Author's Note: Post-ep for 8x13, 'Everybody Hates Hitler'. No spoilers. Title taken from 'Torture' by Joan Jett, because it's about accidental BDSM, and that's basically what happens every time I write Wincest. Written for Bring Back the Porn over on InsaneJournal. You should all go check it out.

Dean looked into the glass of whiskey, then across the table at Sam.

"Come on, Sammy! Your own personal nerd squad can do without you for a night."

"Dean, we should finish this," he argued. "Every time we take a break, something goes wrong, and we need this."

It was a good argument, he had to admit. And true. But the whiskey was warm in his throat, and loud in his head, and the music echoed in the empty bunker. For once, they'd had a win without a loss, and goddammit, they deserved this. They deserved a lot more than this, actually, but this was all they got. Dean would be damned if he wasn't going to relish every minute until the next case, the next call, the next cock-up that set them at each other's throats.

So Sam's nerd-ass filing system could wait. "Did I ever teach you how to dance?" Sam's totally unimpressed face told him no. "Well it ain't too late to learn."

He leapt across the table and stalked towards Sam, who slowly started to shake his head. "No, Dean. No, no, no." It was the kind of no that had always ended with them doing whatever Dean wanted regardless. So about that haunted house in Missouri...; Cas suggested...; That girl at the bar... And they had exorcised the bajeesus out of that haunted house; Cas had been wrong; and Sam had still never lived down asking a hooker out on a dinner date.

Dean picked up the full tumbler and wiggled it in front of Sam's cranky face. He took it anyway, just like he always did. The song ended, and the silence was filled by a loud gulp and a cough when Dean's hand collided with Sam's back just as he swallowed. Dean barely noticed, even though Sam's eyes were watering from the whiskey.

The next song started with a rolling drum solo and Dean yanked Sam up so hard it hurt his arm. They collided heavily and Sam almost lost his footing. "See, and you're too drunk to do... whatever - " Dean waved his arm back towards the table " - whatever that is, anyway."

"Me? Dean you're always drunk," he paused thoughtfully and Dean prepared himself for a sting, but instead Sam just grinned. "Or are you never drunk? Can you even get drunk?"

"You know what? Fuck you," he countered, but there was no heat in it. Sam wasn't angry, and they were long past having this conversation anyway. Not that they ever really did. But the truth was that in the past few weeks, since Henry - their grandfather, he reminded himself - he hadn't been drinking so much. A few beers - a lot of beers, really - but most guys drank a lot of beer.

Tonight he'd realised that he hadn't had a proper drink in weeks. And hell, this was the first time he'd had a drink to celebrate in a long, long time. And so yeah, yeah he was a little drunk, and for the first time in forever he was actually happy about it.

He manhandled Sam's ridiculous limbs into position, and after not-so-accidentally stepping on each other's toes a few times, Dean started to move in time to the music. Sort of. Suddenly Sam's arms were folded across his chest and there was a foot of space between them. He was frowning.

"Why do you get to lead?" he asked, pursing his lips. And that's what this bitch fit was about? What a fucking nerd.

"Because I'm the teacher, remember?" He mimicked Sam's pose, arms crossed, feet spread. The stance they used to intimidate witnesses. It clearly had no effect on either of them, because Sam pulled a face that Dean might call sassy if he didn't know any better.

"I already know how to dance, Dean." That was a good point. The vinyl crackled between songs.

"Well, then I'm the oldest." He was pretty pleased with that one.

"Yeah, well I'm the biggest."

Dean smirked and flicked his eyes over Sam's body. "Not all of you."

Sam looked confused for a second, then angry – it was kind of a sore point, although Dean suspected that that was only because he brought it up as often as possible.

"Fine," Sam huffed. Dean chuckled gleefully, the way he did before a big meal. As if cued, the next song started - a high trill on a saxophone.

His little brother's hands fit around his easily. They were callouses and broken bones, and the scar that ran across Sam's left palm.

"I hate you," Sam said, no heat in his voice.

"Nobody hates me," Dean answered automatically, and looked up to see Sam staring at him skeptically. Dean just glared back. Sam smirked like the little shit he was, and trod deliberately on Dean's foot.

"Oops."

Dean briefly considered going for the sword on the bookshelf. Instead, he yanked Sam closer, off-balance. "You suck at dancing."

"You suck at leading," Sam argued, and probably he had a point. Not that Dean would ever admit that.

"Fuck you," he countered, and the look on Sam's face made him regret it instantly. So did the growing boner in his jeans.

Sam grabbed the hand Dean had around his waist, and pinned his hands together behind his back, bringing their faces within inches of each other. Sam's apparently hard cock pressed against his hip. Dean stood a little taller. It was supposed to be to stare Sam down, but it just pushed their cocks together and brought Sam's face closer to his own. Leaning down, Sam bit his bottom lip and Dean tried not to groan. Sam smirked against his mouth, though, so he probably failed. Sam's hands left his own, and he reached down to pull Dean's overshirt over his head. The tee shirt underneath went with it half way, and while Dean's face was covered, Sam bit his nipples, licked around them. Dean yelped in surprise, and was happy that the shirt was still over his face when he flushed, embarrassed. Sam chuckled against his chest, giving one final flick of his tingue, before pulling the tee back down, and the shirt the rest of the way off. He left it handing from Dean's wrists, and held them again when Dean tried to remove it.

So that's how it was going to be.

When Sam finally kissed him, it was rough and purposeful, and almost before it began, Dean was face-down against the table. Sam pressed against him once, before disappearing. Dean turned just far enough to see Sam rustling through the first-aid kit. Always-fucking-prepared-Sam and it was a mystery how Sam kept things hidden in a first aid kit that they used more often than they ate a meal. But Dean didn't really care all that much because his lube was probably lost somewhere under his dirty underwear, or the front seat of the Impala.

Before he could mention any of this to Sam, his cheek was pressed into the polished wood of the table, and a bottle of lube and half a dozen condoms were tossed in front of him. When he laughed, his breath condensed on the varnish and quickly disappeared. He'd known Sam had wanted to dance.

Long fingers tangled in his hair. He felt Sam's erection against his ass, felt his own against the elastic of his underwear and the seam of his jeans. Sam pulled his hair gently and Dean arched into it. The whiskey and music and his racing heart made his head fuzzy with sound. He thought Sam said something – he always fucking did – but he didn't hear it.

Giving one last yank, Sam released his head, hands traveling down his back, taking the overshirt with them. He left it half way down Dean's forearms, twisting just enough to pull his hands together behind his back. It wasn't enough to actually restrain him, but it was enough to make a point. It was enough to make his cock press uncomfortably against his jeans.

Then Sam's weight was gone, Dean's jeans were half way down his thighs, and then Sam was back. His forearms pressed against Dean's thighs, fingers curled into his hips and ass with just enough fingernail to make Dean shiver. Clearly Sam wasn't into teasing tonight, because he ran a thumb gently down between his cheeks, just enough to make him jump, and suddenly he was being fucked by Sam's tongue.

He and Sam were years past elegance or eloquence or embarrassment. Dean's grunt turned into a moan, as deep in his throat as Sam was in his ass. Dean pushed back, and the slap Sam landed on his ass was not entirely playful. Dean hid his grin against the table.

Apparently satisfied, Sam pulled back, pushed a finger into him before he had the chance to complain about it. Dean pulled hard against his restraints, trying not to thrust into the table in front of him. He groaned when Sam pulled down, stretching him and pressing into his prostate; tensed in anticipation when he heard the lube cap open. Sam's finger disappeared, replaced with cold pressure, and then two fingers slid into him. His back arched, and he heard threads of his shirt snap under the pressure. Sam artfully avoided his prostate as he thrust his fingers into him, curled them up, instead.

Dean swore at him, and Sam smacked his ass again, harder, but he pulled his fingers out and Dean heard the condom packet open. Dean tried not to laugh too obviously – Sam always thought he was so in-charge, but really, he still did whatever Dean wanted him to in the end.

He felt Sam's eyes on his face as he entered him. His own mouth fell open, he could feel his breath misting on the table. Sam made a noise of approval before he pulled out and thrust in a little deeper. He remained like that, probably as some kind of sick punishment, thrusting slowly, just the head, then pulling out again. Sam gripped the shirt around Dean's wrists roughly, pushing his hand up into the middle of his back. When he still didn't move any faster, Dean almost growled, and Sam almost lost his rhythm. Instead, he held onto the shirt around Dean's hands tighter, his other hand pushed between his shoulder blades.

Sam had apparently decided that Dean had done his penance, then, and thrust in fully. Dean didn't bother trying to stay silent. Anything he said would be drowned out by the music, anyway, and Sam's groans were getting louder, shorter in time with his hips. Dean pushed himself down harder against the table, spread his legs as far as the jeans around his thighs would let him. Every few thrusts, his cock brushed against the hard table, and he hoped to god that Sam was in a generous mood.

The record finished, the crackling vinyl filling the spaced between shouts and pants. Dean thought he grunted, "Fuck me," into the table, because Sam made a desperate noise and thrust into him twice as hard, and the hand that came down on his ass made his whole body shake. It gave him a chance to shake a hand free, moving it just slowly enough that Sam could stop him if he wanted to. He didn't, instead settling for pushing his other hand further up his back. His freed arm ached from the change in position, his other arm twinged under Sam's grip, and it felt incredible. Not nearly as incredible as his hand felt wrapped around his cock, though, and he had to still to stop himself from coming too soon.

Sam moved the hand between his shoulders to the crook of his neck, pulling him back against him, onto him, and Dean arched into it. He stroked himself cautiously, pulling his hand away almost immediately.

"Sammy." He wasn't sure if it was a warning or a question, but either way, he wanted to come right this goddamn second, and Sam hadn't said yes, yet, the dick. He knew Dean would wait. "Tell me," he insisted, because he would wait but he'd be damned if he were going to ask.

Sam sounded like he might say no, but Dean leaned back into his thrusts with added enthusiasm and instead he grunted, "Come."

Dean's hand wrapped around his cock before he'd even registered what Sam had said. Sam's thrusts evened out a little, just enough to give him a rhythm, just enough to hit his prostate every time, and Dean came, his shout drowning out the vinyl completely. Sam thrust into him slowly, deliberately, until Dean stopped shaking. He stilled for a few seconds, then Dean said, "It thought I told you to fuck me."

Sam's growl was the hottest thing he'd ever heard. He grabbed Dean's come-covered hand and yanked it back, holding his wrists in one hand, and his hair in the other as he did jut that. Sam came with a yell louder than Dean's. Dean snickered, and Sam somehow mustered the energy to land a final smack to his ass as he pulled out.

"I hate you," Dean panted finally.

"No, you don't," Sam answered automatically, still breathless. Dean stayed silent for a few seconds, panted a laugh. He didn't look at Sam, didn't move, and cursed himself for not being able to lie.

"No, I don't." He heard Sam laugh behind him, and added for good measure, "Dick."