Sam knows Dean is really pissed the third time Dean has to drag him home from a bar.

Sam gets spun into the room, vertigo sinking away once he's standing still. Narrowed eyes, scowl so deep his face is going to freeze that way, Dean stalks up to Sam. Presses blunt fingers into Sam's chest.

"Next time, I'm leaving you there." Dean rails; he's really saying there won't be a next time. "You alright with letting those meatheads paw all over you? Fine, I'm not gonna save you."

"I don't need saving," Sam spits; Dean flinches.

"Like I said—" Dean steps back, fingers gone and Sam sags. "Next time you can drag one of 'em into the back room, for all I care."

"Are you—can you even hear yourself?" Sam can hear his own voice growing louder with the number of steps Dean takes away from him. Dean's stare is focused on the door they barged through, gleaning answers from the warped wood. "I don't—Jesus, Dean. I don't want that, and if you think I do—"

Sam wants Dean to ask, wishes he'd shout and demand until Sam gave up exactly what he wanted, but Dean's no more of a sharer after the apocalypse than he was before. With Dean, the only way is the hard way.

Dean stands, a stone wall by the door. Sam takes his first shot.

"Maybe I will." He throws more of a slur into his voice, sounds more drunk than he is. "I'll go back, huh? Bet those guys are still hanging around, waiting." Dean's shoulders reset into a harder line, but he's listening and Sam creeps towards him. "I'll let 'em see me. You think they wanted me? I can pick one, Dean. I won't even care which." Sam stops, reloads and aims straight for Dean's chest. "Might even let him have me. You think I should, Dean? You don't want it—might as well not let it go to waste—"

Dean comes at him in a blur, spinning and knocking Sam over. They miss the bed, bounce off the corner of the mattress, and land in the space between the two queens. It feels like Sam's being consumed; Dean doesn't let him say anything before his mouth makes impact. The kiss is an insult, keeps Sam from spitting more lies between his teeth. Sam rolls into the onslaught; he's not going to wilt and submit to Dean's hold.

Dean's teeth close on Sam's bottom lip and he moans, forcing Dean to break away. Hesitation lurks in the corners of his eyes, something Sam doesn't want to see. They've struggled over this thing between them for too long. All of Sam's life has been a fight—to get away, to get Dean back, to get himself back.

"C'mon, Dean," Sam grates, funneling aggression into his words. "You can give me more than that."

His brother's eyes can't get much darker, but his accusatory stare bores into Sam. "You just fucking with me, Sammy?" He says the name like it's a curse, something illicit about saying it aloud.

"What d'you think?" Sam makes his hold on Dean's jacket tighter. It's more tattered than it used to be, holes where time has worn through the leather, bullets and knives shredding the seams. "I can get this anywhere."

"The fuck you can." That ignites Dean again, not wasting time with another kiss when he can just rip Sam's jacket off. Sam's hauled up by his collar, limbs flung side to side as Dean strips his heaviest layer. Sam couldn't care less where his clothing ends up. His shirt is cumbersome, jeans too tight. Dean can take all the layers off, Sam's got no protection against him.

Sam struggles to give Dean more of a fight, a rumble right there on the musty motel carpet. Threads rip on Sam's shirt, Dean panting with effort to strip him—tiny sounds that add up to a lot more.

"Got some backbone there, huh?" Dean shoves Sam back, knocking the breath from his lungs in a whoosh across Dean's lips. "What else you got?"

"Thought you didn't want to find out," Sam sneers, gasping when Dean sucks on the warm skin over Sam's bare collarbone. There were too many drunken nights after they took Lucifer and his horde down, when they were edging towards this more and more. Touching, guilt—but Sam can live with the guilt. He lives with a lot. "I thought you—"

"Fuck, Sam." Dean doesn't want to play anymore. "Stop pushing me."

But Sam needs to push. Like he'd pushed at the bar tonight, sidling close to men with dim eyes and wandering hands, letting them look their fill. He'd been unwilling to move away or discourage the attention, until Dean's eyes were focused through the smoke, targeting Sam. He never would have gotten Dean over the edge if he didn't give him a shove.

"Then show me." Sam digs his fingers into Dean's sides, shoving the leather jacket off to touch the square of his shoulders. "Fucking show me."

He waits, eyes engaged with Dean's. His brother looks punch-drunk, taken too many hits over the last few years; Sam thought nothing could make him look that way ever again. But here he is, staring down, not knowing where to take this. Sam squeezes his thighs around Dean's hips, and that gets Dean moving. Sinking down over Sam, kissing no less rough than before. Tearing and brutal, almost convincing himself that he wants this as much as Sam does. Sam's lips bear the brunt of the force, snagging on Dean's teeth and he's surprised he can't taste blood on his tongue. He uses whatever brain cells aren't consumed to strip Dean out of his shirts.

Sam's stomach is hollow, tight from living on stale popcorn and cheap beer for days. That space is soon filled with heat, burning up from Sam's toes into his belly. Every inch of his skin is free space for Dean to bite, suck, and mark. Both of them grappling for the upper hand and neither giving an inch, but Dean keeps Sam pinned under his weight, his dick trapped under rough denim, grinding against Sam's.

It's claustrophobic down between the mattresses, dull quilts hanging off each bed. Dean distracts Sam, mouth landing in places hard—the meat of Sam's shoulder, the edge of his ribs, bunched line of his abs—and soft. Lips bruising over scars, old and new. Like his scars are Dean's scars; Dean knows where each and every one is on Sam.

Sam's hands are never still—his anger fades but the sensations don't. Every touch is deliberate and marring, affirmation that they can mark one another after so long on the battlefield. Sam won't treat Dean like he's something divine. Doesn't want to. Dean helped save the world by being a crude, stubborn, asshole. Sam wants that Dean, and he's got him. Palms full of him, bucking and rough. It's impossible to break him.

Dean is dryer-hot, static over his skin where Sam's hands grip. Months ago, after the angels once again left the world to its own devices, Castiel's handprint had begun to fade, now merely hints of raised skin. Sam wants to dip his own hand in ink, brand Dean all over again. Or, hang on to Dean's shoulder so tightly, the skin scalds with his mark.

"Enough for you, Sammy?"

"Not nearly," he counters, yanking Dean back up his body to slam their lips together. Dean's ready for the move, open wide and licking down into Sam's mouth and over his teeth. His fingers are locked in combat with Sam's jeans, all but ripping the zipper down and shoving them away from Sam's groin. Hands so forceful, Sam's boxers slide right down with his pants.

Foiled by Sam's boots, Dean curses and pulls them off, throwing the rest of Sam's clothes onto one of the beds. Sam gets no warning before Dean sinks down over his cock, throat dry and coughing as a result.

"Hey—fuck, Dean. Take it easy!"

He does the opposite, wrapping his hands around Sam's thighs and spitting on his dick. Dean's hands slide beneath him, forcing Sam's hips up into his face even when Sam tries to hold back. Dean sucks Sam like he's got something to prove—that he isn't afraid, that he wants it. That unless he goes at this like a freight train without brakes, Sam's going to toss him away. He lets the tension out of his legs, lets Dean work him over and under while plaintive and pornographic sounds spill from Sam's lips. The sight of Dean, face buried in Sam's groin, may be enough to make Sam come. Eyes closed, lips pulled wide around Sam's blood-heavy flesh, going at it like a pro, though Sam knows Dean's far from an authority when it comes to this. Probably knows as little as Sam, their bodies telling them what feels right—what might feel good done to someone else.

Dean's fingers are thicker than Sam's, wide knuckles rubbing behind Sam's balls and pressing. His spine snaps rigid, the pressure sofuckinggood. Dean makes a garbled sound, nearly choking, and throws his head back before Sam can come. Ass up over Dean's thighs, Sam's legs drop wide and open so Dean can jack Sam's cock instead, and see everything. The rush from his near-orgasm ebbs away, Sam spreads himself out on the floor.

"Still want it?" Sam goads. It fades to a mournful whine when Dean kneels up and gets rid of his pants and shoes. His dick stretches the dark cotton underwear obscenely; Sam's ready to feel it. He's greedy for it, blunt line of muscle along Dean's thigh. Already the scent of sweat sticks to them, beads on their foreheads.

"Yeah, Sammy. I want it."

Peeling off his underwear, Dean covers Sam before he can appreciate the sight of his dick; he longs to see it and drink it down the way Dean did moments ago. Naked, Dean ruts against Sam, pushing him further towards the wall, rough carpet fibers scratching his skin. Dean fucks into Sam's groin, rides the groove between his thighs through saliva and sweat. Everything they've done tonight goes beyond Sam's experience, but he's ready for all of it. Eager for Dean to flip him over and fuck him; primed to knock Dean off, drag him up onto the bed and spread his thighs.

All in good time. Might require Sam to push Dean again, but they'll make it. It's not like the world is ending anymore.

"Fuck, Dean—harder!" No patience for steady after the consuming heat of their fray. Dean's hips pulse and thrust, his elbows locked above Sam's shoulders.

They kiss then, mouths falling into a more natural rhythm. Deep and hungry, the way they've been all their lives. Finally, Dean groans and rears back, flexed muscles pulling his body into an arch as he fists his dick, come splashing over Sam. One pulse lands on his inner thigh, another on his balls. Two more on Sam's belly before Dean stops shuddering, vibrations Sam feels in his legs.

Sam's hips push up into nothing, and Dean recovers in an instant. Back over Sam's cock, his nose dragging through the come on Sam's lower stomach. Sam rakes his fingers across Dean's freckled shoulders, nails raising red. This time when Dean takes too much, throat constricting around Sam, he pulls back, tonguing the head of Sam's dick and making him spin just as dizzily as the alcohol had. It's enough to send Sam's overstimulated body into orgasm. Letting Sam's cock go, Dean watches with a bird's eye view while Sam comes, shooting over his stomach to mix with Dean's semen.

He doesn't stop watching Sam, even when Sam feels a chill and shivers, pulling closer to Dean's warm chest. Sam's not expecting Dean to want to talk, but he doesn't move away and that's a small concession to whatever this is going to become. He can see the two of them falling into this again and again, until they get it right.

"Was that good, or was that really good?" Sam laughs warmly, trying to dispel the heavy atmosphere. Appealing to Dean's prowess is pretty much the quickest way he knows how.

"Really good," Dean answers, rolling away from Sam and leaning back against the bed. Not a light expression on his face, Sam notices. "Is that what this was all about?"

"What?"

"You at the bar. You were trying to—"

"It worked." Sam doesn’t make it a question.

"Next time," Dean yawns, stretching his arms and standing. "Just ask or something."

Yeah, Sam considers before getting up. That’ll work. Feeling the strain and pull of his well-used muscles, he’s pretty sure he’s not going to mind if they end up like this again, so long as they're heading in the right direction.



FIN.



n.b. God, I love Sam and Dean. I just thought you should know. Also, trying to write porn during rush hour is a bad idea. Title from George Michael.