean,” Sam was babbling. “Dean, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
Dean tuned his brother out and dragged him over to the car. Yanked the door open and manhandled him into the backseat, where Sam rolled over onto his side and promptly began snoring into the leather. Dean leaned on the door, running one hand over his face and scrubbing at his mouth. He wasn’t sure whether he was trying to clean the taste of his brother from his lips or rub it in.
He watched Sam lying there, drooling out of one side of his mouth with his hair plastered to his head. There was water pooling underneath him and his shirts had rucked up in a tangle, exposing a tantalizing strip of skin above his low hanging jeans. Dopey, heart-covered boxers. Probably a gift from Jess, Dean thought, and damn if that didn’t make him feel worse than he already did.
There was a sudden blast of noise from behind him as someone left the bar, and Dean realized that he was standing in the rain. Standing in the rain with his dick trying to poke a hole through his jeans and Sam getting mud and water and God knew what all over the Impala’s interior. Losing it, Winchester, he thought, and slammed the door.
He spent the entire drive back to the motel with a pit in his stomach and an ache in his groin. He felt like he’d left his brain somewhere back in last week, because he still wasn’t really sure what had just happened. Didn’t know what the hell Sam had been thinking. And the more Dean thought about it, the more he suspected that he really had gone nuts and hallucinated the entire thing.
Sam was straight, for starters. Dean had never seen his brother with a dude, and he totally would have noticed. Not that he was stalking the kid or anything; Dean was just an observant guy. And then there was the whole “brothers” thing. There was a word for kissing and trying to grope your brother, and it wasn’t “normal”.
Dean had calmed himself down a little by the time they got back to the motel, and he was able to haul his mostly-unconscious brother out of the car without too much trouble. Sam came around when Dean was fumbling the door open, but it wasn’t a problem. After all, nothing had happened.
“Hey there, Sasquatch. You think you could help me out a little here?”
“Dean?”
“No: Santa Claus.”
Sam snorted and reached out blindly to hold himself up on the doorframe. “Jerk.”
“Okay, got it. Come on.” Dean lugged Sam into the room and sat him down on his bed before going back to shut and lock the door.
“Room’s spinning,” Sam announced.
“Yeah, like a top.” Dean moved back to his brother and unzipped Sam's jacket. “Let’s get you out of these before you get sick and I have to nurse your sorry ass back to health.”
“M’kay.”
Sam was limp in Dean’s arms as he stripped him, hesitating only briefly when he got to the boxers and then sliding them off anyway. No point in doing things half-assed. Still, he made certain to avert his eyes, and when he accidentally brushed his forearm against something way too soft to be thigh he jerked away as though he’d been burned.
Sam blinked up at him, eyes confused, and Dean cleared his throat, hastily turning away. He tossed back the covers on Sam’s bed and then levered his brother up and maneuvered him across to the mattress: Dean’s had been soaked through before he managed to get Sam’s clothes off. Figured.
“G’night, Sammy,” he muttered, reaching down to pull the covers up while carefully staring at the carpet. A hand clamped over his wrist and before Dean had realized what was happening, Sam tugged him off balance and he fell onto the bed.
Sam slid around him like some kind of eel, flipping them both over so that Dean was lying on his back with Sam above him. Fucker had gotten his coordination back all of a sudden. And hello! That was Sam’s hand forcing its way down his pants, Sam’s fingers around his cock. Dean made a small, pained sound as he went almost blindingly hard.
“Sam!” he groaned, trying to pry his brother’s hand out of his jeans.
Sam just tightened his grip and bit down on the side of Dean’s neck, sending shivers of heat through his body. Dean went instantly still. Tried to remember how to breathe as Sam sucked on his skin while running his thumb across the slit of Dean’s dick.
“So fucking beautiful,” Sam mumbled when he finally lifted his head.
“Sammy, stop,” Dean moaned. “You don’t want this.”
“Want it,” Sam insisted. “Want you.” He worked at Dean’s belt with his free hand, licking at the aching bite on Dean’s neck as he did so. There was going to be one hell of a hickey there tomorrow. Realizing that he wasn’t getting anywhere with the belt, Sam took his hand away from Dean’s cock to aid in the job.
Dean caught himself moaning at the loss, which only went to show how perverted he was. He shook his head and pushed Sam’s hands away. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, struggling to roll out from underneath his brother.
Sam growled—actually fucking growled—and the sound went straight to Dean’s dick. Sam tightened his grip on the belt and managed to yank it open, more by accident than design. “Stop squirming.”
“I’m not—” Dean bit his lower lip as Sam popped the top button on his jeans and then went for the zipper. A few more seconds and he’d be flying free, so to speak. Danger, Dean Winchester, danger! He brought his hands up against his brother’s chest and shoved as hard as he could. Managed to topple the drunken idiot backwards.
“We’re not doing this, Sam!” he shouted. Climbing off the bed, he reached down to refasten his pants.
Sam didn’t attack him again, thank God, but the pouting, injured look he was wearing now was almost as bad. “Why not?” he demanded.
“Why not?” Dean repeated, incredulous. “Because it’s a bad fucking idea, that’s why not!”
Sam crawled to the edge of the bed and reached out, managing to snag the waistband of Dean’s jeans before he could back away. And maybe standing up hadn’t been such a good idea because Sam’s head was suddenly at a very interesting level, and he was running his tongue over his lips and leaning forward, looking like one of Dean’s wet dreams come to life.
“‘S a great idea. So fucking hot. I want to—want to—want you naked. Now.”
Dean swallowed thickly. He told himself to step away from his drunken, horny brother, and then didn’t move. “You’re not gay, damn it,” he whispered, and wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Sam of that fact, or himself.
“How d’you know?” The words were tossed out casually, all of Sam’s attention focused on getting Dean’s pants open again. This time Dean wasn’t fighting him on it: he was having too much trouble staying on his feet to do much of anything else.
Sam’s forehead was furrowed in concentration, and his tongue was poking out of his mouth, and it really shouldn’t have been as hot as it was. It shouldn’t have been hot at all because Sam was his brother, his little brother, and Dean was supposed to take care of him. Not … not this.
Then Sam was shoving Dean’s jeans down, taking his boxers with them, and okay, so not ready for that. Dean jumped backwards, catching his legs in his own pants and falling to land awkwardly half on and half off the other, damp, bed. Cussing, he fought with his pants, but finally had to concede that Sam had somehow managed to break the zipper. Just great. And now Sam was lurching out of his own bed and following Dean over, and Jesus couldn’t the kid let up for a minute, here?
Dean grabbed his brother’s shoulders, keeping him at arm’s length. Sam didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were heated, focused on Dean’s exposed cock. “Can I—I want to—” He strained forward, and Dean’s hands slipped a little.
“We’re brothers, you fucking asshole!” he yelled desperately.
That seemed to get through to Sam, who stopped and raised his eyes to Dean’s. But Sam’s face was flushed, his lips curved up in a languid smile. Dean’s hands loosened. He slowly let his arms drop to his sides.
“I know who you are, Dean,” Sam whispered, and he sounded almost sober. His voice was low, an undercurrent of danger threading through the reassurance, and Dean’s dick twitched. Sam’s gaze dropped back down, his attention caught, and when he moved forward again Dean let him.
Dean’s whole body shuddered as Sam’s lips wrapped around him, and his hands fisted in the bedcovers. “Oh God,” he hissed.
Maybe he’d been wrong about his brother’s choice of partners because Sam had definitely done this before. His cheeks hollowed out and he held his teeth carefully away from the sensitive skin as he pulled Dean deeper into his mouth. Hot and wet and just like Heaven, even before Sam started running his tongue along the underside of Dean’s cock.
The room was suddenly filled with soft, desperate gasps, and it took Dean a few moments to realize that those sounds were coming from his own mouth. He uncurled one hand from the bedspread and twined it in his brother’s hair instead. Knew that he should be pulling Sam off and instead urged him closer. At the sensation of Sam taking him deeper, of Sam’s throat working around his dick, Dean’s head dropped back.
Then Sam was pulling off of his own accord, and Dean’s stomach gave a lurch. Forget whatever look Dean had thought he’d seen in his brother’s eyes: Sam had just realized what he was doing, and he was disgusted. He was going to call it off, was going to punch Dean for being such a pervert, was—
“Wanna fuck you.”
Dean groaned and grabbed the base of his cock to keep from coming. He was nodding before he’d fully recovered from Sam’s declaration, and murmuring, “Yeah. Hell, yeah.”
Sam crawled up his body, pulling at his wet jacket. “Take it off. All of it. Wanna see you. Fucking perfect. Fucking—” He cut himself off by catching Dean’s lips with his own again, and thrust his tongue into Dean’s mouth, hard and fast. Dean thought of taking Sam’s dick the same way, of Sam sinking inside of him, and made an embarrassing whimper.
“Mine,” Sam breathed.
“Yeah, Sammy.” Dean let his brother peel the rest of his wet clothing off and wondered who the drunken one really was here. The world was spinning around him, all of his preconceptions turning on their heads, and Sam was naked and warm against him. Sam was hard and urgent and oh God, little brother. Bad wrong vile.
But Sam was reaching between Dean’s legs, was slipping a spit-coated finger inside of him, and Dean shoved the concerns away. He’d worry about that tomorrow, when he could think straight again. When Sam wasn’t working him open while leaving little bites and nips across his chest, murmuring “mine” and “love you” and “so fucking hot” over each fresh bruise.
Dean was gasping as Sam pressed a second finger beside the first. His body trembled with the effort to hold still because there was already a hot burn inside of him from Sam’s fingers—no lube but Sammy’s spit, the preparation too fast and needy anyway because Sam was drunk, and why the fuck was Dean letting him do this? He opened his mouth to say something and then just groaned as Sam finally found the right spot and pleasure sent jagged sparks through the burn.
“Dean,” Sam panted, “Dean—so fucking tight—want to—I’ve gotta—please can I?” He worked his fingers faster, striking that spot over and over and Dean shuddered underneath him. Sensed his brother’s face hanging just above his, felt Sam’s breath and the damp brush of his hair, and couldn’t see him for some reason. Probably because at some point in the festivities his eyes had dropped shut.
He opened them again and Sam was there, Sam’s face was covered with a light sheen—sweat, rain, who knew?—and his eyes were dark with a terrible, consuming need. Need for Dean.
And that was it. Dean was coming so hard and fast it almost hurt, his hands tangled in his brother’s damp hair and Sammy’s name on his lips.
Sam was still scissoring his fingers inside of Dean, hitting his prostate and sending sharp bursts of fuck yeah through him. He didn’t seem to have even noticed that Dean had just come, although there was no way he hadn’t felt it with their bodies pressed so close together. Drunk, Dean thought dazedly. He’s completely wasted and you’re letting him do something he’s gonna regret in the morning, and what the hell kind of brother are you, you sick fuck?
“God, Dean, please! I have to—can’t wait—‘s that enough?”
No. No, it wasn’t. Two fingers with no lube and Sam was fucking huge, even if Dean would never cop to that fact out loud. Sam would tear him apart, Dean would be feeling his brother inside him for days—weeks—and they shouldn’t be doing this anyway, and Sam was drunk, didn’t know what he was doing, and—
“Dean?” Desperate.
“Yeah. Yeah, fuck, just do it.” Dean was already screwed anyway, with everything they’d done, might as well go for the gold while he was at it.
Sam pulled his fingers free and then he was turning Dean over onto his stomach, manhandling him into position. It hit Dean again that his brother had done this before because there was no other way Sam could have known it would be easier this way, and then Sam was shoving into him and he wasn’t thinking at all.
Blunt pressure at his entrance edged into a heavy, sullen burn as Sam’s weight—and all that strength behind it—brought him inside bit by bit. Dean felt his walls give way grudgingly and forced himself to relax. Was really thankful that he’d just come because that was definitely helping, but if they did this again—not gonna happen, no fucking way—they were investing in some lube.
Sam was making helpless little sounds, moving inside so slowly, trying not to hurt Dean even though Dean was pretty sure his brother wasn’t even seeing straight at this point. Dean grit his teeth, and thought, fuck it. Then he lifted his hips, thrusting backwards and forcing Sam in. Sam hissed and Dean was pretty sure he was making some noises himself because fuck that hurt. But Sam was inside now, all the way in, and Dean could feel his brother’s cock pulsing against his walls.
Sam inside him. Sam’s body draped over his. Sam’s forehead resting on Dean’s shoulder. Sam’s hands groping blindly to cover Dean’s where they lay on the covers. And despite the burn in his ass and the fact that he’d come only a few minutes ago, Dean’s dick was waking up again. He was so screwed.
Literally.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
“S-Sorry, did I hur—” Sam started to pull out, the bastard, and Dean shook one of his hands free and reached back to hold him close.
“Don’t you fucking move!”
Sam went as still as he was able, his breath huffing warm against the back of Dean's neck. Dean could feel his brother’s heart racing where Sam’s chest was pressed against his back, and his pulse sped in response. He made himself wait until the searing burn had faded, and then nodded.
“Yeah, oka—ngh!”
Sam had started moving almost as soon as Dean opened his mouth, and now Dean was lying, nerveless, with his face pressed into the pillow. That heavy, hot slide had sapped his strength: Sam pumping his hips slowly at first but quickly gathering speed as Dean continued to loosen. Felt good, felt great, felt way better than it should have, and Dean was impossibly hard again, and Sam was going to kill him if he kept this up.
Then Sam was pulling out and Dean was suddenly empty and lost. He managed to get his head up and peered over his shoulder. “Sammy?”
Sam was pawing clumsily at Dean’s hips, his mouth open and his eyes unfocused. “Just—so good, just want to—yeah, like that—”
Dean, having figured out what Sam was after because he was brilliant like that, had shifted himself up onto his knees. He shuddered as Sam slid back inside, moving easier now, and then whited out for a few seconds as Sam’s first real thrust pounded into his prostate. Holy fuck.
“Harder,” Dean growled, rolling his hips back and tearing a surprised moan from his brother’s lips. Sam’s fingers dug into Dean’s hips and he obeyed, his breath coming shallow and fast.
Waves of pleasure were running through Dean, stealing his words and his reason until there was nothing but sensation. He fumbled one hand up and wrapped it around his own cock. Pumped his hand four times and came again. Sam gasped as Dean’s muscles spasmed around him and then he was coming too. Dean could feel Sam’s dick twitching inside of him: felt the orgasmic shudders ripping through his brother’s body.
Finally, Sam let all of his weight drop down on Dean’s back, bringing them both down on the bed. There was semen everywhere, and sweat, and Dean felt fucking disgusting, but Sam was lying on top of him, his now-softening cock still inside Dean’s ass. No way he was moving from this bed. Besides, his limbs felt like five metric tons of rubber.
“Love you,” Sam said, biting down on Dean’s shoulder.
Dean snorted into the pillow. “Bet you say that to all the guys you fuck,” he muttered.
Sam only nuzzled his skin and then rested his head against Dean’s back, letting out a contented sigh.
“Sam? Don’t you fucking fall asleep on me,” Dean warned. “You’re still insi—damn it!” He could hear Sam’s muffled snores from behind him. And now that he wasn’t in the middle of things, all those concerns were rearing their ugly heads.
Because that was Sam behind him, that was his brother’s dick still wedged in his ass, and this was so fucking wrong that Dean almost couldn’t wrap his head around it. He’d promised himself that he’d never let anything happen, and Sam had been drunk and horny and Dean had just been convenient and what the fuck was he going to say when Sam woke up sober in the morning? How the hell was he going to make this right?
Wincing, Dean tried to move out from underneath his brother, but Sam let out a small noise of protest and wrapped his arms around Dean, hugging him tight. At least the movement had slipped Sammy Not-So-Jr free, but there was obviously no way that Dean was disentangling himself without resorting to violence. And Sam didn’t deserve that.
So Dean lay there quietly and waited for his brother to let go—fat chance—or for sleep to overtake him. His stomach was swimming and his thoughts were running around like hamsters on one of those stupid wheels: Sammy my brother my drunken brother fucked him oh shit how the hell could I let that happen? What the fuck am I supposed to do now?
But really, there was only one thing he could do.
In the morning, he’d give Sam his chance to take a few swings at him—kid deserved it, after all. Then he’d pack his shit up and catch the next bus out of town. Leave Sam the Impala and whatever cash they had and strike out on his own.
That decision settled him a little and he relaxed in his brother’s arms. Sorry, Sammy, he thought, and then sleep descended and everything was quiet.