The best thing about not being designated angel/fallen angel slippers for the apocalypse any more was that they could enjoy the job, the way real partners did.
The worst thing was probably that Sam still liked to talk about Dean's feelings, especially when they'd both had a few and were hidden in the privacy of the night's motel room. And now Sam was able to pull the sad eyes, you-don't-respect-me-like-you-said-you-would, when Dean tried to blow him off.
So Dean thought he was doing pretty good when he diverted Sam's heavy hinting (it was possible that the first letter of Sam's sentences spelled out L-I-S-A over and over, though Dean might also have been making that up) into a conversation about sex instead.
But then somehow—Dean blamed the whiskey—they got to really talking about sex, and Sam told him about how Jess tied his hands with the belt from her bathrobe and how hot it got her. "You ever do anything like that?"
Dean chewed on his lower lip and leaned back against the headboard of his bed. "No," he admitted. "Don't get me wrong," he hurried before Sam could do more than widen his eyes. "I've stuck it everywhere it'll go, and in just about every position they got in the Kama Sutra. But a thing like that—tied up, maybe some choking—you'd have to trust someone an awful lot, right? And I never." He swallowed and reached for the bottle again.
Sam stared at him, long enough that Dean cracked. "What?"
Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed, hands working all nervous in the bedspread, like the conversation was making him freak out even though he was the one running it. "Just, dude. I've seen your porn."
Dean shrugged. "What, I can't have fantasies? Look, I do something crazy unsafe, it's gotta be hunting evil. Otherwise it's just stupid." People who weren't them were either dangerous or not yet proven dangerous, and he could handle that ordinarily. But letting himself get disarmed and under someone else's control—he'd be taking too big a risk of leaving Sam behind, and no matter how hot the thought got him there was no way it was worth that price.
Sam closed his mouth. Then, with the deliberation of someone drunker than he ought to have been, he reached for the bottle on the nightstand between them and took three long swallows, throat rippling as he tilted the bottle up. When he put it back, it rocked and nearly tipped over, until Dean reached out to save it.
While Dean was occupied with that, Sam said, "There are ways. If you wanted."
Dean didn't even bother asking for an explanation, because—
"I know we're not gonna settle down. But there are places, online, you can find people who want to do that. And I could, you know, make sure it's safe." Sam wasn't looking at him, and he could practically feel the heat rising from Sam's skin even with Sam a yard away. "Screen them, watch out for you."
And holy shit, now Dean felt like he was the one at risk of spontaneous combustion.
Okay, look, Dean didn't exactly need that shrink from the Sopranos or, fuckit, a high school guidance counselor to tell him why the idea of letting someone take control like that made him hard enough to jackhammer concrete. Knowing he was safe at the same time he knew he didn't have any choices about what was going to happen: it couldn't get any hotter than that.
But Dean wasn't sure he could handle Sam setting it up, not without embarrassing himself beyond recovery. This was different than banging a girl with Sam sleeping, or faking sleep, in the next bed over, because that had been all about Dean being in charge (plus, he hadn't done that since he'd stopped being a teenage asshole and started being an asshole who wanted to keep his brother around). Straight-up fucking, no matter how loud it got, didn't mean anything, and Sam knew that.
Sam was fucked up in his own special way, but he wasn't bent like Dean was, and if he actually saw Dean go crazy over something as trivial as being tied up to get off, he might start in on his Dean-is-broken-from-thirty-years-of-torture kick all over again.
Sam already knew what Dean wanted. Might not get any worse than that.
"You'd," he started, and then had to cough and reset his voice, low and broken. "You'd do that?"
Sam ducked his head—fucker knew how to hide his eyes with those ridiculous bangs, which was maybe the point of them—"Yeah."
Dean's throat clicked when he swallowed again. "Okay."
So it turned out that Sam had the idea to advertise, not for cash (Sam being vanilla in his own way), but on one of those websites, Craigsbook or MyFace or something like that. When he showed Dean the ad he'd written up, Dean looked one way and Sam the other while Sam explained all the abbreviations, which made it a fuckload easier for Dean to say that, actually, it would be okay by him if it was a guy or a girl.
"I, uh, you need a picture," Sam said, and after a couple of false starts Dean figured out that he meant a picture of Dean's cock, or really the chest-to-thigh area. Sam showed him a website where guys shot themselves in the mirror with their cellphone cameras, and that looked like it could work, but Sam was a perfectionist as ever and ended up insisting on taking the picture himself, Dean half-hard just from knowing what was happening, his jeans around his ankles and his hands fisted nervously beside him. Sam was so red Dean was surprised the camera didn't melt, but the results were pretty good. Dean wasn't built like Sam, but then there were guys on Jersey Shore not built like Sam, and Dean had nothing to be ashamed of.
They did a hunt out in the middle of Wisconsin, more deer than people, and then nothing happened for a couple of weeks after that, other than Dean getting a good scenario for the spank bank at showertime. Sam seemed to send a lot more emails than usual, but he never said anything about it so Dean figured it was just reposting the ad whenever they arrived in a new place. Then they went to New Jersey, did an easy salt and burn, less than twenty-four hours start to finish.
The next night, Sam was sitting at his laptop, and after a while Dean noticed that he was just staring at the screen, eyebrows scrunched and mouth pursed like he'd gotten some porno virus (which really shouldn't happen any more now that Dean had his own machine, but with Sam who knew). "What's up?" Dean asked, edging towards concerned.
"You—a guy in South Orange responded to the ad. He's free tonight."
Dean stood in the center of the room while his stomach went elsewhere and his heart pegged out.
"Dean?" Sam's voice was careful. He wouldn't ever mention it again if Dean backed out, wouldn't use it as any kind of ammunition.
But he'd know, and so would Dean.
"Awesome," Dean said, and if it was a little wobbly he could blame it on the blood rushing to his dick.
Sam insisted on getting him tied up a half hour before the dude was scheduled to arrive. If he pulled a no-show, Dean swore to himself, he'd have Sam track down the asshole and deliver an in-person lecture on the impoliteness of leaving a guy hanging like that, and he would've liked to wait until they had proof it wasn't some internet hoax. But Sam had a hair up his ass about preparation. Anyway, the whole point was that Dean couldn't trust anyone else to put cuffs on his hands, padded or not, and bind him to a bedframe so carefully that Dean couldn't get free no matter how hard he pulled.
Dean put his whole body into it, testing, and the bed groaned but stayed in place, heavy seventies construction exactly what they needed. He was panting already, twitching with every puff of air that came over his naked body. His nipples were tight, his skin oversensitive against the cheap bedcover with its fraying nylon threads poking out unpredictably.
Sam had stayed focused on Dean's wrists when he tied Dean down, making sure the leather cuffs were just tight enough and weren't rubbing wrong against the bone, ignoring the rest of Dean's body.
Dean knew it was kind of fucked-up, what he was asking Sam to do for him, but that was not exactly a new thing in their relationship and this time it had the prospect of ending in excellent orgasms, so he was trying to ignore it.
And then there was nothing to do but wait, Sam pacing and Dean squirming, trying to do it quietly so that Sam wouldn't decide that Dean was really not okay and just brazening through so as to save face. Even after all they'd been through, Sam was one hundred percent capable of deciding that Dean didn't know what he was doing, and although Dean was confident that a few punches would remind Sam about how they weren't making decisions for each other any more, that would probably scare off the guy.
If the guy was actually planning to show.
Fuck, Dean could get off just thinking about it. Close his eyes and tug against the ropes and know there was nothing he could do, but also know that only good things were going to happen to him. His hips rocked against the bed, his cock stiff against his belly.
The knock startled him enough that he jumped, or tried to, slammed back down by the ropes around his wrists. Sam also looked like he'd been goosed, twitching his shoulders back as he hurried over to the door and stood blocking Dean's view.
"'Just Visiting'?" the guy asked. Sam, evidently willing to let events proceed, stepped back and to the side, allowing him in.
He was maybe five-eight, brown-haired, nothing Dean would have looked twice at in a bar. But he was wearing clean clothes and he'd come to a motel late at night to fuck a stranger while another stranger watched, so Dean wasn't going to be extra picky. Plus, the way his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open when he got a good look at Dean was flattering as fuck. True enough, the dude had won the anonymous sex lottery, if Dean did say so himself.
Sam reached out and grabbed the guy's upper arm before he got more than half a step towards Dean. "Just a reminder," Sam said in his best I-can-kill-you-with-my-thumb voice. "Use a condom. Dirty talk is okay, pain isn't. Safe word is 'black,' and I'm just here to make sure you follow the rules."
"Yeah, sure," the guy said, but he only had eyes for Dean. Dean couldn't help but tug against the ropes again, gasping his arousal when they still wouldn't let him move. It was just his arms, but that was more than enough, spread out for this guy like the centerpiece at a buffet.
He didn't even strip, which for some reason Dean found super-hot. And it wasn't like Dean could make him take his clothes off. He just pulled out his dick, stroked it hard while staring at Dean, then took a condom packet out of his jeans and ripped it open. Dean's breathing was so loud in his own head it was like having his head next to the Impala's engine when she was full throttle, all thought impossible.
The guy pushed in with only spit and the lube on the condom easing the way, stinging so good Dean wanted to scream. He only whined high in his throat, fingers clenched into fists and eyes screwed shut like he was trying to hide away from the light.
He blew his load before the guy was halfway in, spurting all over his stomach and chest, a drop up to his chin, untouched. The guy cursed and shoved the rest of the way, hurrying, fucking him hard and fast. Dean brought his legs up, folding himself nearly in half, making himself give way, pleasure still rocketing through him like lightning.
The guy gave it to him like a piston, letting Dean ride the aftershocks, until finally he dropped his forehead to Dean's shoulder and grunted out his orgasm, hands braced on Dean's biceps.
He pulled out and stripped off the condom, leaving it beside Dean on the bed. Dean managed to turn his head. Sam's back was a brick wall, his hands tucked under his arms as he faced the window.
"Thanks," the guy said as he zipped up, looking over at Sam, and then he was gone.
Dean kind of expected Sam to cut him free as soon as the door closed, but instead Sam stood there like he'd been flash frozen.
After a minute, Dean cleared his throat.
Sam turned, slowly. Dean could smell the sex in the air, sharp and familiar tang of his own come plus just a hint of the stranger's—nothing out of the ordinary. Except that he was still tied down and Sam was crossing the worn-down carpet to the bed. Dean's dick gave one more twitch, belated comedown, and then Sam's big competent hands were on the first buckle, setting Dean's right hand free.
Sam was away from the bed before Dean even managed to shake the cuff off, hurrying into the bathroom while Dean rolled himself sideways and worked on the other cuff. Dean would've showered, cleaned himself up to maybe clear the air a little, but Sam had the bathroom door closed and the water running, so the best he could do was wipe himself off with the scratchy motel tissues and get back into his t-shirt and boxers.
Dean was sitting at the little table by the door with two beers, one for him and one for Sam, when Sam finally emerged. The beer had been out long enough to sweat considerably, but it was still cold enough to drink, and he held it out to Sam: we're okay, right?
Sam didn't hesitate, just came over and sat down across from Dean, snagging the beer as he went. "So," he said, staring into the bottle's mouth as if it was a Latin text, "was that what you wanted?"
"Yeah," Dean said, tasting the truth of it along with the hops. He was going to be feeling it for a couple of days, remembering it every time he sat down. The constraint, the pleasure, the certainty that Sam wouldn't let anything happen to him. "It was."
Sam smoothed his thumb over the label, back and forth like he was trying to rub it clean. "We can keep doing it. If you want," he offered.
Dean could've gotten hard again from just thinking about the possibility. But—it was asking a lot of Sam. One kinky fantasy, sure, but it wasn't like he could regularly pay Sam back by serving as his wingman, since Sam didn't do bar hookups anyway. "You really okay with that?" Then he set his jaw and made himself say it. "'Cause hot as it was, no way is it worth you getting pissed at me." He knew it was selfish, asking Sam to stand guard just so he could get off a little better, and he'd sacrifice a thousand lays to keep them where they were now, fighting back to back and only annoying each other the minimum possible for two guys with nearly three decades of living in each other's space.
Sam was still examining his beer, like maybe it was going to turn into a bunch of flowers if he didn't watch it carefully enough. "Tell you what," he said. "You do the laundry, and we'll call it even."
So that's what they did. Every couple of weeks, they'd get an answer Sam thought was probably the real thing. He was wrong a couple of times, and Dean worked very hard not to bitch him out and just retreat to the shower to take matters into his own hands after they gave up waiting. But mostly Sam was right, and he'd stay sentinel while Dean got good and reamed, and every time it was better than the last.
It was always men, sadly. Dean would totally have been into being ridden by a girl, but he guessed the two-guys thing in the ad scared them off, which he completely understood and had no plans to be a hypocrite about. Anyway, if he wanted a girl, he could still get laid the regular way, even if it had started to seem like a lot of effort. Plus Sam got kind of twitchy now when Dean hit on chicks, like he was thinking about all the things that could go wrong even if Dean wasn't tied up.
The men were a varied bunch. Some took the offered opportunity to call him a slut and worse, which worked just fine; more than a few blew him either before or after, which was excellent (in fact, Dean's favorites tended to combine options one and two, since that was just the kind of kinky Dean could get behind); some tried casual conversation, which was not ideal but generally not that much trouble.
Sam didn't like it when they talked, no matter what the subject matter was. Sam didn't say anything, but Dean could tell: he got bigger when he was pissed, and nobody was about to tell Dean that was physically impossible, because Dean had fucking seen it. Weirdly, Sam hated the where-are-you-from, how-long-are-you-staying post-orgasmic pleasantry shit much more than even the most vicious stuff the guys said when they were fucking Dean. He was capable of shutting down even the most chatty of them in five seconds flat, out the door before their mouths had stopped moving. Then he'd set Dean free—at some point, maybe after one of the times Dean was pretty sure the top of his head had come off, Sam had started undoing both of the cuffs instead of leaving Dean to do the left hand himself—and stomp off to the bathroom.
If Dean listened hard (which he almost never did; well, hardly ever), he could hear Sam, near the end when Sam was biting his lip to keep the noise inside but just couldn't stop himself.
Being partners definitely didn't mean talking about everything.
But there were some things Dean couldn't keep to himself. "How come when they say thanks, it's always to you?" he asked one day, while they were waxing the car. "I mean, I'm right there."
Sam's hand on the chamois stuttered, then resumed its rhythmic circles. "I guess they think you're mine," he said after a minute.
Well, yeah, was Dean's first reaction. He was pretty sure that he couldn't get away with saying that, though.
Sam's lecture didn't change much, but maybe he'd rejiggered the ad, because the guys got more alike, big muscles and not much in the way of small talk. Sometimes Dean wanted to check and see what Sam was saying to them in his messages, but that would have required either a discussion or hacking Sam's password. The first was too awkward and the second was the kind of thing they didn't do to each other any more.
Anyway, the results were working for Dean, so, as with much of Sam's online research, he figured it was better just to enjoy the benefits than to worry too hard about how it was done.
When Sam sent one guy off before he'd even managed to get his dick all the way back in his pants, though, Dean decided that there was one source of tension that was worth managing.
He waited until they were both busy, Dean with routine maintenance and Sam checking out some wacky news story that might mean a ten-hour drive ending in trolls. Dean had never done trolls; he was looking forward to it.
But Dean still needed to make sure that Sam didn't get too frustrated, because that way lay only resentfulness and the disappearance of a damn good thing.
"You can whack it in the room if you want," Dean said, carefully reassembling the clip and sliding it back into the gun.
Sam was silent, and Dean had decided that Sam wasn't going to admit they were having this conversation when he said, low and strained, "that'd be ... okay with you?"
Dean shrugged. "Honestly? It'd be kind of reassuring. I mean, talk about letting it all hang out, right?" He wasn't ever going to have an easy time with Sam seeing so much of him, and he didn't mean his skin, but knowing that Sam was right there with him, thrilled and terrified and hot as fuck, that would make it better.
Sam grunted, which Dean decided counted as understanding.
And the next time, Sam sat in the corner and jerked off, rhythmic slapping sounds mixing with the noise Dean's guy made slamming into him, and Dean came so hard he nearly blacked out.
"I was thinking," Dean said, tapping his fingers on the dash as he watched the mile markers blur past.
Sam didn't make the expected joke about how unlikely that was, which meant that he was already on Dean's wavelength. Which was awesome all by itself, and Dean took a moment to be glad that Sam was with him, all the way. Then Sam made an annoyed noise, and Dean kept going.
"I'd like to try a blindfold," he said. It wasn't that big a change. Not like he picked them for their faces. Not like he picked them, period. But if he was blindfolded, that would make it even more obvious that Sam was the one taking care of him, making sure everything went right. And maybe they wouldn't have to work so hard not to look at each other, during, kind of like safety glass between them.
He felt the car picking up speed, Sam's foot cranking down on the gas; no chance Sam was even paying attention to that. Sam's breath was fast, and Dean didn't need to look over to feel Sam shifting in his seat.
"Yeah, 'kay," Sam said, like it was even a question.
And in fact that was even hotter, Dean deep in it from the time he stripped down and laid back on the bed, letting Sam put the blindfold on him—one of his old black T-shirts, too torn up to be any use other than this—and then holding his wrists in place. Then the wait, Dean squirming and Sam so silent that only Dean's background awareness of Sam's existence let him know that Sam was still nearby.
Sam took to giving his little speech just outside their room, the rumble of his voice blurred by the door in between them, before he'd let the guy in. So when they came back, Dean's ears strained to hear the small noises of Sam moving into place, reassuring himself that Sam was still watching.
With the blindfold, they touched him more, like him not being able to see them was permission to go further. The first time a guy put his hands all over Dean's chest and shoulders, just playing around before the main event, Sam made a stifled sound of protest. The guy pulled back and Sam said, "Sorry, keep going," as embarrassed as he'd been the very first time he'd walked in on Dean when Dean had been sixteen.
So the dude felt him up for a while, fumbling around the way you did when you were trying to discover what it was gonna take to get your one-night stand off. Dean's nipples weren't a particularly important feature as far as he was concerned, but he loved it when they scratched his chest or, better, bit his neck. Dean rewarded that kind of effort with enthusiastic moaning, unless they put their hands over his mouth. Not everybody figured his preferences out and some of them didn't seem to care, but that was SOP for his fucks and overall it was a major improvement, not even counting the extra thrill of being that much more helpless.
They were in Virginia, finishing up a week's worth of protective rituals as a favor to a hoodoo practitioner Bobby knew, when Sam checked his mail and stared at it for a while, then leaned over the keyboard and typed fast.
"Tonight?" Dean asked, because he knew what that look meant, half sulky and half something darker.
Sam nodded and shut his computer, and they spent the rest of the day interviewing witnesses, Dean's body loose and humming with anticipation.
They got back to the motel with just enough time for dinner. Dean started stripping down before Sam had even decided to give up on his meatball sub. He set up the ropes and the cuffs for Sam in his boxer-briefs, hard-on already tenting out.
He felt a little bad that he didn't know how to say it, explain to Sam just how grateful he was that they'd managed to combine the one person he, you know, trusted with his favorite activity. Bringing another person into it just meant he trusted Sam more: a show of confidence that his brother could put J. Random Stranger into a coma faster than J. Random could go from dicking Dean to hurting him.
Sam had to know, though, right?
Maybe Dean should get him a new laptop or something.
He thought about it as he skinned his underwear down, letting it puddle on the floor beside the bed. Sam might take a gift the wrong way, spend the next week freaking out about what Dean had managed to ruin that Sam hadn't noticed. Dean could chivvy them back to North Carolina, maybe, spend a week on the shore. Sam really liked the beach and if Dean spun it right he wouldn't even notice that Dean was taking care of him.
Yeah, that would work. Satisfied, he plopped down onto the bed, splaying himself out and putting his arms up in position. After six nights and no housekeeping, the whole room smelled like them, sweat and takeout, familiar from a thousand of these places. Sam was still at the table, staring down at his sandwich wrapper like maybe there was a secret Enochian message there that would burst into flaming letters if Sam stared hard enough.
But that was totally last year, so Dean didn't worry about it. "C'mon, Sammy," he said. "This fine ass isn't gonna tie itself up."
Sam rolled his eyes and pushed himself away from the table.
One of the best parts of this was that Sam was the last thing Dean saw before the blindfold cut off his sight, and the first thing when he got it back. (Yeah, Dean knew he was pure cotton candy on the inside. Didn't count if you didn't say the words.)
Some time later, when Dean was starting to get antsy, Sam made a frustrated noise. "Ten minutes late," he explained when Dean craned his neck up.
Shit. "Five more and I'm calling it," Dean said. Too bad, because he wanted it something fierce, but nothing to be done but suck it up, jerk off, and move on. Probably have to fight Sam for who got the shower first, come to think of it. He'd snark but let Sam win, because he was awesome like that.
He heard Sam move to the window and push the curtains back. "Hang on," Sam ordered, and the door opened and closed. Dean heard Sam's footsteps, heavy, the way he got when he was too agitated for a single room to contain him. Then Sam's voice, lower than usual, more like he was mumbling curses to himself—maybe he was lecturing about punctuality—blurred through the walls.
Then the click of the door again, quiet footsteps across the floor, sharp indrawn breath at the sight of Dean's exposed body. Dean let his thighs fall open, flexed his arms a little to show off the muscles.
The guy stripped—Dean heard the shush of cotton, the clank of the belt, the heavy thud of one boot after the other hitting the ground. He got on the bed, bracing himself over Dean on hands and knees, no part of them touching even though Dean could feel the heat of his skin. Big guy, heavy enough that the bed settled beneath them, like Dean could just roll into the depression made by his weight if it weren't for the cuffs holding Dean in place.
When the guy's teeth bit sharply into his neck, he was already shouting his approval when he realized that he'd only heard one person come into the room.
Terror and arousal combined to make him jolt like he'd been shocked, and the guy's huge hand pressed down in the center of his chest—Sam's hand, had to be, proved by how Sam bore down, teeth and tongue worrying Dean's skin just enough to bruise, while his other hand started massaging Dean's bicep, heavy pressure of his thumb exactly what Dean wanted.
Dean wasn't exactly Mr. Introspection, so it was no wonder he hadn't noticed they were going here until they'd arrived. Everything was simple now, narrowed down to Sam's hand pushing down, steadying Dean's triple-timing heart. Sam's mouth, hot and sharp, leaving cool stripes where he licked and nipped down the tendons of Dean's neck, over the line of his shoulder.
It'd never been like this, like his chest was going to crack apart, and it was okay because Sam was there to put him back together.
"Please," he said, and Sam froze above him, because of all the filth Dean had spilled these past months, he'd never begged. He closed his eyes behind the dark cotton hiding them and mentally ordered Sam to understand. But he was impatient, and the words spilled out before he could stop them. "Anything you want. I want it."
"Fuuuck," Sam said, rough and helpless and confirming what Dean already knew—and if Sam thought he could fool Dean even with no blood going to the big head, Sam was even more annoying than Dean had thought, but Dean was prepared to let it slide this time on account of getting laid. "Dean."
Dean's "Yeah, S—" turned into a wordless grunt when Sam bit down again, like he could put his own scars on Dean's skin to match what Heaven and Hell and the rest of them had done. Dean wanted that, wanted to be able to look at himself and see confirmation of what he had and of who had him.
Sam slid his hands down Dean's arms, over his sides, pressing hard like he was making sure that every part of Dean was there. He thumbed the stretch of skin just above Dean's pelvic cut, and Dean whined and tried to arch up, but Sam was on him like an engine block, nothing Dean could do but shiver and shake while Sam rubbed that spot again and again, using every bit of knowledge he'd gained watching Dean.
He was mumbling, sex-brained nonsense about how hot Dean was, how much he wanted this. "God, your cock, so hard for me," narrating while Dean humped against his stomach, his breath humid against Dean's chest. Dean clamped his legs around Sam's hips because it was the only thing he could do to get any closer.
Sam fumbled on the bed, reaching for the conveniently placed lube, his mouth still working on Dean's shoulder. That was gonna sting like a motherfucker in the morning, Dean thought before he whited out completely as Sam shoved two slick fingers inside him.
He came back to himself to hear Sam, frantic as if they were separated by a heavy door and an angry spirit. "I can't wait, Dean, can I, can I?" Dean would have put a hand on the back of Sam's neck to calm him down, but all he could do was nod and moan approvingly as Sam's fingers pulled out, replaced by the wide pressure of Sam's cockhead.
Sam bore down and Dean helped as best he could, wrapping his legs around Sam's waist and making himself give it up, Sam half sobbing as he pushed forward. Sam was already so deep in him that this was something like confirmation, every stinging inch a willing surrender.
The blindfold was wet and Dean didn't know why, caught up in the feeling, split apart and clinging to Sam. He was bruising his thighs on Sam's hipbones, fighting against the bonds just because he couldn't not try to put his hands on Sam even though it was even better like this, taking exactly what Sam was giving him.
Sam palmed his shoulders and fucked him so hard Dean could feel the bed shake around them. Sam had his upper body lifted up six inches or so—he was looking at Dean, Dean could feel his gaze like the heat from the Impala's hood, and Dean's cheeks flamed but he didn't turn his face into the pillow, giving it all to Sam.
"You're gonna come for me," Sam told him, and that was all it took for Dean to paint them both with his spunk, slippery-hot between them. He was having this week's orgasms and the next's, following on each other until he was ectoplasm-limp, barely hanging on with his legs while Sam did his best to fuck them into a single creature.
Sam's hands clenched so hard on Dean's upper arms when he came that Dean was going to have two more handprints for a week or so. Then he collapsed on top of Dean, hard enough that just breathing was an effort. Dean was cool with that.
After a while, though, he shook his hands, making the ropes whisper against the sheets, and Sam took the hint, raising his head from Dean's chest long enough to work the right cuff free, then the left. Unfortunately, the motion pulled his softening dick out, and Dean winced when he felt the mess of come and lube sliding out of him. "Dude," he said, chiding. "Ever heard of condoms?"
Sam paused with his hand on the blindfold, then pulled it off. "Anything you want," he said, his nose inches from Dean's. "That's what you said, and if I want you wet for me, then that's how it's gonna be, isn't it?"
Dean swallowed and, maybe, involuntarily humped Sam's leg a little. "When you put it like that," he said weakly.
And then there was some kissing and some satisfied dozing.
Maybe half an hour later, there was a knock on the door. Dean, who'd managed to put his shorts back on, grabbed his gun and approached the door while Sam sat up, blinking kind of dopily.
Dean didn't recognize the man he saw through the peephole, but there was nothing particularly scary there, so he opened the door.
"I'm really sorry," the man said. He was handsome in a Captain America way, dark blond hair and twinkling blue eyes, not quite competition for Dean (but then who was?) but certainly enough to pull the hot ones. "I had a work emergency, and—am I too late?"
Dean opened his mouth, feeling kind of awkward because he never talked to these guys, not when they weren't horizontal, and also his arm was twisted behind his back to hide his gun.
"Yeah," Sam called out from the bed. "You are." Dean could tell, just from his tone, that Sam was about two seconds away from getting up—jaybird-naked and too focused to remember his usual squeamishness—and asserting his claim more directly.
Dean just shrugged and smiled at the guy, because he'd gotten laid regardless and looked to be repeating the process sooner rather than later. "Sorry," he said—meaning it a little, since Dean was clearly looking at the first of a long, long line of attractive and willing people he wasn't going to fuck—and closed the door in the guy's face.
"So," Sam said as Dean ambled towards the bed, "a while back, you said something about choking."
Dean looked at Sam's hands, big and strong enough to hold the whole world together, and his cock started to fill. He raised his eyebrows, because Sam liked a challenge even when he wouldn't admit it. "Too much for you?"
Sam reached out, palming Dean's hip, pulling him down onto the bed—gun hastily shoved back under a pillow—until they were in a warm tangle of sheets and skin. Sam's hands bracketed Dean's face, pulling him into place for kiss after kiss, the hot weight of their dicks pressed into Dean's stomach. Then Sam slid one hand around to rest on Dean's neck, just ounces of pressure but more than enough to make him arch up and slit his eyes near-shut. "I want it all," Sam told him, serious as prophecy. "And you're gonna take everything I give you."
Dean could've gone with 'fuck, yeah,' but that was kind of obvious. So: "Yeah, love you too, Sammy."
The shock and joy on Sam's face was totally worth it. Mostly the shock, though. Didn't pay to let Sam get complacent, after all.
Dean grinned up at Sam and wondered how long it would take to convince Sam to let him bring the gun out from under the pillow.