Work Text:
When Dean comes to pick Sam up at the police station and says, "Police brutality? Didn't think you had it in you, Zsa Zsa," Sam knows he's never going to live this one down.
"Shut it, Dean." Sam slouches in a plastic chair, handcuffs cutting into his wrists. Dean is Technicolor and larger than life against the gray, cracked wall, the buckled linoleum. His teeth flash when he turns to talk to the policeman behind the desk.
As it turns out, guy doesn't even stand a chance; Dean sweet-talks cops like he plays pool, all glitz and hidden angles, planned trajectories that look effortless until the chalk-dust settles around the cool calculation. Sam even gets an apology when he walks, rubbing handcuff welts and nodding earnestly, but he takes pleasure in needling Dean the second they're out the door.
"Hey, should've asked him to bend over a little farther so your lips could really reach his ass."
"Or I could've just left you there to rot. Jesus, can't even pull off a simple recon mission."
Sam rolls his shoulders, runs a thumb along his belt buckle.
"I was doing what you told me to."
"Well do it fucking right! I leave to get a Ho-ho and come back to a scene outta Cops. Lucky they didn't see me or we never would've cleared the station door."
"Could've got myself out."
Dean slants a look at Sam, one that says, "Yeah, right," and pulls open the car door, sliding in behind the wheel like it was made for him.
Sam hits his knees on the dashboard, his head on the lip of the door, and it's exactly the way he is with Dean; he's too large and knobby, not quite fitting in the space Dean's willing to give him.
"We have to go back," Sam mumbles.
"I know, but this time? We're blending in. You'd better practice your pucker, Sammy."
Sam doesn't want to think about what that means.
***
"So, what do we know," Dean drawls. He's sprawled shirtless on his bed in their frayed motel room, twirling a pen between his fingers. Sam can feel the blood pounding in his temples as he watches the waistband of Dean's jeans, pulled low on his abdomen. Dean is oblivious, chewing on his lip. Sam has to turn away before he says something stupid; he concentrates on his laptop.
"Four deaths in the past month, all assumed to be bear attacks. In each case, the window was punched out and the victims dragged out and mauled." Sam pauses, clicking through some articles.
"I'm thinkin' big, mean, and hairy," Dean muses. He flips the pen up in the air, catches it deftly.
"That could be anything."
"Could it?" Dean's eyes are bright and inquisitive. He scratches at his chin, stubble rasping against the pads of his fingers. "Far as I know, hydras don't travel on land. Neither do–"
Sam sighs. "You know what I mean, dick."
Dean blinks innocently. "Name's Dean, sugar."
"Fuck off."
"I wish, but I'm a modest man," Dean slides a finger down his stomach, around the button of his jeans, "Wouldn't want to gloat."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Anyway, there was one witness in another car. She describes an animal that sounds like a werewolf."
Dean blows out his cheeks, thinking. Sam stares at him, at the golden flecks of freckles on his shoulders, illuminated by the lamp.
"I don't know if we have enough info, Dean," Sam says quietly, knowing his brother wants to rush in with his blood up and guns blazing. But, to his amazement, Dean nods.
"I know. Remember what I said before? We're going under cover."
"All of these killings have been at the local make out spot," Sam reminds Dean, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. Dean watches Sam with darkened, unreadable eyes. "What am I going to do, hide in the trunk? And besides, how would you explain this 'animal' to the girl you pick up?"
"Why would I need a willing woman when I've got you?"
Sam is on his feet before he really registers what Dean's said, his hands out in a warding off gesture.
"What?!"
Dean is watching him curiously. "You seem like you might be opposed to this, Sammy."
"No shit!" Sam squeaks, embarrassed that his voice has fled back to eighth grade and the beginning stage of puberty.
Dean sits up, his brows drawing together.
"This is a job, Sam. We have to do what we have to do. It's our duty."
"Yeah, well, it is not my duty to–" Sam flaps a hand, unable to even put a name to it.
"Lock lips in the name of liberty? Fuck for freedom?"
"Oh, Jesus! We are not fucking!"
"I know, we're only going to kiss a little–"
"Stop! Would you stop!" Sam is backed into the wall by now, pushing against it for support. He's so not hearing this.
"S'matter, never heard of taking one for the team?" Dean is up and moving, his face sincere as he approaches Sam. "Look, this is the easiest, safest way. If I pick up some chick to do this and she goes to the fuzz and they see it's us… we're fucked."
Sam gapes, feels the heat waves breaking out all over his body at the thought of being at Dean's mercy in the backseat of the Impala, king of all make out vehicles. The leather would be sticky against his bare skin, sticky like Dean's lips on his throat, Dean's tongue in his mouth–
"We have to do it. It's the only way. And the job comes first, you know that."
All humor has left Dean's voice; Sam's eyes jerk from his shadowed navel, the brown wrinkle of a nipple in Dean's square, solid pectoral, to Dean's soft, fucking girly lips, lips that would look so good, so pretty wrapped around– around–
"Uh, " He hears himself say, and Dean cracks a smile, claps him on the shoulder.
"Knew you had it in you, kiddo. Now, what the hell do we need to shank this sucker."
Dean strides over to the weapons duffle, begins pulling out clips and knives and .45s, and all Sam can do is stare at the hollow of Dean's spine, the curve of his ass, and wonder what the hell he did to deserve this.
***
Once, when Sam was thirteen years old, he'd walked in on Dean looking at Playboy in the bedroom, hand rubbing lazily over his fly. When Dean looked up, his eyes were hot and his face flushed, his voice sounded deeper, the rough syllables stroking a shiver up Sam's spine.
"What d'you want, Sammy? Are you hurt?"
"No. I – I just wanted to ask…" Sam trailed off; Dean was biting his lip, hand stilled but pressing down on his groin. He saw where Sam was looking and dropped the magazine to cover his lap.
"What?"
"Nothing," Sam whispered, and left.
Later that night Sam dreamed that he hadn't run, that he'd crawled onto the bed with Dean instead, pushed aside the shiny pages of the magazine, and licked his way into Dean's mouth. And that Dean let him.
Sam woke up hard and aching, one hitch of his hips into the mattress all it took to finish, and then he was dragging his fingers through his spunk, sucking them clean and listening to Dean's slow breathing in the other bed, thinking of his glossy kisses and sharp teeth.
At breakfast the next morning he couldn't look Dean in the eye, and when his father asked Sam how he slept he stammered so much that John just smiled and told him never mind, finish your eggs. Sam did, but he'd vowed never again. Ever.
And now, this? Third base in the backseat with his brother, knowing any second they were werewolf meat? He shouldn't be looking forward to it, shouldn't be fumbling his words and trying not to make it too obvious that he was touching Dean as much as possible. Christ, Sam thought he was over that sexual ambiguity shit at thirteen, why did it choose now to pop back up? And why Dean, his own fucking brother?
Sam jerks himself off twice in the shower in the morning, and then doesn't wash his hair because he's afraid Dean's going to figure him out.
He almost pisses himself when he walks out of the bathroom to find Dean cupping his ass, examining it in the room's cloudy mirror.
"Would it help if I cross-dressed? This would look pretty damn hot in a skirt."
"Holy God," Sam says. His lips feel maybe a little bit numb.
"Good. Didn't feel like buying anything, anyway. Besides, if you close your eyes, a piece of ass is a piece of ass, right?"
"Right," Sam croaks, and then belatedly clears his throat.
"Problem?" Dean raises an eyebrow. Sam shakes his head. "Good. Thought we'd spend the day at the library, do some last minute pattern checking. I want to see if we can be anymore sure this is a werewolf and not something else; I sure as hell don't wanna be balls up with silver bullets when we need gold."
"Sounds like a good idea," Sam manages in a normal voice.
"Mine always are. Man, Sam, I thought I finished training you, and now I find you don't even know the basics!" Dean teases, the corners of his eyes wrinkling up, echoing the edges of his mouth.
"Blow me," Sam says automatically.
"Maybe later," Dean shoots back, letting his tongue flick over his lips, "If wolfy takes too long."
Sam has to remind himself several times that that shouldn't be hot before it actually sinks in, and even then he's half hard in his jeans. Dean just winks like he's had three too many and jingles his keys in his pocket.
"Let's hit it."
Sam follows without question for probably the first time in his life.
***
Sam is the one who makes Dean pull over for a drink, pushing through the swinging door of the local bar and letting the wet, sour air hit him in the face like a blast of reality. Making his way over to the bar, Sam slides onto a stool.
"Sam, this is fucking stupid. We've only got one hour 'til hunt time, and you wanna get smashed?"
Sam looks at Dean for a second, and then signals the bartender for a shot. He settles his elbows on the counter, the stool creaking under his weight.
"I really don't think–" Dean tries again, but Sam cuts him off.
"Shut the fuck up, Dean. I'm about to mack with you in the backseat. I fucking deserve this drink."
Dean gasps, "I'm insulted! You'd think I'm some kind of hag."
"Only one that's, hello, related to me. This has got to be the stupidest fucking thing you've ever come up with."
The shot comes, and Sam tosses it back, enjoying the burn of the liquor in his throat. He raises his hand for another. Dean sighs and perches on the stool next to Sam; his eyes are constantly scanning and assessing, and Sam's second shot goes down easier than the first.
"Just one more," he murmurs, and Dean's lips tighten, but he stays silent.
Sam slams the final shot glass down on the splintered wood with a small belch, blinking as the world goes pleasantly soft around the edges. He's not drunk enough to stagger, not even close, but it's dulled the shock and apprehension somewhat. He turns to Dean, blinks slowly, and feels his lips tug outwards into a cheeky grin. "Not gonna have any?"
The look on Dean's face is cracked open and confused, but only for a second. Dean rubs a hand over his mouth, and when it comes away it's like his smile is smeared on.
"Nah, I'm good. We ready?"
"Ready as I'll ever be," Sam mutters, and trails Dean out of the bar.
***
Next stop, Hawthorne Circle, lovely view of the town lights, of the stars biting holes in the night sky. The full moon and werewolf come complimentary.
Dean turns off the headlights for the last hundred or so feet, letting the Impala coast down the hill and into the packed dirt clearing at the end of Hawthorne road. They are the only car there, and Sam sees sense in that, sanity. Why would you want to risk death when all you wanted was a little action? Hey, then why–
"Why do we have to make out? There's no one here; why don't we just lie in wait for it?"
Dean jerks like Sam's pinched him, and for a moment his eyes are wild. His fingers fly up to the collar of his jacket, adjusting it, and doesn't Dean only do that when he's nervous?
"Werewolves aren't stupid, Sam. It's not gonna come if it smells silver and sees us ready for it." Dean's eyes skitter towards Sam and away. Sam suddenly remembers Dean's always been a shitty liar.
"You sure?" He asks, something niggling at the edge of his mind. Dean wouldn't – he wouldn't want–
"Positive," Dean looks relieved.
Strangely enough, Sam doesn't read anything into that. Maybe it's the shots.
"Alright, fine." Sam runs a hand around the back of his jeans, his palm fitting over the comfortable weight of the pistol tucked into his waistband, silver slugs locked and loaded. "How do you want to, um, start?"
Dean's face drops into a grin, and he immediately slides his arms out of his jacket, tosses it into the backseat.
"Thought we'd go for the old one-two."
"What? What's that mean?" Sam says, a little panicky. This is all going so friggen' fast; Dean's leaning towards him, and Sam starts to lean back until his head hits the passenger window with a thump.
"Front seat, backseat, no questions asked," Dean smirks, all confidence and heat again, his fingers skating into Sam's hair, around the bone of his skull.
"Oh, I. Oh." Sam whispers, arching into the sweet pain of Dean's teeth closing on his neck, over his jumping pulse-point. He feels Dean's lips curve smugly against his skin, before Dean bites along his jaw, trails his tongue up to Sam's ear, and breathes the word, "relax."
Sam's eyes slam shut when Dean's hand falls heavy on his thigh, fingers digging into the denim, and he wonders how they must look through the windshield; his brother leaning over, shoving him into the window with his mouth and his body, the hot pressure of lips against his cheek, and Sam can feel his skin tightening, his jeans tightening, and it's like they're one and the same, rough and tensed for Dean's touch.
Then, Dean's gone, leaving Sam's lips slack and aching for Dean's mouth, a brush of drying saliva along his chin. Sam drags his eyelids open, stares at his brother.
"One down," Dean grates out, and Sam's eyes are drawn to his brother's crotch, to the swell of his dick under his fly, and suddenly Sam's thirteen years old again and this time he's not leaving.
Dean's chest rises and falls, slowing under Sam's gaze, and Sam's the one who wrenches into action first, throwing himself awkwardly over and into the back seat, turning onto his back just in time for Dean to stagger down on top of him. A knee connects almost painfully with Sam's crotch, and his breath hitches awkwardly before he pushes up into it, into Dean.
"Ah, fuck Sammy–" Dean growls, and his hands fist in Sam's hair, mashing their mouths together as he licks his way brutally between Sam's lips, his tongue tracing Sam's teeth, sliding along Sam's own. Sam spreads his legs further, throwing an ankle over the front seat as Dean's hips fit right there, friction perfect between his thighs, against his dick; Sam is losing it, fucking losing it, whimpering breathless into the humid air inside the Impala, opening up beneath his brother like a slut, like he's starved for it, like he wants so bad he can't even think.
"I need. Dean, I need." Sam pants, stuck, his brain is stuck and he can't get past that, that he needs Dean, needs him more than just a brother and a friend; Sam needs Dean's hand against his cock, Dean's softhard lips bruising and unforgiving because this is so goddamned wrong–
And it's in that airless moment right before, seconds before, where Dean's hand is rough against his fly, inside his boxers, around his dick, where Sam is stretched to breaking, that the window above their heads pops inward with a thick cracking noise and dull-edged safety glass falls around them like snow.
Dean is alert in the time it takes to snap his head up, hips forced snug against Sam as he sits up, and Sam can't help it, he can't. His eyes roll back in his head and he comes all over his jeans, mouth open while he frantically sucks in air, his dick pulsing as Dean whips the gun out of his waistband, cocks it, and fires one, two, three silver bullets into the werewolf's snarling face. Sam feels a drop of warm blood hit his forehead, and even that isn't enough to stop his orgasm, the too-sensitive rub of his cock against sticky denim as he shakes himself apart pressed between his brother and firm Impala leather.
When Sam finally blinks the black out of his eyes, feels his heart slow down, the door is open behind his head, dripping werewolf viscera, and he can hear Dean cursing a few feet away.
"Forgot to roll the fucking window down, you piece of shit. I can't believe you busted my fucking window. Do the words "classic car" mean anything to you? Goddammit, I can't believe you hurt my baby like that, can't fucking believe it." Two more shots startle Sam, the pop pop of the pistol stark against the night. Sam figures Dean must've plugged it in the heart. The rasp of a match is next, and then the stench of burning fur and blood reaches his nostrils. "Good riddance, fucking menace to cars," Dean mutters angrily.
Sam manages to find the strength to sit up, turning so his feet are on the ground and he's watching Dean through the broken window. The fire illuminates his brother, his face savage and closed off. Sam looks away.
"Sam? You okay?" Dean's voice is closer, still hard and angry. Sam doesn't look up.
"Fine. We got it, hey?"
"Yeah. Yeah, we did."
Dean's motorcycle boots come into view, and Sam studies them. The leather is starting to separate from the sole on the left-hand shoe. Gotta fix that, buy new ones, something.
"Are you angsting?"
Sam is startled into looking up. "What?"
"Did I stutter?"
"I'm – I'm not angsting."
"Whatever, emo-kid. At least you got to come. I had to do all the dirty work, this job was like a cakewalk for you."
Sam thinks he must look a little bit like a fish.
Dean's grin is feral, reflecting the fire.
"You okay with all this?"
"You mean us? Fucking? In the backseat?"
Dean leans forward, rests an arm on the roof of the car and gets right up into Sam's personal space. "Yeah, that's what I mean. And the fact that when we get back to the motel, I'm bending you over the bed and fucking the words right outta your mouth."
Sam feels his skin go hot, his eyes widening as he looks up at Dean.
"Christ, I love it when you blush like that, Sammy," Dean leers, grinning full and lazy at his brother, before straightening up and clapping his hands together. "Right! Time to go! You wanna stay in the back, Sam? Going to be a little windy, but that tousled look's always been nice on you, sugar."
Sam stands up, a little dazed. "No. No, I'll ride in the front."
"Great," Dean says, and smacks Sam's ass before he saunters around to the driver's side, opens the door, and fits himself behind the wheel. Sam slides in on the other side.
"You know, we can't be like this all the time. I mean. Uh." Sam stops, glancing at Dean. Dean is smiling, tapping his fingers on the wheel, humming like smoking that werewolf is the best goddamned thing he's done all day. That is, until he turns, grabs Sam's chin, and kisses him so slow and sweet that Sam comes back dizzy and flustered, smiling goofily.
"I know," Dean says, letting Sam go after he runs a rough knuckle along Sam's cheekbone.
"Okay," Sam bites his lip, tries not to grin, and can't help it. It's almost like a cosmic joke; two brothers in an Impala, werewolf burning on the ground outside, and one says, "I love you," except not in as many words, and the other one says, "Okay," and isn't that just the funniest goddamned thing you ever heard?
Maybe not, but where Sam's coming from, it's enough.
END