Chapter Text
SEPTEMBER 16TH, 2016
7:13 PM
It's the Pride sticker in the window that gets Sam. Down in the bottom left corner of a blacked-out glass pane in the door, it's in the shape of a heart, rainbow colors sun-faded. Barely recognizable, really, except that the symbol has become so ubiquitous.
He's in a small city whose name he barely remembers. It'll be on the news clippings that brought him here in the first place–hunter's siren song of a series of mysterious deaths, no suspects, experts baffled. The 'where' just isn't one of the important details anymore.
The case is solved. Just your regular old ghost, bones over-seasoned and extra crispy in the cemetery across town. Without another job on the horizon, he'd opted to hang around and check out the local nightlife. Well, once he'd scoped out whether there was a nightlife at all, which there was, thank god for small mercies. He needs to get laid.
The main strip in this part of the city is a street away; the one he's on now is quieter, but there's foot traffic here and there. Lights and noise in a restaurant or two nearby and music and conversation someplace farther down the road make it, if not busy, at least promising.
The sticker catches his eye as he passes the bar, and he takes in the canvas of posters covering a noticeboard. Open-mic night every Thursday, monthly drag queen trivia, karaoke battle of the sexes, and a list of upcoming live acts. There's a band tonight doing 90s grunge covers. It starts in an hour, which seals the deal. At least if he strikes out, the night's not wasted. He can't remember the last time he saw live music. Not alone, anyway. Might be fun.
But it's the Pride sticker that gets him.
8:53 PM
By the time the opening act leaves the stage to a raucous cheer from a table near the front, Sam is…well. Honestly? He's a little miffed.
It's been almost two hours since he got here. There'd been eyes on him the moment he walked through the door. They'd been calculating eyes, the good kind–or so he'd thought. He's been in enough backwater dive bars full of good ol' boys who'd sooner pluck his teeth for trophies than entertain the possibility of a little friendly hand action to know the difference, so he knows the weight of a hostile gaze on the back of his neck. Sometimes it's in response to the sudden presence of a stranger in a close-knit community when the third little girl has gone missing in as many weeks under suspicious and inexplicable circumstances. Sometimes it's the way his t-shirt molds the sculpt of his muscles a little too well, or how the way he tucks his hair behind an ear is apparently a little too effeminate for a man of his stature.
How one is as threatening to some folk as the other is a mystery he's pretty sure won't ever be solved. Not by him, anyway, and if he wasn't used to it by now, he wouldn't still be doing the job. He knows how to bite his tongue, even if the bitter taste of gall puckers his mouth.
He'd been sure, after scoping out the crowd in the bar tonight, that the place was cool. It wasn't a gay bar–if there were any in the area, Google wasn't privy to the details, so neither was he. But he'd clocked more than one set of eyes giving him an appreciative once- or twice-over as he'd made his way to the bar earlier. He'd thought he was in for a decent chance of success.
And yet…
Look. He's not an arrogant guy. He knows he's attractive, that he's got the kind of body a lot of guys would kill to be in or be in, but he's not some kind of asshole about it. He knows he's not entitled to anything. He doesn't expect to be pulling people off his dick wherever he goes. He just…doesn't usually have to try so hard.
Which he is. He's trying.
At the start, he'd gone with his usual modus operandi for a pick-up night. He'd found an open place at the bar and forgone the stool in favor of leaning against the well-loved bar top, which sat at just about elbow height to afford him the perfect angle at which to cant his ass–just a little!–displaying it in the nicest jeans he owns. They're ones he never hunts in no matter how dire the laundry situation during a case. Even the thought of fighting off a monster in them makes him shudder. He'd probably pop a testicle, if his inseam didn't pop first.
Anyway, he's dressed nicely for the occasion. The jeans show off the legs he works hard for, and the short jacket shows off the trim waist he was gifted by genetics. He isn't an egomaniac, honestly, but usually, when he makes this kind of effort, finds a promising venue and sticks his ass out for a while, he gets some attention. Even if the attention comes from a closet case who barely works up the nerve to stammer a little awkward small-talk before getting cold feet and making an excuse to leave.
Tonight, not even that. The place isn't as packed as he would've expected a live performance to be, but he doesn't know this town; maybe this is raising the roof to them. It's still busy, tables mostly full, steady stream of traffic at the bar.
But no one's come near him, although the eyes he's felt on him all night are still there. It's frustrating, sure, but mostly it's disappointing. He'd really been hoping to blow off some steam. Looks like he'd gotten himself all worked up for nothing.
Swallowing a sigh and the last of his beer, he hooks his wallet from a too-tight pocket and starts leafing through bills. There's a sudden clamor from the rowdy table near the stage, hooting and hollering like someone's just dropped a glass, but he's keeping an eye out for the harried bartender (what kind of venue only has a single bartender working on a gig night, anyway?) so he can pay his tab and go. He's got a dildo the size of his forearm back at the motel. He'll make do.
"Finally giving up the ghost?"
A man steps up behind the next bar stool and makes a show of looking around at the bubble of empty space Sam sits in the epicenter of. It's conspicuous amid the intermission crowd swarming to refresh their drinks, and Sam's both baffled and mortified by it. He'd sniff his pits to make sure he hadn't forgotten antiperspirant before coming out, but he'd already done that an hour ago. He smells fine.
The guy tilts his head, peering facetiously under the bar's overhang for an invisible suitor.
"Looks like no one's taking the bait," he says, gesturing at Sam with the near-empty tumbler in his right hand. "I was starting to feel kind of bad for you." The corners of his mouth–which is almost pretty enough, when paired with the deep husk of his voice, to distract Sam from the douchey comment he's making–pull back into an exaggerated grimace.
Sam's eyebrows go up. Is he for real? What is this, Mean Girls?
"Thanks, that means a lot," coming from a complete stranger, Sam deadpans, keeping the second part to himself but not bothering to hide his expression as he looks back down the bar. If the bartender doesn't head this way soon, Sam might just drop the cash over the side and make a break for it.
"What can I say, I'm a bleeding heart," the guy continues, closer now.
Sam glances down and to the side, gauging the distance between them. Not only is the guy a bit of a dick, but apparently he doesn't have a concept of personal space. Hell if his jeans don't fit like a dream, though. Sam wants to tug up the hem of that red Carhartt shirt to see if his ass can cash the check his thighs are writing.
The trip Sam's eyes take back to the guy's face is a slow one, and he'd be mildly embarrassed any other night, but the guy's smirk is so obnoxious by the time he reaches it that Sam abjectly refuses.
"Bleeding heart, huh?" Sam licks his lips and watches the guy's gaze drop to them and then mimic the gesture on his own. God, that is a nice mouth. Hell, it's a nice everything. Maybe nice enough to overlook the bitchy opening comment. Sam's fucked bigger assholes (figuratively speaking). "Then I assume you're buying me a pity drink for striking out so hard?"
The guy chuckles, throwing back the last swallow of liquor in his glass. Sam watches the line of the guy's bared neck where light stubble under his jaw fades into the dip and rise of his Adam's apple.
"Well," the guy says gruffly, tumbler thudding loudly to the wooden bar top. He wags a finger at Sam, eyes crinkling at the corners with his grin. "You're no quitter, I'll give you that. Name's Dean."
"Sam."
"Nice to meet you, Sammy."
"No, just…" Sam pauses. The pang in his chest where that nickname lives usually sends an ache through his heart when he hears it these days, but this time…there's nothing. It almost hurts more for it.
"Just…?" Dean prompts, looking half-interested at best.
"Just Sam." Completing the rote response feels right, at least. He can't let himself be totally disarmed by this stranger. Not this quickly.
"Okay, Just Sam, let's drink," Dean says, laughter audible in the words if not on his face, like he thinks Sam's being adorable or pathetic, who knows.
Sam doesn't know where the tequila comes from, just that it's not there one minute, and the next there are two shot glasses and a half-full bottle waiting at their elbows. By the time he notices, distracted by the angular shadows on Dean's cheeks and nose in the lingering turn of a strobe light, the bartender is already making his way back to the other end of the bar.
"Ladies first," Dean offers, and Sam is, again, incredulous, but he pours them a round anyway. If this guy is going to take verbal shots, Sam is going to get his money's worth.
The things he puts up with to get laid. Christ, he's so shallow.
The internal groan cuts off with a snap at the sight of Dean's throat working as he knocks back the shot. It becomes a different kind of groan at the sight of those lips glistening from the sweep of a tongue.
"So. You from around here?" Dean asks, rolling a finger in circles between them.
It's an impatient gesture that makes Sam feel petty enough to take twice as long to answer. He downs his own shot steadily, licking the rim to catch any trailing drops before setting it down, and then licking his fingers where the tequila spilled over the edges. He pointedly doesn't check for a reaction from Dean, just grabs the bottle and refills his own glass and then Dean's when it appears on the bar. The tequila's not bad, at least. It's good enough that it doesn't need the salt and lime to make it palatable, thankfully, since Dean hasn't offered either.
Dean gets the point by the time Sam deigns to look at him, judging by his smirk as he meets Sam's raised shot glass in a clattering clink. They both quickly swallow the liquor, Sam's pretense put aside to bend forward, keeping the spilling drops from hitting his clothes.
In contrast, Dean drops his glass to the bar and simply wipes his wet hand on his jeans and then smears his mouth with the back of it.
The crudeness of the gesture sends the tequila's heat farther down than just Sam's stomach. He's always had a thing for rough guys. It rarely works out well for him in the long term, but he occasionally gets a good lay out of it. He's not sure yet if Dean will be one of those occasions.
"Nope," he finally remembers to answer. "Just passing through."
Dean's eyes finally light up with what looks like a genuine emotion. "Oh, goodie, my favorite," he responds, planting his left elbow on the bar and his cheek on his fist. The cheeky-little-boy grin on his face takes years off his potential age, at odds with the smirking playboy he's portrayed so far.
Which one of them is the real face, Sam wonders. He can't help the instinctive smile he reflects back at the man either way.
9:18 PM
He's feeling more forgiving by the third round, especially when the intermission ends. The main lights go down and the stage lights go up. The volume level soars around them with the crash of cymbals and the squeal of guitar strings, a cacophony against the cheers of the crowd.
Dean uses the noise as an excuse to get closer, hand on the back of Sam's bar stool and ear turned to Sam's mouth as he speaks. Sam uses the closeness as an excuse to let his lips graze the curve of Dean's ear whenever it's his turn to talk. He starts by asking if Dean's a local, since the bartender is apparently familiar with his drink preference and trusts him enough to leave the bottle.
The answer he gets is a little vague, but Sam's cool with that. Most of his own answers to the pretense of getting to know one another are vague as well. He doesn't need to know the guy's social security number to get off with him.
The small talk runs dry after a while and a few more shots. They're sharing space now, body heat, breath. The tip of Dean's nose is a whisper up the side of Sam's neck, his breath a hot gust that stirs the lock of hair fallen in front of his ear. It's not unlike being scented by a predator, and it makes Sam's insides shiver, appealing to his own animal the way a hunt does sometimes, when he has to get his hands dirty, get in the mud and the muck, wrist-deep in viscera.
Dean's hands have made themselves at home, one around Sam's back, fingers of his right hand toying with the curls under Sam's other ear. His left hand has stroked a warm patch of friction into the denim over Sam's thigh.
Sam's cock has chubbed in response, and the way these jeans fit, it's not long before the pinch becomes uncomfortable instead of stimulating.
Turning in his seat makes Dean have to tilt his hips out so Sam's knee can swing around him, but he's closer once it does, caught between Sam's legs. It's a position they're both happy to have him in, evident in the satisfied hood of Dean's eyes and the brush of his thumb back and forth over Sam's jawbone. He leans in suddenly, bringing their faces close again, and Sam thinks he's going to get kissed right then, doesn't even mind, doesn't bother looking around to make sure the coast is clear of unfriendly eyes. His heart thumps a quick patter of anticipation, breath hitching when Dean turns his head and their cheeks slide together instead, smooth skin against five o'clock shadow in a way that zings Sam's nerves.
"Open your mouth," Dean says, voice so deep and gruff that Sam feels his dick twitch in his shorts when the words register too.
"Why?" he asks, suspicion bred in through the years, even if it feels somehow difficult to summon right now. He feels Dean's cheek curve into a smirk, a grin, something against his own.
"Because I said so," Dean responds, so sure of obedience it should be off-putting. It is off-putting. It's just also hot.
Orders aren't something Sam's used to following, though–not for a few years now, anyway, not blindly, and never from a pitch so deep it resonates through the tiny bones in his ears.
"Bossy," Sam chides.
The word doesn't hold much weight when it slips out as Dean's thumb presses upward into the soft dip under his chin, coaxing Sam to tilt his head back.
Sam's eyes, heavy-lidded as they've become, stay on Dean's but offer no real resistance. The color that he still hasn't identified has been lost to a swamp of black pupils, and it makes a shiver crawl up his spine. His mouth opens, flinching closed again when something cold and hard presses to the center of his bottom lip. Jerking away, balance shot from all the…shots, he's only saved by the fist Dean suddenly clenches in his jacket, holding him in place and then pulling him back in close.
"Open your mouth. Now," Dean repeats, a command that's at odds with the playful quirk of his eyebrow and the way he shakes the tequila bottle in Sam's line of sight. It had been the pouring spout pressed to his mouth.
Despite the rattle of his heart in the cage of his ribs, his mouth opens again to an approving murmur that might be a chuckle. Dean's fingers slide into his hair and tug his head back farther before he can decide, and then the metal, the spout, is back.
"Don't swallow," is rumbled against his ear just as Sam lets his lip curve around the spout to catch the alcohol rushing into his mouth. Heat washes over his tongue to gather where he's closed up his throat, biological instinct and instinctive obedience, though he can't figure out where the instinct to please this total stranger is coming from. He wants to get laid, sure, but there's an edge to it he hasn't felt before.
The heat has built to a burn when the flow of tequila stops and the bottle moves away, hitting the bar loudly enough to hear over the clash and clamor of the band and the crowd. Dean's hand moves from his jaw to the back of his head, first angling him forward and then roughly slamming their mouths together. The force breaks the seal of Sam's lips, spilling booze between them until Dean's mouth takes up the slack, closing over Sam's and accepting the body-warmed tequila that keeps spilling.
Sam doesn't realize how stiffly he's holding his jaw, still shocked, maybe, until Dean's fingers and thumb dig into his cheeks on either side between his teeth, forcing him open and invading his mouth with a tongue that's just as assertive, aggressive as the rest of him. Sam finally swallows, managing to savor a little of the drink he'd been served, but mostly focused now on fighting his way into the kiss being laid on him. It's hard to tell over the volume of the room, but he thinks Dean's growling, a vibration he only feels through his lips, and it makes the hair stand up all over his body, goosebumps rising on the back of his neck.
A trickle of liquid trailing down the skin of his throat makes him swallow, teeth closing on Dean's cushy bottom lip. The man bites sharply in return and then pulls on Sam's hair, tipping his head back again. The gasp he lets out turns into a groan as Dean licks his way down the same path the tequila flowed, catching mouthfuls of his windpipe at a time and sucking sloppily. Sam's hands clench in the collar of Dean's shirt just to hold himself in place.
All of a sudden, there's a hand between his legs, grabbing the half-hard bulge of his cock through his jeans. His knees try to slam closed, hands grabbing at the uninvited arm, but before he can do more than choke, Dean's voice comes from behind gritted teeth, as rough as he's heard so far.
"Tell me you didn't come here to listen to these Nirvana wannabes. Tell me you came here to fuck."
Sam's spine turns to liquid and then dust. He doesn't know how he's still upright. His own hand digs up under the hem of Dean's undershirt and finds the waist of his jeans. They're looser than Sam's, and when Dean sucks in the soft curve of his belly, there's suddenly room for Sam to stuff his hand down behind the fly and grab his cock in return. It's unconstrained by anything but denim, fully hard, a bar of heat trapped against his thigh. It's big and it's uncut. Sam's heart skips with excitement and his cock pulses with it, too.
"No," he answers, distracted. Dean stiffens, hand tightening in Sam's hair and the hinge of his jaw flexing against Sam's cheek. There's too much tequila in Sam's system for him to puzzle out the body language, so he doesn't try. He's busy squirming his hand deeper to meet the sticky humidity of Dean's cockhead where it peeks out of the foreskin.
Dean hisses through his teeth, might be about to speak, but Sam beats him to it, remembering the question.
"I came here to get fucked."
His hand is torn from Dean's jeans as they fight their way to the fire exit in the back. They're not fighting the crowd; by some miracle, there's no one in their way, not that Sam could've paid attention if there was. As it is, he just barely notices the volume in the place spiking to ear-splitting levels, because they're fighting each other, to get closer, to keep moving, to find skin, to kiss and rub and breathe.
They slam through the heavy door and Dean flips them around to throw Sam against the wall. His jacket is torn open and shoved down his arms where it catches at his elbows, trapping them. He tries to shake it down, off, but Dean presses him harder to the brickwork and kisses him deeper. Sam's never been kissed like this, like his partner wants to crawl into his mouth, would pry him open with their fingers to make space, feeling his back teeth along the way. The intensity is borderline alarming, but it's making him dizzy with want, with being wanted, face hot with arousal and sweat building between his collarbones and the small of his back.
Dean's hands get impatient at his belt, yanking and only succeeding in bouncing Sam's crushed dick against his. It makes Sam laugh, that Dean put on such a big show but he's so worked up now that he's rubbing off on Sam like he just fell out of the closet and onto his first hard dick.
Sam's discomfort and humor are swallowed up by the kiss, swept out of his mouth by Dean's tongue as it licks broadly upward, dragging Sam's top lip into a curl that he then bites sharply on before releasing.
"Wanna fill me in on the joke, chuckles?"
"No," Sam burbles, trying not to laugh again. "Show me your dick."
Dean's neck arches back to show a raised eyebrow.
The attitude is funnier now that the alcohol's worked into his system, so Sam's laugh turns into a hiccup to avoid escaping. Most guys don't like being laughed at while talking about their dicks, in his experience.
"You're uncur–unscur–uncut, right? Lemme see?"
Eyes rolling at that, Dean goes back to working on Sam's belt even more roughly than before. "Relax, it fucks the same as a cut one. Jesus."
Frowning, Sam tries to reach a hand out–he knows some people are weird, even downright ugly about uncircumcised dicks, he just isn't one of them–but the jacket is still holding him tight. Shrugging his shoulders at Dean, he puts on his best puppy eyes and says, "Help–help me out of this, would you? Wanna play with your cock."
Dean snorts, unhooking the belt and popping the top button of the fly a moment later. He makes a sound of satisfaction. "Nah," he says, "I'm good."
And he is, apparently, because his hands waste no time making themselves at home on Sam's body. They climb under Sam's shirt, catching it around the wrists and hiking it up Sam's chest.
"Fuck," Sam groans as his pecs are squeezed like a generous pair of tits. "C'mon, just lemme– Hardly ever hook up with uncut guys, just let me play with it for–" His voice strangles out for a few seconds as Dean pinches roughly at his nipples, the sensation arcing through his nerves, all the way to his dick. "–for a minute! Shit! I could suck it? I'm good with my mouth. I'll show you–"
Even as Sam's last, groaning word is tapering off, Dean chuckles. One of his hands strokes leisurely down the center of Sam's torso, sparking more nerves, while the other emerges to pat condescendingly at his cheek.
"I'm sure you are, sweetheart," he says, the essence of patronizing, making Sam huff in irritation (and deflate in disappointment, if he's honest). "But you said you came here to get fucked, and I sure would hate to be the one to let you down."
Before Sam has a chance to reply, he finds himself being pulled off the wall, spun, and thrown. His stomach drops right to his toes in the split second before he lands face down over a stack of wooden pallets. His feet are still on the ground, so they can only have been a few steps down the alley, but his heart is pounding like he just fell from a rooftop. It's a sensation he's unfortunately familiar with.
He hasn't even had a chance to start blinking himself back to his senses when Dean steps up behind him.
"That's more like it."
Sam makes a half-hearted effort to stand, but it's awkward at best with his hands still caught behind his back. He's lucky he didn't crack his face open when he landed.
"Oh, don't tell me you changed your mind now," Dean says flippantly, pressing on Sam's jacket, effectively doubling the restraint. "Face down, ass up is a good look on you."
Mouth open on a half-formed lecture about how the phrase 'treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen' is some old-fashioned, abuse-apologist bullshit and Dean can feel free to join the twenty-first century any time now, he's derailed so efficiently by the press of Dean's hips to his ass that it's almost embarrassing.
'Almost' because Sam's remaining sober brain cells are swiftly overwhelmed by the sensation of Dean rocking against him in a crude but effective imitation of fucking.
At that moment, Sam hates the jeans he loves so much. For as good as they make his ass look, right now, when he can feel the stiff bar of Dean's cock–and he must have adjusted himself, because it's not hidden down against his thigh anymore, it's straight up behind his fly, and surely that can't be comfortable when he's going commando, but–rasping the central line of the seat of his pants, the problem is that he can't actually feel it. Peripherally, sure, but the denim is just stretched too tight across his cheeks. What he wants is to feel Dean's cock rubbing right up against his asshole, even if it's through two layers of denim. He hadn't worn a jockstrap just to avoid panty lines; the easy access was the other half of the point.
"Guess you're feelin' pretty at home down there too."
The husky murmur at his ear makes Sam jump and then shudder. It's not wrong. It's fucking smug as hell, but it's not wrong.
With tingling, awkward hands, Sam wrestles his jacket. He feels the sigh Dean gives, an inhale that presses his stomach to Sam's hands and then disturbs his hair in a gust of tequila breath.
"This again. If you wanna tap out, just say so."
"What, n–"
Before Sam's attempt at reassurance has even begun, his fly is open and his jeans are dragging down over his ass. His bare skin pebbles with cold as Dean puts a few inches of space between them. His laughter is a bark.
"Fuck, I sure know how to pick 'em, don't I? God, I'm good."
Sam's cheeks burn hot as a finger hooks under the waistband of his underwear, lifting it slowly to the point where it meets the leg strap. Tracing it all the way around one ass cheek, the tip of Dean's finger finds and just barely teases the edge of Sam's balls from behind where the jock's window becomes the crotch covering. It suddenly draws away and then releases, snapping the taut material. It's sensitive enough to make his eyes water, but it's the noise he makes that's mortifying, a snorting little yelp he can't swallow down. Dean laughs again, louder, and Sam's chest pangs with embarrassment.
It's not that Sam's ashamed of his sex life–far from it–or how he goes about it. He's proud of how he looks whether he's in hunter's casual or fuck-boy fancy, but this guy is rubbing him in all the wrong directions tonight. If he didn't also turn Sam on harder than a nuclear power station…
While Sam's clutching at straws for a witty comeback, Dean takes a meaty, two-handed grip of his ass cheeks that makes his tongue roll back up into his head like a cartoon idiot. Dean spreads him, exposing his hole, the chill air of the night making him gasp when it hits–
"You fucking slut."
The words are pure filth and somehow high praise. Sam's forehead hits the wooden pallet–he just can't keep up with this guy–shivering as Dean adjusts his grip to ease his thumbs through the oiled shine of lube between Sam's cheeks.
"You really were on the prowl, weren't you, tiger?"
"You talk too much," Sam mutters, to himself, he thinks, except Dean replies with an unfazed, "You think so?"
It's rhetorical, though, because one of his fingers is already pressing inside and it forces Sam's breath out to make room.
"Oh, yeah, you're good for it, huh? What did you use, fingers? Steal one of your roommate's cucumbers? Hope you washed it before you put it back, Sammy, that's awful unhygienic–"
"What the fuck, would you just shut up and–"
And what is lost to the hot little thwack of wet that lands on Sam's hole, and he's stumped for a second until he realizes Dean's just spat on him. He cringes, but the finger moves a hell of a lot easier now, as does the second that's already working in, making Sam's nerve endings sizzle and his breath stutter out in a tight moan.
"Better?"
"I have lube," Sam complains, trying to keep his voice even. Dean's fingers are thick and perfect, and his thumb is rubbing at the rim of muscle stretched around them, and it would be so much easier if he sucked at this.
"Then you should've piped up sooner."
A dig at his prostate has Sam's legs trembling. His cock's trapped in his underwear, but it's so hard it's grazing the side of the stack of pallets. Worst place ever to get a splinter, but the friction might just be worth it.
Still, he's not getting fucked on old lube and strange spit, Christ. With a final struggle at his jacket, he manages to find the pocket he needs and yanks at the zip, digging inside and grabbing a handful of loose packets. He holds the fistful out toward Dean.
"Lube. Rubber," he orders, hoping he's successfully masking the drunk and half-fucked qualities enough to show he's serious.
"Damn, seriously?" Dean sighs, and Sam sees the sour expression on that pretty face because he's turned his head to watch Dean take the offering.
"Yes, seriously," Sam says, unable to mask his disbelief. They're not high schoolers. They–or maybe just he, apparently, knows better than raw-dogging trade in a back alley because it asks nicely. Hell, it didn't even do that.
The sour look turns to petulance as Dean drops all but one of the lube sachets and a condom to the ground. It's another of those little-boy looks that hit Sam in the chest in a weird way. It's jarring against the context of the situation, and not particularly welcome.
Holding the packets together, Dean tears the corners of both simultaneously and then tucks the condom packet between his lips. When he sees Sam watching, he gives him a wink. Handsome bastard and he knows it.
The lube gets spread on his fingers, which take no time at all to find Sam's hole again. He jerks forward, grunting, when those fingers spear him again all at once. The sudden penetration sends a shiver up his spine.
Dean puffs a laugh in response, but at least he doesn't have anything smart to say this time. Sam thinks about giving him another condom to wear so the one in his mouth can continue to keep him quiet.
When Dean pulls his fingers out, Sam takes a deep breath to relax, expecting to feel him return with another finger. Instead, he hears the crinkle of the condom wrapper. He deflates a little, somehow both surprised and not surprised. Guys with big dicks usually know a decent prep makes for more fun all around, but, honestly, this tracks with the rest of Dean's behavior.
Mentally rolling his eyes, Sam just figures it's a good thing he'd prepped before coming out. Having plenty of experience taking dick helps too, obviously.
Dean grunts and Sam arches up to look over his shoulder again.
"Hate these fuckin' things," Dean mutters. He drops the foil wrapper and rolls the edge of the condom between two fingers. His eyes flick upward, and when he sees Sam watching, his lips purse. "You know how much better it feels without these, right? You really gonna make me wear it?"
It's Sam's turn to laugh, and after all the attitude he's gotten from this guy tonight, he doesn't bother masking the hint of derision in the sound. "Of course not."
Dean's eyebrows go up in what seems like genuine surprise despite having asked the question himself. "Really?"
"Yeah." Sam shrugs. "We can just jerk each other off if you want. I mean, seems like a waste after all this, but–"
Groaning, Dean curses under his breath, but Sam just smirks. He made his point. That's good enough for him.
Still, he watches as Dean shoves his unzipped jeans down his thighs one-handed. The sight of him fisting himself back to full hardness is enough to make Sam's mouth water. He doesn't know if Dean's putting on a show or if he just likes that agonizing pace, but it gives Sam a chance to watch the foreskin slowly draw back and reveal the fat, flushed head of his cock, shiny with precome in the overhead light, and then slowly swallow it back up with each stroke. He doesn't know because he can't take his eyes off it to check if Dean's watching him.
"Cock-hungry little bitch," Dean gruffs, eyes heavy-lidded, so dark, and definitely watching Sam. It's more backhanded flattery that Sam has nothing to say to.
Except, "Fuck me already," that is, even if it comes out breathy and absolutely mortifying.
They both watch intently as Dean draws his foreskin all the way back with one hand, pinches the tip of the condom with the other, and starts rolling it on.
It's a few inches down with plenty to go, and Dean's stepped closer to slap at Sam's hole with the latex-covered head of his cock when glass breaking in the alley has Sam's head whipping around. He freezes like a deer in headlights until something dark and long-tailed darts from under a dumpster against one wall at the other end of the alley to a cluster of trash cans against the other.
Heart racing, Sam drops his upper body to the pallet in relief, laughing at himself, half-giddy with booze and the spike of adrenaline. Inanely, he wonders if it was a small opossum or a big rat.
He's about to ask Dean's opinion, but his breath chokes off at the unexpected pressure of the cock breaching his hole. He jerks away in surprise, knees slamming into the pallets, arms pulling up inside his jacket, only they're still trapped. Dean catches them anyway, fisting the material where it's all tangled between Sam's wrists now. He presses it heavily against Sam's lower back, and without any real leverage, it's an effective anchor.
Despite the reaction from Sam, Dean doesn't stop, and the sounds they make are, honestly, complimentary–Dean sounds like he's in heaven, groaning and muttering half-words of praise as he pries Sam open; Sam vocalizing every exhale, deep and rough and steady as he can, but his mind is whirling. He's used to taking dick, so he can control some of the muscles making this easier, but internally, he's still all locked up in surprise. He shouldn't be surprised; not that Dean didn't ask before putting it in, and not that he isn't asking now if it's okay to keep going. He hasn't ticked a single box on the etiquette checklist all night–why start now? It's lucky Sam doesn't mind a little pain, is all.
Head bowed, he takes a deep breath and bears down. With the lube Dean at least seems to have added, it's enough to get him those last couple inches, tucked up deep in Sam's guts where he knows he's being rearranged just to take it better. It's how he likes it best, filthy little size queen that he knows himself to be.
He's still panting with the effort of staying relaxed as he adjusts when Dean gives a growl and a tight shove of his hips against Sam's ass, making him yelp and flinch away again. Dean's buried hilt deep, so there's no point to it beyond, what, making a point? Animal excitement over his little conquest? Sam couldn't begin to guess.
Either way, Dean takes a possessive grip of his ass, fingers digging deep and spreading the cheeks wide. He grinds inward, making another Neanderthal noise, and Sam's cock twitches at the stimulation of all the nerve endings in the rim of his asshole as Dean drags against it. He's panting sharply and lifting into the motion like a cat in heat by the time Dean eases up.
"Damn, that's good pussy," Dean says gruffly.
Sam can't hold in the exasperation this time, though it doesn't keep him from staying pressed to the crisp curls of Dean's pubic hair, the soft crush of his balls to Sam's taint, even through the jock, sparking little static shocks of pleasure with the grazing contact.
"Hate to break it to you, but that is not a pussy," he huffs, tossing his head in an attempt to get sweaty bangs out of his eyes.
The derision is loud and clear when Dean replies dubiously, "No?"
"No!" Sam exclaims impatiently. He just wants Dean to get on with it, but despite an attempt to start his own rhythm, Sam's caught between the pallets and Dean's implacable grip.
"You sure, though?" Dean goes on. He goes as far as to lift Sam onto the toes of his boots like he's inspecting the hole he's already got his dick buried in, shifting Sam's bottom half this way and that.
Sam's indignant disbelief comes out as a mortifyingly high-pitched gah sound. He's a big fucking guy–he may not have much body fat to spare, but he's tall and solid with muscle. He doesn't think he's ever been handled as easily as this in his life except by supernatural creatures, none of whom were ever in the middle of deep-dicking him, that's for sure.
The continued sputters don't do anything to dissuade Dean from going on to say, "'Cause I gotta tell ya, Sammy: it's wet, it's hungry for cock, and it's attached to a bitch. It sure sounds like pussy to me."
"Oh, my god," Sam finally manages to erupt. Unfortunately, it syncs to the second with Dean finally, finally withdrawing, a quick slide out and then a heavy slam back in that rocks Sam and the whole stack of pallets forward. They make a hell of a ruckus clattering back together, but Sam can only hear the echo of his own shout and all the blood rushing in his ears from how fucking good it feels. It has the effect of turning his outrage into a gurgling, cross-eyed yawp. Dean repeats the move, sinking every last fraction of an inch into Sam's belly with each unforgiving thrust of his infuriatingly perfect cock.
It robs Sam of speech then, scrambles his brain to the point that the alleyway and its unidentified rodent population, the line of pain scraping him raw from hip to hip where his shirt has ridden up, bare skin grinding into the unfinished surface of the wood–none of it quite registers. He can only focus on Dean and what Dean's body is doing to his; how good it’s making him feel, whether Dean means to or not; the way it pins him in place, hands flat to the small of his back now and holding him down, fingertips digging into the soft flesh of his waist; the way his knees bracket Sam's, cinching tighter with every adjustment of his stance or slip of Sam's feet on wet asphalt with another driving thrust. Their hips collide like they're fighting, the slap of skin on skin leaving his own tingling with the blossom of blood under the surface that he knows will be a blushing pink by the end of it.
His cock is aching to the point of pain by now. He buys underwear for guys with big dicks, but they're not designed for even bigger erections, and if the night's trend holds, he doesn't think Dean's going to be doing him the courtesy of a reach-around.
Just as he thinks he's finally going to get one of his arms free of his stupid jacket–god, he's never wearing this thing again, what was he thinking–Dean plasters his weight over Sam's back. Sam's knees buckle, catching and settling on the edge of a protruding pallet a few inches below, and Dean hikes himself even higher, hips raised and digging down. The angle's perfect. Sam sees stars. He sees the whole fucking Milky Way and it's pulsing light in time with the throb of his nuts.
"Jesus Chri–"
Dean's hand slaps over his mouth, cutting the cry off into a shocking silence and leaving Sam heaving for breath through his nose. It's hard when he's whining, too, for the continued pounding of Dean's cock right over his prostate, and trying to shake his hand off at the same time.
"Uh-uh now, wouldn't want anyone to hear us out here, would you?" Dean chides right in his ear. He's audibly breathless, like he's not so fucking above it after all, Sam's smug to note, but he's still utterly immovable, no matter how Sam tries to twist. Fingers dig into his jaw and cheekbone, not a sliver of air finding his mouth, and it shouldn't make his dick slip wetter inside his underwear, goddamn it–
"Or maybe you would," Dean chuckles, slowing his rhythm. Instead of fast and hard, he starts fucking Sam steadily with the full length of his cock. With each thrust, he pulls out until the thickest part of the head is stretching Sam wide and threatening to slip out, only to sink all the way back inside. It feels good, of course it does, but it's not enough, it's not what he wants. Sam groans petulantly behind Dean's hand, his own hands grabbing at the open shirt tails dragging against his lower back and yanking them in complaint.
Still full of dark humor, the only one in on the joke, Dean asks, "You want someone to come out here and watch you getting bitched in an alley by some asshole you just met and can barely stand?"
Sam's hackles go up again instantly. Is he really getting slut-shamed by the guy in the middle of fucking him?
"'Cause I got a lot of friends inside. I can get us an audience bigger than those punks on the stage."
God, it just keeps getting better. Rolling his eyes and ignoring the curious twitch of his brain at the thought, he shoves his fists up against Dean's belly to try to force some space between them and tries again to shake the hand off his face.
Laughing openly, Dean jams his cock in deep and makes Sam's legs shake. "Is that a yes? Just say the word, Sammy."
Apparently realizing Sam needs access to his mouth to say any actual words, Dean moves his hand. Unfortunately for him, he only moves it to hook his fingers behind Sam's lower teeth.
Now, Sam will put up with a lot to get laid. He hadn't realized quite how much until tonight. He also hadn't realized how much more he'd put up with for an especially pretty face and a skilled dick. So he's learned a lot about himself during this hook-up already. But goddamn if that stupid fucking porno move isn't one of his biggest fucking pet peeves…
He bites down. Hard.
It's a move that's gotten him a range of responses in the past from guys who have tried that shit on him. The very least of them was a yelp of pain and a 'what was that for?!' from a former bare-knuckle boxer who barely had any sensation left in his hands.
The burst of laughter it gets from Dean is the last thing he expected. He may not have the bite force of a pit bull, but he's chewed through more than one set of rope handcuffs in his life, so he knows it didn't tickle even if he didn't draw blood.
It gets him what he wanted, though: Dean's fingers out of his fucking mouth. Before he can tell Dean where to shove them, he says, "I see how it is. You wanna play rough, huh? Perfect. That's my favorite game." And then he has a fistful of the sweaty hair at the nape of Sam's neck, baring the vulnerable skin, and his teeth are buried either side of Sam's spinal column.
Sam shouts. The sound echoes around the alley and rings in his ears, followed by a series of tandem grunts and gasps as Dean goes back to trying to drill his belly button from the inside.
Scrabbling to plant his boots on the ground for just, god, an inch of stability in this tilt-a-whirl encounter, he hears himself keening in short, sharp little breaths. They fit around the growls vibrating into the back of his neck and down his spine through Dean's chest, all of it rising and falling in rhythm with the punch of Dean's hips.
It's a mind-fuck like he's never experienced before. He feels like a deer pinned under the teeth of a predator, hoping if he's placating enough, unthreatening enough, he won't get his throat ripped out. It reminds him of feeling scented by Dean in the bar earlier, the call and response of something primal inside them. It's exhilarating. And terrifying.
He's going to need a certified electrician to fix all these crossed wires later.
But if he wasn't confused enough about whether it's that that's making him lift his ass and curl his hips to feel the blunt head of Dean's cock driving hard over his prostate with every thrust– If it wasn't difficult enough to figure that out, he actually does feel like he's about to mess his fucking underwear at the expert-level way his bell's being rung behind this nothing bar in this nowhere town, draped over a pile of discarded pallets like a lost jacket.
Speaking of his jacket, he becomes aware suddenly that one of his arms has finally slipped free of its sleeve. Thank fuck for that. He reaches clumsily between his legs. His arm is stiff from his shoulder to his fingers with the way it's been caught up, and the renewed surge of blood makes it tingle. But with his ass in the air, even as he's jolted with every thrust, it's easy to stick his hand under the waistband of his underwear and tug his cock from the aching, uncomfortable position it's been pressed into along the curve of his hip. The relief of all that blood pumping hard and free again has his mouth open and his eyes screwed shut, muscles tense and shaking. When he wrings his fist over the dripping, neglected head, he thinks it might be enough to finish him off right there. He doesn't do anything to try to stop it, more than ready to get off if that's what his body wants now, but after a few more seconds, the urge subsides just enough to let him loudly fill his lungs, groaning.
Dean responds to the sound, or maybe to the added constriction around his cock, by gnawing at Sam's skin and fucking in harder still, huffing loudly through his nose. Sam regrets the jock strap then, the way it keeps his own balls tucked away, dulling the sensation of Dean's slapping against them.
He's getting close, Sam's sure of it. There's drool trailing down the side of his neck from Dean's mouth, lips pulled back in a constant snarl. Teeth threaten at one of Sam's vertebrae where it's closest to the skin, and now that he himself is on the way, the threat is just amping him higher.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he finds himself puffing, chest crushed between the pallet and Dean's solid weight. He'd love to get some spit in his hand as he jerks himself, but precome will have to do. At this point, the friction is just matching the pace of the borderline too-rough sensory input of everything else.
"C'mon, that's it, c'mon," Dean slurs half-intelligibly around the flesh in his mouth, giving it a rough shake before releasing it. He levers himself upright with a quick swing, hands going to Sam's hips where he holds them still to get in a round of thrusts that feel like being pounded with a battering ram. Sam's insides fucking quake around them.
"Dean, god," he can't help gasping, a roar of flame finally igniting in his balls, ready to spread with the right kindling.
"That's it, baby, play with that clit. Gonna squirt for me? Get us all messy?" Dean growls back. He digs his cock in deep and stays there, falling over Sam's back again. His hand tangles in Sam's hair and yanks, forcing his neck into a painful arch and forcing any comeback to the words out of his brain. Dean's mouth is on his then, crooked and messy before he has a chance to tell him to ease his grip, and then he's lost in another of those kisses that want to devour him whole.
After that, with his wrist working what it can of his throbbing cock, Dean working inside him at that angle again, that perfect angle that makes his whole pelvis hum and pulse, he finds himself whimpering into Dean's mouth more than kissing back. It doesn't seem to bother Dean, who licks at his bruised lips and bites the lower one, folded into a pout between his teeth. The heat of his breath on Sam's already overheated face is too much and he screws his eyes shut, feeling the flame catch in his belly.
His first cry is choked and half-swallowed by Dean, who tightens his grip on Sam's hair and tilts his head even deeper to kiss down into it, licking so hot and filthy at his tongue that Sam's orgasm rushes through his cock like lightning.
"Damn, your tight fucking cunt, good fucking girl," Dean snarls, fucking into the convulsing channel of Sam's hole. His thrusts are shorter and faster now, and he's so slick and hot that Sam feels dazed with it even without the come gushing over his fingers and splattering the stack of pallets in the firing line.
When Dean releases his hair suddenly, Sam's face nearly bounces off the wood under his nose. His balls are throbbing, empty, body twitching with aftershocks, muscles watery and wanting to go limp. But Dean is on the final straight, and even if he's been a douchebag all night, Sam's not going to be that asshole. He can be the bigger man, literally and figuratively.
The thought makes him hiccup a silent bubble of laughter, but Dean's forehead burying in the crook of his neck and shoulder with a plaintive moan–the neediest, sweetest sound Sam's heard all night–cuts him off.
"Yeah, come on, it's all you, big boy," Sam breathes, leaning into the continuing spasms of his hole and squeezing around Dean's cock to clutch it even tighter. Dean must be able to feel it because he grunts in the same rhythm, thrusts turning wild and sharp until he's barely pulling out, just humping artlessly against Sam.
Dean's orgasm is near silent, only the frantic rush of his breath audible as his cock throbs with each pulse of it, the phantom warmth deep inside making Sam's cheeks go hot again. Dean's chest heaves against his back, weight sinking suddenly onto him as he fucks the last waves of it into Sam, hips rolling lazily against him without ever losing skin contact.
Neither of them moves for a minute or two until Sam clears his throat, shuffling his feet. "Hey, man, let me up? Someone's bound to come out here soon."
"They won't."
The certainty in Dean's low reply reminds Sam of the offer–threat?–he'd made while they fucked, like he held some sort of sway over the people inside. It's discomforting, sets his teeth wrong. His eyes dart from the opening at the other end of the alley, where it lets out into another, to the fire door they stumbled through maybe fifteen minutes ago.
Either way, "Come on, I'm not twenty, I gotta stretch or I'll cramp." When Dean just hums, nose rubbing at the fine hairs along his hairline, behind his ear where it's ultra-sensitive, Sam drops the niceties, gritting his teeth through a shiver. "Dude, you're heavy, get up."
Dean's mouth spreads in a smile wide enough that Sam feels the pressure of hard enamel against his jugular. He can't see it, but it makes him think of a shark.
Sam's about to knock the guy off. It's one thing to be a douche–Sam never really drew a hard boundary on any of it, so he'll take his share of the blame. He was willing to put up with it for the sake of getting laid, but being outright ignored now? Fuck that.
But when Dean buries his nose behind Sam's ear and takes a deep inhale, mouth open too, Sam freezes. He doesn't know why, he just…freezes.
"Hell, you smell good," Dean sighs. His fingers flex, back on Sam's hips, biting at the protrusion of bone. "Sensed it on you the second you walked in the door." He breathes in again, groaning, and his cock twitches noticeably where it's still crammed up inside Sam by sheer determination.
Sam's blood has gone cold. His vision turns to soft focus, smearing points of light into pools, hard edges of brick into red and brown blurs. His stomach twists.
"There's something bad inside you, baby boy," Dean whispers, lips caressing the whorls of his ear. "And it ain't just me."
Teeth clenching, Sam swallows. He can't even begin to digest the implications of what Dean's saying. All he feels is an overpowering sense of dread.
Cold spreads to the surface of his body where sweat is drying on his skin. There's not going to be an afterglow here, even if that was only ever another beer with the fuck du jour if they weren't scampering off to hide their shame or lie to their wives.
"Well, Sammy, this was fun," Dean declares, the sinister note vanishing from his voice like Sam had imagined the whole thing. "I'd say we should do it again sometime, but I'm thinking that probably ain't in the cards for you and me." Chuckling, Dean roughly tussles Sam's hair and then stands. He makes a sound of satisfaction as he pulls out, and Sam shudders, toes curling in his boots. His breath hitches and his face flushes at the way his cheeks are thumbed apart then, callused pads grazing up and down either side of his hole.
"Nice. Very nice."
Something trickles warmly down his taint for just a second before it meets the crotch of his underwear and Sam clenches in shock, sucking in a breath. Every hair on his body stands on end and the roar in his skull turns to a ringing in his ears, limbs trying to curl inward like a hedgehog protecting its underbelly. Only his limbs won't obey.
"You really should be more careful playing games with monsters in the dark. You never know what kind of disease you might catch."
The words are said in that low, velvety tone again, but all Sam hears in it now is menace. Two hands palm his ass, caressing almost gently, and then there's a loud crack that has Sam's whole body flinching. It's followed by a sharp sting on his right ass cheek that turns to warmth even as he hears a belt being buckled and boots moving away.
"Seeya 'round, kid," Dean throws over his shoulder, not even bothering to look back.
Out of the corner of his eye, chest starting to rise and fall faster, Sam watches the fire exit to the bar slam open. There's no sound coming from inside. When did the band stop playing? How long were he and Dean–
And then Dean's shadowed profile steps through the doorway and Sam sees his arms rise into the air, fists up in victory.
"Fucking fantastic pussy," he declares loudly, and then the roar isn't in Sam's skull anymore, it's inside the bar as what sounds like the entire crowd from earlier loses its mind, cheering and whooping, shadowy figures lit up by roving strobes in red and blue and green as they move in to slap Dean on the shoulder and back, and hand him a new drink.
The vision cuts off as the door swings shut. The music inside kicks back on with the bass and guitars.
Sam can move again.
He can move again, like a deer released from the paralysis of a spotlight, but everything shakes as he awkwardly pushes himself upright. His body aches, bruised and battered, the muscles of his core exhausted from bracing himself on them for so long. His jacket drags his left arm down as he eases off the pallet, and he uses it to wipe the come off his hand, thinking of how it will stain. But as he moves and feels how wet his ass crack is, it's the least of his worries.
Closing his eyes, he tries to take a steady breath through his nose and then exhale, but it snags in his throat. He's never hoped so badly to discover he's just had a horrendously timed bout of incontinence.
Needing to get it over with, he digs his fingers between his cheeks and swipes at the slick fluid there.
Even as he brings his hand up to look, he knows. The viscosity is unmistakable. It's not something you can confuse with lube if you have more than a passing familiarity with it, and his nose works as well as the next person's, so he knows he didn't shit himself, for god's sake.
It's come on his hand. Opaque white, tacky when he smears it between his thumb and fingers. His face feels frozen with numbness, but his heartbeat is pounding in his chest and there's hot saliva gathering under his tongue.
Dean's come. Dean's come that should've been inside a condom, not inside him. Dean's come that should've been inside the condom that Sam told him to wear. That Sam saw him put on. That Sam… That Sam sees now on the ground next to the stack of pallets. Foil wrapper with its torn corner, and inches away, the glistening, oily latex of the rubber, unrolled no more than a few inches before being discarded.
The other end of the alley is still. No mystery rodents upending garbage to draw his attention. Not this time.
Sam's eyes feel hot and he has to swallow more than once to clear the lump there. Blinking rapidly, he wipes his right hand clean on his jacket–another stain–and then yanks it roughly off his left arm, detached from the twinge it gives his wrist as he does so. He sets it on the pallets and then reaches for the waist of his jeans before pausing. A throb of anger burns his chest, leaving his teeth grinding, jaw flexing, and his temples pounding with the start of a headache.
Refusing to think about it, he squats and bears down, pushing out anything he can of what Dean left inside him. It's the most humiliating thing he thinks he's ever done and it makes him fucking livid that he's been reduced to this, and more than that, it's stupid. He knows it is. It won't make a lick of fucking difference now. If Dean's given him something–"never know what kind of disease you might catch"–it's done, but his animal brain is telling him to get it out.
As he stands up, he pulls his jeans into place with difficulty. They're hard enough to get on when he's fully dry, let alone sticky with sweat and whatever else. His favorite jeans. The ones he's been so careful to preserve in his rough and tumble everyday life. The ones that never failed to lure a suitor. That didn't fail tonight either.
He's going to burn them the first chance he gets.
As he's zipping and buckling with clumsy fingers, he takes stock of the worst of his pains. The back of his neck is pulsing where Dean bit and held him. He'll have to make sure he didn't break the skin. The back of his right forearm is scraped raw from being pressed into the edge of the wooden pallet by his own and Dean's weight while he jerked off, and there's a line across his hips that got a similar treatment. Brushing his fingers over the abraded skin makes pain spike in various places. Splinters to pick out after all. Great.
Dropping his head, his stomach churns and his skull pounds as he stands there. His hands curl into fists and he can't look away from the bar's exit door. He wants to storm in there and break Dean's face open with his fist. He wants to know what the hell Dean was thinking, what the fuck is wrong with him, who the hell he thinks he is!
At the same time, he thinks of the audience Dean promised him. Of the riot of congratulations the man got upon returning from his conquest. Who the fuck are all of those people? Are they all as fucked up as Dean? Do they know exactly what he did?
Mortified anger churns in his stomach with fear. He's not too proud to admit that. A hunter without a healthy sense of fear doesn't last very long. You have to know how to weigh your odds. When to call for backup.
You have to know when to retreat from a fight you can't win.
One hundred against one odds aside, beating Dean to a pulp and dumping him in a sewer won't get the come out of Sam's ass. It won't undo what's already happened. It won't take back the exposure.
Choking down shame, Sam collects his jacket and walks away, shoulders hunched and goosebumps on his skin where the cool night air highlights the adrenaline sweat. He doesn't know where the cross-alley leads, but he'll climb a fire escape and break into another building before he goes back through the bar.
Anything would be better than seeing that face again.