It's a very simple exercise. So simple a baby could grasp it. That's not Sam's problem with it.
'People hunt in that forest,' he points out. 'I mean, like, for deer and stuff.'
'Adds to the realism, huh?' Dean says, grinning, because he's an idiot. Sam wants to strangle him. Sam wants to do that a lot, though. He's heard his Dad refer to it as a phase, that Sam's sixteen so of course he's pissy, like all sixteen year olds are apparently pissy, but it isn't.
It's because Sam can read Latin, and strip a handgun in five seconds. He can dig a hole six foot deep in a couple of hours, faster if he's got help, and he's intimately aware of how to go about credit card fraud. He knows three trick shots at pool that are usually enough to provoke barflies into playing him for money. He knows how to fix most of the things that go wrong with motel A/C units, because if you've got a penknife and a basic understanding of how shit works, why would you put up with no A/C?
He's sixteen. He's fucking sixteen years old, and he shouldn't know how to do any of that, and that's why he's pissy. And anyone who knows Dean wants to strangle him on a regular basis, anyway.
'I'm counting on you two being capable of not getting shot,' says his dad, like Sam's just being a priss and needs to man up. 'And you need to learn to start looking out for other dangers, as well as just your target. There's never just one monster, Sam.'
Sam's reminded of Swallows and Amazons. "Better drowned than duffers, if not duffers, won't drown," was the father character's sole contribution to the plot in that one. Dead children are apparently better than stupid children. Good to know.
'And you'll have your guns,' Dad adds.
'Oh good,' says Sam sourly. 'I'll have a gun, and Dean'll have a gun, and you want us to sneak around and hunt each other in a forest full of other people with guns trying to hunt deer. And if I get shot it's my own fault for being stupid.'
There isn't even anywhere to storm off to, in a motel room, so instead Sam makes do with a flat stare at his father. But Dad just stares flatly back. 'Pick the gear you want to take, clean your guns, and get an early night,' is the only response Sam gets. 'I've got to sort out a few things. I'll wake you in the morning.'
Those few things he's gotta sort probably come in bottles. Sam doesn't make a bet with himself because he doesn't like losing, and is proven beautifully right when Dad heads straight across the carpark.
'C'mon, Sammy, it'll be fun,' Dean tries, his eyes half on their rapidly disappearing father. He's already got the guns out, spread across the tiny excuse for a dining table, like he's about to play Patience. They gleam. He cleans them enough, they should. They used to take turns at it, with a stopwatch, and then with a blindfold too, but Sam won't play any more. Something itches him about the blindfold. He doesn't like the way it makes him hyperaware even over the top of how he normally feels. Dean's presence next to him when he's blindfolded feels like it fills the entire room, and it's too much. There's never enough breathing space in these motel rooms. Three people in two beds, it's crammed. Sam doesn't get a lot of personal space. Sometimes you gotta eke it out even if you know it's gonna be invaded, and so Sam's personal space becomes not-cleaning-the-guns. It's a line Dean lets him draw.
Anyway, Dean likes doing it. It's a chore but you wouldn't know it from the way Dean does it. It's almost meditative, the way he takes them apart into pieces and rubs them down, puts them back together. Dean's a fucking whirlwind of messy chaos most of the time, Sam would've said, but when his focus narrows down like this, it's like he can put the universe to rights. He goes careful and slow and perfectionist, winkles out every bit of grit and every smear and stain, makes everything as perfect as he can. And every one of their guns is different, too - they're whatever his dad could pick up without people asking too many questions, all kinds of ages and size and gauges. Some of them have been modified illegally to do things they were never meant to. And somehow Dean, who claims to not even know his times tables (that's a lie - Dean's better at math than Sam is), can remember every quirk and every departure from the norm, and work with it.
Sam's lost hours to his brother's hands on guns. He puts it down to a longing for his own life to be that easily stripped down and put back together so that the parts don't grind.
'I'm going to bed,' says Sam, after half an hour or so pretending to do the latest batch of homework he'd been assigned before Dad pulled him out of that school too. It's only seven o'clock, but if he goes to bed first, then it's his territory for the night and Dean's the one intruding when he climbs in. It's fuck all of a difference but, like not cleaning the guns, it's something.
It's fucking dumb that he has to share a bed with his twenty year old brother, anyway. Sam strips down to his boxers and finds a book and mostly spends the next hour staring at the wall. It's not normal, the two of them having to share a bed. They barely fit.
And yet, when Dean finishes cleaning all the guns, gives up drinking Dad's beer, and flaps the itchy motel blankets back to squeeze in with Sam, Sam doesn't mind so much.
'I won't shoot you,' says Dean softly. 'I won't even load my gun, if you're worried.'
'Don't be stupid. And anyway, s'not you I'm thinking about,' Sam says. 'It's all those guys out there who don't bother getting a proper look before they shoot.' Sam's not worried Dean'll forget it's him, and put a bullet in him. That's the last thing in the world he needs to be scared of. Dean's hand fits in the dip of his hip, thumb rubbing his skin reassuringly, like he needs babying over this.
'You'd hear 'em coming.' But Dean doesn't sound quite as convinced as he could. He's a shit liar, at least to Sam.
'It doesn't matter, anyway,' says Sam. 'We're going either way, so who cares what I think?'
'Go to sleep, Dean.' Sam rolls over onto his side, away from Dean, away from the door, like he can turn away from the morning coming.
In his dreams, though, it is the morning. Sam's run through the trees until he's lost, something chasing him that makes him breathless-scared-excited, all three at once, and the forest is eerily silent except for the crunch of footsteps following him. Sam makes it to a clearing, bright with light after the dark of the woods, and when the pursuit catches him up, Sam falls to his knees, sunblind.
He gets slapped in the face, rough, but he's not recoiling like he should, he's not fighting it. He leans into it, eager for it to hurt more. His mouth tastes of metal.
Hands and knees in the dirt, and there are slaps to his body, along the ladder of his ribs, blooming sweet on his ass. He still can't see, he's naked and hot and stinging with sensation.
The air stinks of oil and spitting red hot steel. He can't see, he can't see, and the fear is a rush, because he knows he's safe at the same time.
Sam wakes up with his morning wood grinding into Dean's hip, because the universe hates him. Dean's pretty good about it usually, and he pretends to be asleep a lot just so they don't have to do the awkward disentangling thing, so Sam can escape, but not this morning. No, this morning they wake up because their dad literally tosses a glass of water across their faces. Sam goes from half-asleep and turned on to cold and mortified in about a second flat.
'Get up,' says Dad stonily. 'Time to go.'
Thank god, the cold shock of the water muted Sam's hard-on enough that he can actually get out of bed without hideously embarrassing himself, but it still sucks ass.
Twenty minutes later, Dad's dropping Sam off at the south entrance to the forest park. 'I'll drop Dean further round,' he says. 'Keep your eyes open, son.'
In the front seat, Dean's racking the slide on his 1911. He does it to show it off, because he's in love with the gun the way he's in love with the Impala, completely unconsciously, but it makes a ball of hot lead drop somewhere into Sam's stomach. The Impala roars off, and Sam stares for a moment after it, before he heads into the forest.
All he has to do to win this stupid game of Dad's, and make it be over, is get the drop on Dean. Catch him. Get him back to the motel. Or let Dean do the same to him, theoretically. Either way, he's gotta find Dean. So he starts walking in the same direction the Impala went. There are only so many entry points to the forest from the road, right?
So he walks.
His Taurus is in the waistband at the back of his jeans, where he's been trained to keep it. Don't want to spook the normals, even though it would be safer to actually have a holster. Which his Dad knows, because he's fucking ex-military, he knows about gun safety, but he prioritises flying under the radar over actual safety, and heaven help Sam if it's him that fucks up with his unsafely carried illegal handgun.
Sam doesn't love the Taurus the way Dean loves the 1911. It's just his gun. It's not beautiful, it's not art, it's heavy and solid and serviceable. The 1911 is all those as well, but fuck, it's pretty on top of it.
Once, trying to see how much of a wrench he could throw in the works of his Dad's murder spree across the country, Sam wrote an essay about how the Colt 1911 is a metaphor for his brother. He got an A and an interview with the student counsellor, and if Dad hadn't pulled them out to chase a werewolf over state lines the morning after that Sam suspects things might have got really interesting, because he thinks the counsellor might have called the cops.
So anyway, if the 1911 is Dean, pretty and dangerous, then Sam guesses the Taurus has gotta be him, and that sounds about right. It's just a gun. Just a nondescript gun. One you can keep out of sight because it's not like it's worth admiring.
It's dark, inside the treeline. The canopy cuts out so much light that it could be halfway to midnight for all Sam knows. And it's quiet. Not even birdsong, which is an easy to read hint that there's someone else around. All Sam can hear is the tromp of his own feet in the dirt.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep Sam remembers, the poem he'd studied for a week or so in class, maybe three schools ago. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep -. There's another line, but he can't remember it.
It's enough like Sam's dream in here to make him warier than he would have been otherwise, the phantom feeling of getting jumped still fresh under his skin. He walks slow, figuring Dean'll be walking back this way and they'll have to meet in the middle somewhere, and resists the urge to draw his gun.
The thing is, though, that it's not like it's the first time Sam's dreamt like that, of pain. Wanting it. Someone holding him down, making him fight til he's exhausted and they can just do what they want, because he can't resist any more. He freaked out when it first started happening, did some cagey research with books librarians gave him funny looks for wanting - I'm taking extra classes, it's for Intro to Psych - and came to two conclusions, neither of which he's happy with as far as they concern him. The first is, people get hot over all kinds of things and some of them sound, on the face of it, fucking crazy, but it's normal. Or at least, it's not abnormal, to get off on the idea of being smacked around, or of someone wanting you so bad they have to make it happen whether you want it or not.
The second is that, the way he grew up, it is 100% not surprising that he gets his kicks off spiking adrenaline. Maybe, if he'd grown up without a gun in his fucking waistband, he'd have kept it to … spanking, or something.
Yeah. Sam wants to be spanked like a racecar driver wants a bicycle.
So anyway. There probably isn't danger lurking behind every tree trunk, but Sam's acting like there is, which means that when someone loops something over his eyes and blinds him, it's fucking pathetic that he didn't hear them coming.
He should have fucking drawn the fucking Taurus. But it's out of his waistband fast as he can think about reaching for it, and Dean - it has to be Dean, right, deerstalkers don't do this kinda shit, who needs to blindfold a deer? - clicks cuffs around Sam's wrists behind his back, and kicks him sprawling to the forest floor. No hands to catch himself, so he lands on his face.
He's not done though, not Sam - no hands still leaves feet, no eyes still leaves ears, so he waits until he can hear the crunch of leaves close enough and rolls over, scything wildly with his legs until he connects.
There's a thud, which means Dean must have fallen. Sam wrenches himself to his knees and then his feet, chasing the source of the sound. There's fire in his gut now, he's angry, furious. He works his left hand against the cuff until it goes raw, trying to get his thumb to pop out of its socket the way he knows from all of Dad's 'exercises' that it can, so that he can get free. Meanwhile he finds Dean by tripping over him. So he kicks, vicious, not seeing where his blows land and frankly, not fucking caring. Dean groans, so Sam kicks again, and again.
'Shit, Sammy,' says Dean, and he grabs Sam's ankle and yanks him back down to the ground. 'That fuckin' hurt, bitch.' He rolls Sam over and pins him by the simple, easy method of sitting on him. 'Give up,' he says. 'C'mon, kiddo, give up.'
'No,' Sam spits, and heaves with his hips to try and tip Dean off him, which is when he realises he's hard, because the friction is incredible, electric, and Dean just fucking rides it, like Sam's a bronco he's breaking. Sam does it again, frantic, not sure if he's trying to get Dean off him or just get himself off. It doesn't work either way, so he braces a foot against the ground and shoves in desperation, his grunt of effort echoing through the cathedral-quiet woods.
Dean leans down and puts a finger across Sam's lips. Or at least, that's what Sam thinks it is until he registers how cold it is, how smooth. He gasps, breathless, and a square edge lands on his bottom lip. Without any conscious decision by Sam, his tongue sneaks out and traces the round, hollowed-in lip of the barrel.
It's the 1911.
'Shhh,' says Dean. 'Unless you're gonna tell me no, Sammy, you fuckin' shut up.'
Sam's hands are crushed awkwardly under him, behind his back. It hurts. It keeps him arched into the weight of Dean on top of him.
'I know what you want,' Dean murmurs, so so quiet in the stillness of the forest. 'Hear you dreaming about it, Sam, fuck, the noises you make at night.'
The gun is getting warm against Sam's mouth. He's just trying to concentrate on breathing steadily, against the feeling of being held down that makes him want to sob. Dean shifts, and breathing at all becomes just that bit harder against the pressure. Sam's lungs can't fill, he has to take shallow breaths, and it goes to his head, makes him giddy.
'You never lean away,' says Dean, pushing the 1911 a little deeper. 'D'you know that, Sam? When we're sparring - I've been pulling punches for months, cos you never dodge.'
'Gotta be able to take a hit,' says Sam thickly, mumbled around the metal. It's what Dad used to say to them when he was little and trying to get away, when Dean was leery of hitting him properly.
The truth is, he's been trying to convince himself that pain isn't that much fun. He figured, if he hurt all over, he'd stop getting the dreams. And the easiest way to get hurt is to let Dean do it. Doesn't work, not when Sam then has to go to bed with Dean all pressed up against his bruises.
'Explain this, then,' says Dean, and he cups his free hand around the back of Sam's head and slides his gun into Sam's mouth as far as the trigger guard. He does it as gently as he probably can, but Sam still chokes around it, hard metal against his soft palate. He wasn't made for this, no-one is, and he struggles against it but he's got no leverage, no purchase, and nowhere to go. 'Explain why you let me do this, huh?'
Sam arches his neck back to straighten up his windpipe, to make more space for the 1911 to slide down, cool and unyielding. Dean makes a noise Sam can't even categorise, and his thumb rubs Sam's lower lip and the sore stretch at the corner of his mouth where he always gets chapped and it's already cracking under the strain.
'You watch the guns,' Dean whispers, in a voice that's paper thin. 'You don't touch them any more, but you watch when I clean them. You want me to hit you, and you hump my leg in your sleep, beg me to let you go but I'm not even touching you, and fuck, Sammy, the way you look at my fucking gun. What am I supposed to do, huh?'
He pulls the gun free. Sam almost chokes on his own drool, the way the metal rasps its way back out when it had slid so easy in. He's blind, in the dark with Dean his only point of reference, and he can't do anything about it. Pain or no pain, it isn't up to Sam any more.
Dean could do anything to him, and he'd be powerless to prevent it.
'And I just keep thinking, what's he gonna do?' Dean says, his weight shifting forward again, more of it on Sam's chest, his breath stealing over Sam's skin like he's close enough to kiss, a thought that dizzies Sam for a moment, even more than the heaviness of breathing. 'What happens when I stop being enough for him, what happens when I can't hit him any more? Cos it kills me to hurt you, Sam, fuck, God, it fucks me up inside. But I can't - you can't - not without me. Okay?' He's pleading, the curve of his ass rubbing up against the tip of Sam's hard, leaking dick. Two layers of cloth between them might as well not be there. 'No strangers,' Dean says, like he's asking Sam to promise. Sam can't speak, can barely breathe. 'No-one else is allowed to touch you like this, okay? If you need this, you get it from me.'
Sam's got both feet planted flat now and he's pushing again. Maybe he can tip their weight one way or another, enough to get Dean off. Maybe he can dislocate his thumb, slip his cuffs -
And then maybe Dean will pull the 1911 on him and force him to his knees like that.
Underneath him, in the dirt, Sam finally manages to pop that thumb and scrape the cuff off. His hand is gonna be worthless for a week until the bruising goes down, but it's worth it, because Dean isn't expecting it when Sam brings the arm that still has the handcuffs on it from underneath and shoves him sideways, and off.
He pulls the blindfold off the second he's free of Dean's body, and casts around looking for his Taurus. He spots it under a bush and dives.
Dean gets there first. Sam punches him off-handed without thinking, good hand still scrabbling for the gun, and fuck, fuck, his dislocated thumb crunches in a way that makes him whimper involuntarily, but it gets Dean disoriented enough that Sam can grab the Taurus.
Dean grabs his wrist. Sam kicks Dean's shins, but he's been doing that for ten goddamn years, it used to be his only real move when Dean had him in a headlock, and Dean's shins are now basically a mess of healed hairline fractures and scar tissue anyway. Dean isn't phased. He gets Sam's other wrist, squeezes until Sam's forced to drop the gun, panting and tears leaking from his eyes at the pain from his thumb. Sam wrestles him for his freedom, trying to use his leverage to haul Dean over his hip and dump him, but Dean's wise to that one, and he deflects the knee to his groin with ease, which isn't surprising, it's a rookie move.
'Sammy, fuckin' stop,' Dean snarls, but Sam won't. He yanks at his hands, twists trying to get Dean behind him and over his shoulder. Dean plants himself and won't be moved, so Sam moves in with his teeth. That makes Dean yelp and drop Sam's wrists, but he immediately grapples Sam around the chest, gets him pulled around until they're back to belly and Sam can feel Dean's dick against his ass, jerking every time he tries to pull free.
The cool kiss of the 1911 at his temple is what makes Sam finally stop struggling, but only because he stops breathing for a second.
'You got two choices, kid,' says Dean shakily. 'Say no. Tell me you don't want what I think you want, and I let you go. You can even haul me back to Dad and tell him you won, if you want. Say no, and this is all over, I swear, like nothing happened. Clean slate.'
'Or?' Sam demands. The gun can't be loaded, right? Dean wouldn't put a loaded gun to Sam's head. But Dean wouldn't go out without a loaded gun. Sam wouldn't let him. He offered, and Sam turned him down.
'Or I give you what you need.' Dean swallows hard, and Sam feels it. 'Just like I always do.'
Sam tries again to break Dean's grip on him, to get a third option.
'Just say no, Sammy,' Dean whispers in his ear. The gun slides against his cheek, leaving a trail of sensation, catching on his bitten-wet lower lip until Dean realises and pulls it back. 'Please, God, just say no, if you -'
But he's clutching Sam so tight Sam might have bruised ribs to go with the busted thumb tomorrow, and Sam could keep fighting, he could, but Dean'll win sooner or later, put him face down in the dirt, humiliated and cold and hard.
And if Dean walked away from him then? God. No. Sam couldn't bear it.
Sam grits his teeth. 'Fuck you,' he snarls.
It isn't a no, deliberately isn't a no, and Dean knows it. Sam knows it too when Dean shoves him to the ground. Sam's arm collapses under him, too much weight through his sore wrist, and he rolls over fast - and meets the 1911, straight between his eyes.
'Better stay still, Sam,' says Dean. His voice is hot and low and shaking.
'Do it,' Sam says, and he doesn't know what he means but he leans up and presses a kiss to the tip of the barrel of the gun, and Dean swears like it was his cock. 'Put it in me.'
'It's loaded,' says Dean.
Sam shoves forward on his knees to take the thing down his throat, desperate for Dean to stop getting so far and then shying away from him. He chokes on it, it scrapes the inside of him raw and leaves burning in its wake, tears at the corners of his eyes, but his dick jerks in his jeans so hard it leaves him dizzy.
Dean yanks the gun free and slaps Sam on the mouth, hard, hard enough to send him reeling off balance. 'I can't believe you,' Dean growls. 'You don't know what's good for you, do you Sammy? Didn't you hear me say it's loaded? Why would you put your goddamn mouth on it, knowin' that? You got a fucking deathwish?'
Sam wants to say, you put it in my mouth before, you knew it was loaded, even if I didn't. What, are you the only one of us who's allowed to be a sick fuck?
But Dean's eyes, they're blown black and burning with want. Sam's watched him, from behind motel curtains, watched him work his nasty backseat magic enough times on enough naughty girls to know that look. So Sam bites his lip and says instead, 'Why, what have I got to be afraid of?'
Dean hauls back and slaps him with the gun in his hand. Something on it, maybe the sight, catches at Sam's mouth and it tears, he bleeds. It fucking hurts, tastes like hot metal as he tongues it, and he hangs his head and sucks at his throbbing mouth, triumphant. He likes the warm taste of the blood in his mouth, knowing he made Dean put it there.
Dean brushes his too-long hair aside with the barrel of the 1911, slides it down to catch under his chin and tilt his head up. 'Got something better for you to put your fucking mouth on,' he growls, and his free hand goes to his fly. 'I feel teeth and you'll regret it.'
Sam's mouth is watering, which dilutes the taste of blood. He strains forward and the 1911 slides along his jaw until he can feel the cool metal kiss his carotid pulse at the same moment his mouth presses the head of Dean's cock in a kiss of his own, lips open and tongue pushing out to taste just like with the cut.
Dean tastes of metal too, somehow. Salt and iron, and Sam swallows him down hungrily.
'Jesus,' Dean breathes. He's got both hands on Sam's head, one cupping his jaw, fingers moving restlessly against his skin. It's sweet. It's fond. And it makes Sam sweat because Dean's other hand's pressing his loaded gun to Sam's throat, and between them, he's trapped. He reaches a hand between his spread thighs to press his palm to his swollen cock, and Dean kicks at him. 'No,' he says. 'You're gonna come on my cock, when I tell you to, or you're not gonna come at all. Your choice.'
Sam leaves his hands by his side, and licks compulsively at Dean's dick, working his tongue on the underside of it, until Dean fucks in hard enough to stop even that amount of movement. Sam's trapped. One hand throbbing bad, the other still with a cuff swinging around it, back all a mess of bruises. Dean's feet have his knees kicked too wide to move without falling, and Dean's hands have his head held tight, unmoving, while Dean fucks his face, making his breath come short and desperate. He's drooling, can't swallow, can't shut his mouth, his spit and Dean's mess leaking out of the corners of his mouth, just like the air he can't afford to be losing.
Just when Sam's about to lose it, so dizzy that the aches and pains he's got feel like fireflies on his skin, lighting him up where the rest of him's dark, Dean yanks himself free and shoves Sam away. Sam sprawls sideways, scrabbles to get his hands under himself, trying to get back to his feet, but Dean's on him again.
'Get down, Sammy,' he says, cold steel at the back of Sam's head, the place where his skull articulates on his neck, the joint of his axis vertebra, and the shock of it sends Sam melting into the ground on a moan.
The 1911 is loaded, and knowing that for sure makes Sam's dick jerk hard in his jeans, and let out a fresh pulse of wet. It makes him shudder, the good kind of fear over the sweet, sweet, good kind of pain. He's not going to get away from this. Dean's got a gun to his head - Dean can do what he wants.
If Dean wants to shoot something in the head for real, it never even knows it's in danger. By the time you know he's there, it's too late, you're gone. Dean's been bullseyeing cans since he was old enough to handle recoil - Sam doesn't ever remember Dean without a gun at least under his pillow.
But Sam's safe in Dean's hands. Knows it in his bones, and that puts him down like a sucker punch. No escape, just take what you're given and you'll get what you want. Metal slides gently through the baby-soft hair at the base of his scalp, petting him, and something in him sinks like a stone. All there is left is yes.
Dean keeps the gun where it is and yanks Sam's pants down over his ass. Sam breathes wet into his wrists where his arms are cradling his head, and lets him. Wiggles his knees apart in the churned up ground where they've been fighting. Yes.
The scrape of Dean's fingers over the skin of Sam's ass is hypnotic. Sam's starting to zone out, moaning, feeling slow and heavy and perfectly helpless, when Dean shoves two slick fingers inside him.
Sam jerks, jacknifes, and the 1911 catches the back of his skull hard. 'Down, Sammy,' Dean growls. 'Stay the fuck down or this is gonna get ugly.'
Dean can tell you exactly how they got this far down this fucked-up yellow brick road. He knows every step, been dragging his heels on it, even though it's not like the destination hasn't been clear from the start. He knows how to read signposts when they're pointing his way.
Been dragging his heels. Hasn't once stopped walking, though. And God, he'd love to be able to say he was only following where Sam led. But who put that lube in your pocket when your dad said 'pick the gear you want to take', huh Dean? Who shoved the condoms in your wallet? Who loaded your gun even though you knew, you knew, what you were gonna do with it?
Sam barely makes a sound as Dean, the blood pounding in his ears, adds a third finger. Even with the lube, he's gotta be hurting, it's surely too much of a stretch so fast, but he breathes low and slow and stays so beautifully, painfully still.
There was a perfect moment, just a moment, before when Dean had his cock in Sam's mouth and his gun against Sam's throat, and Sam just … just held. His mouth was peach-soft inside, wet and warm, and his eyelashes fluttered long against his cheeks as Dean fucked his throat, brutal, and after all the fighting to get here … Sam fought for a breath, couldn't get it, and shuddered just a little, relaxed into it.
He's there again now, Dean can see it in the lax lines of his shoulders, all the big bones under his too-tight teenage skin, the sinews that usually keep him strung tight all unwinding. Dean pushes his fingers deep til his palm is up against Sam's ass and it's gotta be too much, it's gotta - but Sam's face is somehow peaceful and Dean's been trying to give him that for years, too long now that he's gonna stop if it seems like he's somehow finally getting it right.
'Want me to fuck you, Sammy?' Dean asks, pulling his fingers free, ready to up the ante. 'Huh?'
Sam's mouth is open, breath huffing out, and Dean isn't even sure he's listening. God, he's so goddamn fucking pretty like this. Dean just wants to ruin him for everyone else, wants to give it to him so good he'll never go anywhere else. He trails the muzzle of the 1911 back from where he had it pressed against Sam's skull, because he's gonna need both hands in a minute. It traces a wrinkle in Sam's t-shirt. It skids over the hem, catches the skin of Sam's ass, and he twitches.
Dean stares, and does it again, steel on pink skin, against bruises that are only just starting to darken and older, purpler ones he knows he put there days ago, last time they sparred, and watches the way Sam reacts to it. He bites his lip, and pushes it lower, to the sloppy, fingered-wide stretch of Sam's hole.
Sam shudders, full body, so into it that Dean's hard pressed to keep from doing it, from pushing the 1911 into Sam and fucking him with it. He wants to see that, wants to see his brother stuffed up with steel as deadly as he is, as pretty as he is, the only two things in the world Dean likes seeing his hands on more than his car.
The edge of the barrel flirts with Sam's rim.
Fuck, this is such a bad idea. A loaded gun is not a goddamn sex toy.
Sam makes a weak, hungry little noise, though, and Dean can't make himself take the gun away. He pushes it just a little, rubs his other hand on the small of Sam's back, makes him arch 'That's it, Sammy,' he says. 'You want it, huh? You want it, you fucking take it.'
Sam struggles to get his knees under him properly, like he's swimming through treacle, but he manages to get enough purchase, and starts to push back. Dean just holds, staring, as he keeps the gun steady and Sam does what he's told.
'Good, that's good,' he murmurs, awestruck, stroking up the skin of Sam's back, rucking his shirt up, then dragging his nails back down to make red patterns, just for the soft noises Sam makes when it stings. 'Shit, Sammy.' The sight on the 1911 is low and rounded enough that Dean's not worried it's gonna rip Sam up inside, but it's making him edgy, watching it disappear into Sam's body and reappear, welded to the top of that gleaming barrel. 'Does it turn you on, Sam? Getting fucked with a gun? Knowing how goddamn stupid we're being right now? Cos I know you like to think you're searching for the big normal, Sam, but I hate to break it to you, this ain't white picket fence crap. Even if you find a good girl who's happy to fuck you up the ass, I can bet you, no goddamn dildo, no fucking fake piece of plastic, is gonna do it for you like this does.'
Dean's breathing hard now, trailing fingernails turned to clawing at Sam's hip to keep him still, to hell with letting him take what he wants, now Dean's shoving the gun into him up to the trigger guard and back out again, shifting it around to get the angle right until Sam's a boneless, whimpering puddle on the forest floor, and Dean's fucking him like the gun is his cock. He can picture it, too - Sam in a few years time, some nice suburban ex-cheerleader trying out safe, sane, consensual kink with him in their neat and tidy bedroom. The vision makes him boil with jealousy. He's got one hand planted square between Sam's shoulders and he's kneeling between Sam's knees, forcing his thighs wide, the 1911 thrusting shallow into him, just right, and Dean's hips following the movement of his gun-hand because he can't help himself. His cock brushes the butt of the grip every so often and it hurts but it makes his head spin hot.
'I could take the safety off,' he growls, and Sam gasps, his abused, puffy, bleeding mouth opening against the dirty ground. 'That get you there, Sammy? Then all you got keeping you alive is me. You that hot for it? Could I make you shoot your load like that, d'you think? Is that all it'd take?'
'No,' Sam grits out shakily. The sound of him actually talking makes Dean pause for a second.
'What was that?'
Sam tries to push back, get Dean moving again, and it's like he's drunk when he says, 'you said not to. Gotta. On your cock,' he says stubbornly, slurring, and Dean has always kinda thought of the 1911 as part of him but this is something it can't do.
'Guess I'd better give it to you, then,' Dean manages to say, mouth dry. He starts to pull the gun out of Sam's body and Sam tries to follow it. Dean pushes him back down on reflex, rougher than he wanted to, but Sam sighs like getting into a hot bath. 'Stay still, Sammy,' Dean warns him. 'Don't wanna hurt you.'
'Please,' mumbles Sam, licking at his sluggishly bleeding lip. 'Please, please, please -'
It's all Dean can do to fumble his achingly hard dick out of his jeans, one hand still clutching the 1911 because he doesn't know what'll happen if he lets go of it, if it's not touching Sam's fever-wet skin. He stares at Sam's hole for a long, torn second, and then decides he can at least do one fucking thing right, and gropes in his pocket for a condom, tears it open with his teeth and manages to roll it down his dick somehow, spreading the little bit of slick it came pre-lubed with and lining himself up.
The first little touch and he doesn't know how he held off this long. Sam wants it, fights Dean's hands holding him down and grinds backwards hard, until Dean's gotta fucking force him still just so he can actually get himself in. Sam scrabbles at the dirt, shoves himself onto Dean's cock, fingernails biting into the dead leaves under him and his eyes glassy, head flung back, brain clearly somewhere else. Sam's something else like this, wanting so bad, and it's all Dean can do to keep control. Gotta put Sammy down, for his own good, gotta get him back to that good place in his head, all calm and velvet soft, where he wasn't fighting, where Dean didn't have to hurt him any more.
'Fuckin' stay down, Sammy,' he snaps, kneeing Sam's legs wide and thrusting hard enough to jolt him out of his thrashing. Sam keens, high and thin, but doesn't stop wrestling for the upper hand. Dean, in desperation, plants the gun in front of his face, hoping the threat of it'll make him settle. Sam moans a little and inches himself forward to mouth at the tip of the barrel, head pillowed on the ground like he's asleep in bed, and it's like magic. Dean snaps his hips, trying to find the angle that'll set Sam off, because he's tight and slick and hot as a new bruise and Dean isn't gonna last long but he's damned if he'll go off first, before Sam's got his. Dean's only fucking in this to give Sam what he needs. He's got to remember that.
'C'mon, Sam,' he says desperately. 'C'mon, Sammy, fuck, c'mon, want you to come for me.'
Sam's got the 1911 in his mouth all the way now, sucking on it like a pro, blissed out, but he's not on that edge any more, not where Dean wants him, and oh, God, but Dean wants him to get there. He wants to see him come, too - doesn't wanna just jerk him off into the musty forest floor underneath them. He wants to see, wants to feel Sam let it all fucking go. So Dean wrenches himself backwards onto his haunches and hauls Sam with him, out of the dirt and the leaves, until Sam's straddling his lap and Dean can fuck up into him in dirty punches. Sam's head flops back on Dean's shoulder, and Dean lets him keep blowing the 1911, can see his tongue moving in the hollow of his cheek as he works it, so good, so damn good. Dean's gonna get Sam in a motel bed, lay him down and kneel over him, fuck his face while Sam works him like that, for hours, for as long as it takes to get Sam to his happy place.
But right now, he needs Sam to come.
He closes his free hand around Sam's throat, his heart beating like a trapped bird at what he's about to do, and squeezes. Sam's breathing locks up. There's that still, perfect moment again, and then Dean flicks off the safety on the 1911.
Sam comes so hard he nearly ties himself in a knot, every goddamn muscle curling in what has to be agony as much as it's pleasure, and he takes Dean with him. It's everything Dean can do to not drop the pair of them and the gun, as they both shudder and spend, Sam all over the ground in front of them, all over his own thighs and the muddy mess of his jeans, and Dean into the condom that's all that's between them. By the time they're done, and they're just panting into the thin cold air, it's a fucking miracle they're still alive.
As soon as he's got his brain firing on all four cylinders again, Dean pulls Sam to his chest, cradles him there to check him over. That fucking dislocation is gonna need putting back, and the bruising's well set in by now. There's tender places all over Sam's body. Dean's cock softens inside him as he runs his hands over Sam's skin and catalogues everywhere he hisses, everywhere that makes him pull away.
'Dean,' says Sam eventually, raw in the throat. 'Dean, stop. I'm fine.'
'Like fuck you are,' Dean retorts, but he relents immediately, because whose fault is it that he's not fine, huh Dean? 'God. Sammy.'
Sam coughs, and reaches up to run a hand through Dean's sweaty hair. He curls his face into Dean's neck for a tiny moment, and then gropes the 1911 out of Dean's nerveless hands, and puts the safety back on. He pulls himself off Dean.
'We've gotta get back, Dad'll be wondering what the hell happened to us,' Sam says, doing his jeans back up one handed. They're ruined, covered in mud, knees ripped out. Sam's not in much better condition, with dirt smeared over his cheek and leaves in his hair. He's keeping his busted hand up against his body so it can't get jolted too much. His lip is still bleeding. He doesn't even look at Dean, just starts walking off. 'Come on, Dean,' he says, turning back when Dean hasn't moved.
He's limping bad. But fuck, he's smiling so wide.
Dean heaves himself to his feet and catches Sam around the shoulders, grabs that sore hand.
'Want me to put this back?' he asks, subtly trying to get Sam to lean on him, take some of his weight so the kid doesn't have to haul his own ass on sore legs. If he wasn't so goddamn tall, Dean'd be offering to piggy-back him.
'Dean, seriously. I'm fine,' Sam says, trying to push away. Dean snugs his arm tight round Sam's skinny waist so he can't escape, and snaps that thumb back into place. The cartilage in the joint makes an awful noise, but it goes in sweet and easy and sudden. Shocked, Sam breathes in so hard it's like he's been smacked, but he's had dislocations put back before, it's not like this is new. He immediately starts gently moving it, trying to keep it from seizing.
Dean keeps a hold of him. He doesn't think he can make himself let go, not for a while. 'Look,' he says as they walk. 'I'm not dumb enough to think you're gonna not want this again. Okay? But if we're doing this we're doing it my way. Safe.'
'You won't hurt me,' says Sam, scornfully.
Dean slides his arm under Sam's, around his shoulders to help take more of his weight. 'That isn't what I'm afraid of,' he murmurs, kissing Sam softly just under his ear.
Sam stops in his unsteady tracks, pulls just far enough away to look Dean in the eye. 'I need it, Dean,' he says in a low voice. 'You can't just … you can't just give me this once and then pretend it didn't happen. I need this.'
'What's 'this'?' Dean asks. He wants to hear Sam say it. 'What do you need?'
'Need you to help me,' Sam whispers, curling back into Dean's body. His good arm slips down around Dean's waist, and he finds the 1911. 'Need you to take me to pieces.'
Dean cradles Sam's swollen hand, feeling the bruising throb in time with his own pulse. 'Yeah,' he says, low and soft, and he kisses Sam's neck again, scrapes it with his teeth. 'Gonna do that, Sammy. Swear I will. But you gotta let me put you back together again after.'