Prompt Fill for SPN/CW RPS Free-For-All Dirty Porn Meme. Mekina asked for "object insertion + Dean" and what she got was emo-porn. Le sigh. I guess this is as sexy as I'm ever gonna get. Sorry Dean, but hurting you is like crack to me!

He doesn't recognize the man in the mirror—too many shadows, planes come hollows, eyes hard and brittle as green glass. He's nothing if not something in his father's eyes, in Sam's.

But, there is no one left to see him now.

Rise of steam from the open bathroom door, and headlights casting shadows on the far wall over his bed, blue and violet. Another seedy motel room where guests pay by the hour and the neighbors fuck like no one's listening.

Better here, like this, not having to give a shit or attempt at starting over, because Dean had paid his dues, in blood and sweat and a pound of flesh. And yet all he has are memories he can't put his arms around.

The thrum of never enough and not for anyone following him around like a stench.

And Fuck it. Fuck Dad and Sam and Cassie. Fuck normal.

He drops the towel and rethinks going out to get his kicks with whoever will have him for a night, feeling too much like a broken clock: innards unsprung, heart uncoiled, gears rusting. Can't even crack a smile to save his life. Not tonight, with Cassie's rejection still buzzing in his ears and Dad's cell phone going straight to voicemail.

But he's lying to himself if he's thinking his mood is Cassie's doing and it's nothing new with John. It's Sam his mind reaches for in the dark when he's alone.

He's rummaging through his duffel before he's even made a conscious decision to do it, finding it easily—slightly saber-shaped and heavy, wrapped up in Sam's old shirt. He grips the handle, cool to touch and made of knobbed glass that doesn't look anything like the real thing. But why should it? It's not Sam.

He doesn't bother trying to cover himself. No one to cover up for.

Corrosive laughter next door and Dean's falling to his hands and knees, crawling toward the headboard, focusing on the creak and squeak of bedsprings beneath him; the hot, wet roll of sweat and water over the rounds of his spine like a string of pearls.

He thinks of all the nights Sam left him bruised and languid: full-bellied and warm all over. And it's all it takes for him to snap to attention: color high on his cheeks and tips of his ears, dick jutting up like it's been bridled and Sam's still holding the reins.

Dean's helpless with it: sense memory. Sam's scent embedded into every fiber of his skin, no amount of soap or water can erase.

Dean's anger simmering below the surface. Too hurt to be gentle about any of it.

Maybe he deserves it too, for being so stupid. For believing in for always and giving in, pumped full of booze and Sam's pleas, until he was pushing his tongue into Sam— tasting of salt and earth, and nothing like the slick brine between a girl's thighs. Dean nervous and awed and hot for it. Dean hauling Sam back onto his face.

He won't think of what it felt like - that first time, which was also the very last time- filling Sam up and coming so hard his teeth cut through the skin of Sam's neck.

Won't.

Can't.

Not without thinking about Sam leaving too. Walking into the dawn. Not a backward glance.

Instead, it's the slip-push of Sam's fingers into the seam of his mouth, pulling it open; saliva pooled underneath Dean's tongue; Sam's paws spanning the entire width of his jaw, nails cutting into his cheeks.

Dean licks himself sloppy, tonguing the pads and nail beds of his fingers and between his knuckles. He licks until spit's running down his hand, his wrist.

He's as wide-open as he's ever going to get. Which is not at all. Sam landed a fatal blow when he left and although the blade is gone, the poison is in Dean's blood now—a thick and bitter want like a sickness.

It's not breathing. It's Sam grinding him into the mattress. It's like being underwater. It's two fingers and too much and too soon and not enough slick and too much punch.

But Dean's so eager for it just the same, on his hands and knees like a back alley slut. And Dean is all too familiar with it but not in a way anyone would think. It's shameful: dick bright red as a pomegranate- fluid like a swelling teardrop clinging to his slit.

He lowers his cheek, presses it to the rough coverlet. Face down, ass up like old times and twists and turns his wrist. A violent tug, another thrust and he breaks two at once.

It's Sam underneath him in his head: looking for all the world like a cat waiting to be fed— face sharp with quick-shifting lines and long uptilted eyes. Sam, less boy than slim blade of a man, smooth and hard all over with green shadows settling in the hollows of his cheeks.

Sam watching and forever tracking Dean with that grey-green, cracked-amber gaze; all urge and compulsion and promise. Sam's hand on Dean's breast, right over his heart, holding him steady as Dean rides him: bouncing on his hips and writhing like a biblical whore. Sam's hands spreading broad over his ribcage, his touch like warm oil.

Yeah and Fuck and Dean.

Love you like this, split open on my cock. Don't stop, don't stop, don't—

Stop.

Dean can't remember if Sam ever asked, but he's sure Sam never needed to. Not with Dean's mouth eternally framing an unspoken "yes" just for and because of Sam. If Dean had been a stronger, better man he would've walked away, brushed it all off with a joke and a wry smirk.

But Dean hadn't and he'd broken something secret and sacred between them- brother's implicit trust.

He knows that now. Knows it deep in his bones. Knows it like he knows the hollowed-out shape his brother carved for himself, deep inside Dean. Because they can't take it back or pretend it never happened. Not when Dean's legs had wrapped around Sam's waist so willingly, heels digging into the meat of Sam's ass, forceful and unrepentant.

It's the sound of a dog barking that grounds Dean to the present and the scratch of his hand sliding past his face, the side of his neck, under his shoulder to his chest to catch a nipple between his knuckles. Squeeze and push-pull and gasps into an empty room.

Empty because Dean is nonexistent: reduced to soft huffs and the deep pulse and glowing heat in his belly; the shame evident in the swivel of his hips, the bob of his dick in the musty air—angry and leaking wet stripes onto the sheets. Neglected.

Missing the feel of Sam hardening in his mouth, Dean's throat tightens on its ghost, too fat and long, but Dean's starving now as he was then, willing to take whatever Sam was willing to give up. Rooting for scraps, even if he suffocated on the velvet span of Sam's cock, softer than anything.

Dean feels around - between his split-open thighs - until his hand closes on glass and he brings it to his mouth. Closing his lips around the first knob: tasting of blankness and no one.

It's too cold and not enough, spit-slick tip stretching his rim and shoving past. Hissing, he palms his balls and rolls them with his free hand, the way Sam used to. Holding Dean close and claiming Dean's violence for his own; Dean standing on the balls of his feet - bow-legged and ankles poked out - to meet Sam's eyes straight on before licking into Sam's cotton-candy pink mouth.

With no one around there's no need to stifle his groans, to bite and grip the sheets; no worry with no father to hear Dean through paper thin walls or see him get fucked by his youngest into next week.

And loving it.

Dean always did come harder with Sam's palm over his mouth anyway.

With each bulb comes a pop, four in succession, until he's flush with the crossguard: all in and unable to fold. Carefully, he lifts off the mattress, one hand braced on the wall, legs tucked underneath and the dildo's handle held between his ankles, knees spread wide and hand following the seam of his thigh, the curve of his ass to find it's grip.

He moves slowly first: comes down and lifts up in long, lazy-Sunday strokes until he's burning up from the inside out with shame and pleasure in equal measure. He thinks of Sam's hands, gripping his flanks and holding them open, his thumbs dipping into the dimples of Dean's lower back. Guiding and setting the pace.

Love you. Want you, always. Only you. Just you, just you, just you . . . Litany of broken promises and half-truths and an unspoken only for now Dean suspected would come.

He can almost pretend the jab of his heels are the spurs of Sam's hips pumping up from underneath. He considers thrusting into his fist but he's got a rhythm going now, familiar and too unsteady.

Faster, he gasps for every breath, jouncing against his heels, his calves, and knowing with certainty he'll find bruising in the morning.

It's jarring, each skittering bulb, lighting him up, nerve endings like a starry sky, each clasp and strain of his hole a protest around the alien shape: each curve and tuck.

Thinking and wanting Sam so far up inside he'd choke on his cock. His hand making a fist against the wall, the other curled between his legs, dick flopping with every rebound as he fucks himself.

He drops his head back, all he can do to keep from bowing beneath the weight of it all.

Like that, Dean? Is this what you want? Each word nipping at his earlobe. Dad could walk in, y'know . . . he's gonna see you. He's gonna know. And maybe I want him to-

Dean tenses as he remembers trying to pull away, trying not to push back into Sam or moan or even show his face.

Fuck you, Dean spat. Not gonna happen.

He'd flipped Dean onto his back, his smile brilliant and so wide, so full of easy certainty Dean would have smiled back if he didn't feel as if his mouth were too small to project anything as remotely radiant or generous.

He can all but feel Sam's arms hooked under his, gripping his shoulders and pulling him in and speaking into the line of Dean's jaw.

I'm gonna hold you down now, and fuck you until you like it.

And Sam did, with sweat dripping onto Dean's cheek. Hot throb of Sam burning like a motherfucker and Dean determined not to grimace or show weakness or Sam would've faltered knowing he'd hurt him. It had to be brutal for Dean to atone for not refusing.

Make me, Dean said with his mouth and a full-bodied roll of his hips.

Fuck yeah-

And Dean grinds his hips down to the memory, feeling shocky, little flutters like scattering leaves in his belly.

When d'ja get such a filthy mouth, Sammy?

Sam kissed him softly; had breathed into his open mouth with hovering lips, nothing but the slip-skip of his tongue on Dean's; and the hard press of Sam fighting his way into Dean's ass like it was the first time. Rough but slow and quiet with Sam's fingers in Dean's mouth.

When I started fucking my big brother.

Dean's balls draw tight and he pants air through his nose with the effort, close-mouthed and eyes shut, knuckles scraped raw against the wall and sweat sliding into the crease of his ass, behind his knees. Heels rub at his skin and the curved arch of his feet cramp.

You know, for being so easy you're awfully resistant.

It's Sam's face he sees behind closed lids: watching him come apart with eyes rolling back and closed; delicate snarl on his lips; sharp cut of his hips bruising Dean's ass, rutting into him. And Dean wants nothing more than to see it over and over and over again.

Bare chest luminous with sweat, Dean arches back, hand leaving the wall to rest on his thigh, the other punching in and out and pulling out and out and out until tremors rack his body and he comes with a chill and a cry: frisson of desire and unease and all the cold fury of his father's disapproval.

Come-smeared and sweaty, betrayed by thought and body, he curls into himself, feeling hollow and dark and too wrung out to shower again.

So he feels around for his bowie knife and listens to white water sounds through the flimsy wall and lets his eyes shutter closed, lashes heavy on his cheeks and Sam's looming shadow. To the thrum of a distant highway, Dean falls asleep.