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Sam hisses at him when Dean grabs his shirt and pops the first two buttons open.
"No," he says as he smacks Dean's fingers away from his neck. "We are not getting it on at a fucking cattle judging competition." He's painfully aware of how petulant he sounds, but it's August in Syracuse, and the building's air conditioning is only marginally handling the oppressively hot and humid weather. He's sweaty, and sticky, and his ass hurts from sitting on the hard wood benches that line the large amphitheater. He smacks Dean's hand a second time, to make the point.
"Jeez, Sam, lighten up." Dean pouts, shaking the sting out of his fingers. He slumps back on the bench, gesturing down at the rows upon rows of seats separating them from the black-and-brown-and-white cows that are placidly lined up in the judging circle below. "I guarantee you, none of those cows are gonna care if I suck your dick."
One the one hand, Dean's got a point – the old wooden building they're in is huge, and they're up in the nosebleed seats, closer to the dust-covered windows and pigeons on the roof. Anyone who's actually interested in the cows is seated down in the first three rows, and even if they weren't, the acoustics in here are so bad terrible that the judges' microphone is nothing but a wah-wah-wah in Sam's ears.
"That's besides the point. It's not up to the cows, it's up to me, and I said no," Sam says snippily. "And it's not like the cows are the only things here who could notice."
He waves at the general vicinity of the judges, a trio of sun-weathered old men who are busy walking around the bovines with clipboards and tape measures, occasionally dipping their heads together to consult on the angle of a fetlock or the width of a sternum. Syracuse may be a college town, but the kind of people who judge cows at state fairs don't tend to judge other things so kindly. It's not the stupidest place Dean's ever had ideas – that would have to be the alley behind a shitkicker country bar where the bartender and about half of the patrons had some version of a Patriot Front tattoo proudly on display. There's no sign of anything like that here, thank goodness, but he ducks his head and glances around reflexively anyway.
Dean stretches his arms up above his head and not-so-subtly lets one settle around Sam's back. "Aw, c'mon. We're so far up, they can barely see our heads from down there. If you're a good boy and don't do anything to tip 'em off, they won't even remember we're up here." Then he pulls Sam close, lips brushing over Sam's ear as he whispers, "And you are a good boy, aren't you?"
And then he bites Sam's ear, the bastard, just hard enough for the teeth to sink in ever so lightly before rubbing his stubble against Sam's jaw in the way that he knows makes Sam crazy.
Sam whimpers and then somehow manages to push Dean back. "I'll know."
Dean rolls with Sam's push, using the momentum to slide off the bench and onto his knees. Sam whips his head around, panicked, but no- no one's even paying attention. Including Sam, as it turns out, because Dean takes complete advantage of Sam's reaction to slide in between Sam's legs and pop the buttons on his fly.
"We - are - on - the - clock," Sam grits out, torn between swatting Dean's hand away and not causing a scene. "Ghosts? People dying? The family business?"
Dean beams up at him with his stupid angelic smile and hooks his finger into the top of Sam's underwear, tugging it downward.
"EMF was dead the whole walk up here, Sammy. No self-respecting ghost is gonna show up mid-day, anyway." His shoulders press Sam's legs further apart as he tugs the underwear waistband down further. "We're officially off duty until tonight."
It's like Sam is paralyzed, it's always like this, because it's Dean and the word no just seems to lose all of its effectiveness around him. Like Sam's been punished for the three years it took him as a teen to get Dean to forget that the word was in his vocabulary because Dean never does anything by halves, and once he said yes, it was fuck yes, and how about now and just a quickie no one'll catch us.
"But you said-" Sam looks about wildly. No one's looking back at them. No one's even noticed them. Down on his knees, Dean's head barely clears the top of the seats in front of them – and if he leans forward..
"I know what I said," Dean says, shit-eating grin firmly in place as he does just that. "I lied."
Sam should stop him, he knows, this is public indecency and there – people could – he should just stand up but then he'd have to do up his buttons and they'd think-
"Put your head back and close your eyes, Sammy," Dean whispers, "they'll think you just fell asleep." His nimble fingers give another yank, tugging the waistband down and suddenly Sam's cock pops free – and of course it's hard as a rock, the traitor. Dean's always had that effect on him.
Dean tucks the elastic down a little further, under Sam's balls. "Sit back and let your big brother take care of you."
And Sam, fool that he is, bites off the complaint on his tongue and slides his hips forward, spreading his knees even wider so Dean has more room to work.
The minute Dean's lips wrap around Sam's cock, Sam knows it'll be over soon – not because of Dean, who is clearly intent on taking his torturous time, but because Sam's already keyed up. He hisses and clamps his lips firmly shut, afraid that any sound will echo.
No one's noticing. No one's noticing and Dean's mouth is warm and wicked, his breath moist against Sam's skin and he slides down and back, down and back. His eyes dart around, muscles locked in that fake not-tense-nothing-weird's-happening-here-no-sir kind of way as Dean takes in a breath and dives down, sliding his mouth all the way down to the root. No one's noticing as Dean swallows Sam whole at the goddamn fucking state fair.
Sam's cock nudges the back of Dean's throat and his balls tighten up, muscles reflexing as he starts to come, eyes still fixed in fake boredom at the cattle judging in process and no one's noticing and Sam is coming and-
And-
And the goddamn motherfucking cows are looking at him.
Ten minutes later, everything back in place, Dean laughs his way out of the building while Sam glowers at him.
"C'mon princess. I'll buy you a funnel cake as an apology."
Dean is so fucking cut off, Sam swears.
He'll still eating the funnel cake first, though.