Title: Whatever Moves You [1/1]
Author: alakewood
Warnings: AU. Wincest.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3100+
Summary: Dean learns he likes to dance. His interest starts as a hobby and leads him down a curious path – and to Sam.
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.
oxoxo
As many things did when Dean was sixteen, it started because of a girl. Her name was Ana Sofia - "Sofie, please." - and even in the middle of a Milwaukee winter, her skin held the healthy glow of a summer tan. She lived a block away from the apartment building he and his dad and brother were staying in and he offered to walk her home after school – Sam had a geeky math club meeting or something that left Dean with an hour to kill before he was due to pick him up from the middle school.
Sofie smiled and ducked her head. "Thanks, but I've got ballet."
Dean eyed her none too subtly. "That's cool. I'll walk you there, then."
Dean's intrigued from the first moment he lays eyes on the dancers, all long lines and whipcord muscle, grace and power. By the end of the week, Dean found himself with a pair of borrowed ballet shoes and a secret, along with an offer to Sam of an extra hour or so of library time every night while Dean learned how to bend and twist his body into elegant, poetic lines years of his father's training unwittingly prepared him for. The instructor called him a natural, scheduled a couple one-on-one sessions with the small company's principle male dancer.
Sofie may have introduced Dean to the intricate world of dance, but it was Jamie that made him fall into an infatuation with it.
Four months and an entire pack of wasted werewolves later, Dean cornered Jamie in one of the larger practice rooms, crowded him up against the mirrored wall and kissed him hard. Jamie kissed back, skin sweat-damp under Dean's hands that roamed his body to feel the tight muscles that made the man move like water flowed.
An hour later, Dean was folded into the front seat of the Impala with a mark from Jamie's hot mouth blooming on his collar bone and CCR blaring through the speakers as his father drove them away from this city, this hunt, and onto the next.
oxo
When Dean was eighteen, his father sent him into a dance club in Atlanta to follow a lead on an incubus. The club was the only thing the victims all had in common and Dean was on the lower end of the age spectrum. He wasn't a hundred percent on what he was supposed to be looking for – everyone in the club was a bit more wanton and overly-sexual than they'd probably be outside the low lights and throbbing music – and he came away from the club that first night with a fascination with hip-hop music and the movements of the dancers on the floor.
He went back the next night, heavy bassline thudding harder than his heart in his chest, knocking against his lungs and thrumming through his veins. He watched the way the bodies moved, less fluid and slightly disjointed than he was used to. Abrupt and hard where ballet was delicate and soft. A different kind of grace and power. More obvious; sometimes angry.
That night he met Nikki – she taught dance classes downtown, a friend of hers had been a victim of the incubus – and he left with an address and a possible ID.
While his father had gone off to do leg work at the police station and Sam was still at school, Dean made his way down to the studio in Five Points. There was already a class going on so he sat in a chair along the wall and watched the dancers move in synch to music the likes of which he'd only ever heard at the club.
Nikki smiled at him when he caught her eye, leaned against the wall beside him as they watched the dancers tackle the choreography. "Bet I can show you moves you ain't never seen before."
"I'm looking forward to it."
Somehow, learning hip-hop was more physically demanding than ballet. Dean liked that he had to push himself, liked the way his body moved to echo the beat in a visual representation of the music more than telling a story to go along with a melody.
By the time another case beckoned, incubus corpse reduced to ash and bone, Dean could break and pop and lock with some of the students in Nikki's advanced class. He had bruises on his knees and floor-burn on his elbows, a couple more pounds of muscle and a few less of fat, and a beanie with Nikki's studio's logo stitched above the brim.
oxo
Sam leaves when Dean's twenty-two. Sam wants normal, wants to go to school, wants better, wants to get away. There's nothing Dean can do or say to stop him – isn't sure he wantsto. Sam deserves everything. Deserves more. Dean wishes he could go, too, but he knows he'll never fit in anywhere but this place his father has carved out for him in the dark, shadowed world of hunting. Sam burns too bright for this life. He deserves better.
Sam leaves and everything falls apart. The choreography's all wrong, Dean and his father stumbling over basic steps until the familiar dance of the hunt becomes this ugly, unrecognizable thing that's just graceless movement. They stagger through a couple jobs until they realize they don't move together the same way and Dean goes off on his own, too.
There's an endless string of dance clubs for Dean to follow and he loses himself in rhythm and bass, body moving to the beat as easily as breathing. He trips on E at a rave in an abandoned factory out in the middle of the boonies outside some backwater, Iowa town and really lets go. He sweats and drifts and lives in the synth-line, lets it cradle and move him. When he wakes up draped around a girl wearing a handful of glowing necklaces and a guy in a mesh shirt and eyeliner that looks so much like Sam it makes his heart ache, Dean swears off raves and heads west before he realizes he's running towards Sam.
He keeps heading west.
He sets himself up in Vegas – it seems to be a mecca for all types from the rich to the thrill seekers, to those looking for the finest entertainment to those with loose morals and questionable motives, not to mention the things that go bump in the night and prowl the darkness, stalking their prey.
Dean uses what he's learned from dance classes and clubs all over the country to make a living in Sin City. He learns how to work a pole and the stage, likes the exhibition, the attention. People are too busy looking at his face and body to pay any mind to the way his eyes track marks – incubi and succubi flock to Vegas for easy pickings, same as shifters. There's plenty to hunt in this sprawling, neon desert town.
The next logical step after the stage, dancing for the crowd, is taking it to the private back rooms. Lap dances pay better than the singles he gets when he dances out of reach. It's not his favorite part of the night, tends toward awkward when his customers ask about the scars that war against his freckles for space on his body.
The weather doesn't change much, slight fluctuations in temperature during the day as the weeks pass, nights growing colder as winter creeps up, but Dean's comfortable for the most part. Vegas doesn't see snow that covered Milwaukee like a blanket or the humidity that clung to Atlanta like an ill-fitting second skin.
Weeks become months, Dean's twenty-third birthday comes and goes with little fanfare – save a bottle of Cristal from a customer – and spring is just around the corner. It's been nearly a year since he last saw Sam. His brother's on his mind constantly as April draws to a close, every man that has the slightest resemblance to Sam catching his eye.
The Saturday after Sam's birthday, the itch to call and check up on him is slowly fading, and Dean takes the stage, opening notes of Ginuwine's "Pony" bumping through the sound system. He takes slow, measured steps to and around the pole, rolls his hips, works his body the way the crowd likes judging by the way they flock to the edge of the stage. He feels powerful like this, in control, it's a high only rivaled by that of a successful hunt.
At least until his gaze locks with a familiar hazel stare in the midst of the throng watching him dance. The way his body reacts to the heat and weight of those eyes on him is unexpected, makes his g-string fit a little tighter which, in turn, makes the fives being folded into the elastic become tens, the tens twenties.
Hazel eyes rake down his body in a slow burn as he slowly drops to the floor onto his knees, writhes and undulates, rides nothing but air. A shaking hand reaches out across the distance to tuck a twenty into the band of his g-string, warm knuckles grazing the faint, shiny scar he'd gotten during a hunt for a puca that Sam had carefully stitched up.
The music starts to wind down and Dean flicks his gaze towards the hallway off to the side of the stage. He accepts a couple more bills and picks up the ones that have fallen from his g-string before slowly walking from the stage. He doesn't have time to fully dress, just pulls on a pair of basketball shorts and a zip-up hoodie he keeps in his locker to wear around backstage during his downtime.
Sam's waiting for him in the hall, taller than Dean remembers, arms folded across his chest and his hair in his eyes. "What are you doing here?" They're not the words he imagined saying to Sam when they saw each other again, but he can't help that he's caught off guard by Sam's appearance. He hates that he sounds accusatory.
Sam's mouth quirks up in a little half-smile that warms Dean's heart to see. "What am I doing here? What are youdoing here?"
Dean hooks a thumb over his shoulder, arching a brow. "Thought that was pretty obvious."
The half-smile splits into a grin, ducking his head, a flush breaking over Sam's cheeks that Dean isn't sure is embarrassment or something else. "Yeah. A little." His eyes find Dean's again. "My roommate Brady brought me out for my birthday. He's from the area."
"And he thought to bring you here?"
Sam ducks his head again, hand rising to rub at the back of his neck. "No, not exactly. I'm here on my own. Just wanted to...see."
Dean nods, moves closer, isn't quite sure if he's interpreting the vibes Sam's sending out correctly. "Yeah?"
Biting at his lip, Sam nods, his gaze flicking back up to Dean's. "Yeah."
Dean takes a chance, licks his lips and asks, "You like what you saw?" He hopes it sounds curious and not like a come-on.
Sam blushes harder, caught. "You could say that, yeah."
"Good." Raising his hand from his side, Dean lets his fingertips graze over the denim covering Sam's hip before hooking a finger through one of his belt loops. "Well, seeing as though it was your birthday a couple of days ago..." He tugs Sam away from the wall. "Come with me."
Sam shuffles after him down the narrow hall to where the private rooms are. "Dean?"
Dean opens the door on a room that's only a little bigger than a closet, a heavily-padded chair a little off-center in the eight-by-eight space. He pushes Sam down into it. "You got a song preference?"
Sam's fingers go white where they grip his knees. "What?"
Knocking Sam's knees apart with one of his own so he can stand between them, Dean pushes Sam's overgrown bangs from his eyes, letting his touch linger. "A song preference," he repeats. "For me to dance to. For you."
Sam's mouth drops open, jaw working a couple times making him look like a fish. "The one- the one from before. That- I liked that."
Dean can't help his grin at that. "I bet." He moves to the panel in the wall where the individual room controls are and cues up "Pony" from the iPod wired to the room's sound system. The bass starts again and he turns to face Sam, dragging the zipper on his hoodie down slowly as he rolls his body. He saunters up to Sam and drops the jacket to the floor. The shorts go next and he keeps his eyes locked on Sam's face, watching the way his brother's pupils dilate as even more skin is bared to his view. He shoves his fingers through Sam's hair, a little on the rough side, but Dean's willing to bet Sam's into a couple far-from-vanilla kinks if the hiss he lets loose is any indication. "You can touch if you want, Sammy."
A sound, something like a groan tinged with the helplessness of a whimper, falls from Sam's mouth as his large hands skim up Dean's thighs to his hips as he settles over Sam's lap on his knees. His breath leaves him in a harsh exhale through his nose. "Fuck."
Dean leans back, making his abs contract in a way that highlights just how cut he is, every definition of muscle as he moves over Sam's groin. He trails a hand down his chest as he starts grinding against the press of Sam's erection that tents the fly of his jeans. Dean does just as the song says; he rides it.
Sam's grip tightens on Dean's hips, pulls him down flush against his lap as he thrusts up against Dean's bare ass. "You're gonna fucking kill me."
The song ends and Dean slides off Sam's lap. "Can't have that, can we?" He retrieves his shorts and jacket before moving back over to Sam, offering his free hand. "I'll see if I can leave early. Unless you've got other plans."
"No," Sam says hurriedly as he stands. "No other plans."
"Just wait here. I'll be right back." Dean pulls his clothes back on, gives his brother a good, long look, then heads out into the hallway and all the way down to the end where his boss' office is. He hasn't taken a day off since he started and, while there's a question in David's eyes, he just nods and tells him to be careful.
Sam's pacing the short length of the room when Dean returns minutes later, as promised, eyes darkening with lust when he turns his gaze onto Dean.
"I just have to grab some stuff from the dressing room and we can go. Come on."
Sam follows, eyes never leaving Dean even when they're surrounded by nearly-naked dancers.
Dean shoves his feet into a pair of Nikes and pulls his wallet and keys from the shelf in his locker. "My apartment's not far."
"Great." He keeps in step with Dean as they head out the back exit and into the parking lot. The Impala's a familiar sight, sleek black paint gleaming even in the dimness of the insufficient light of the few lamps. He presses Dean up against the driver's side door, bodies aligned from chests to knees. "You sure about this? I mean, reallysure."
Dean rolls his hips up slowly. "Yeah, Sam, I'm reallysure."
"Good," Sam says, dipping his head to cover Dean's mouth with his own.
Dean opens to the kiss, tastes Sam's tongue sliding against his own. "God, Sammy. Get in the car." He drives like there's a demon on his trail and leads Sam into his apartment building and up the stairs with a similar haste. He's naked seconds after his door is closed and locked, starts on Sam's clothes a breath later, leaving a trail through the small space he's called home for the past seven months.
Sam sprawls over Dean's navy blue sheets, legs splayed wide, obvious invitation. "Never thought I'd have this," he says against Dean's mouth before they clash in a desperate kiss.
"Never knew I wantedthis, not 'til I saw you tonight. Fuck, Sammy."
"Yeah," Sam breathes. "Yeah."
Dean leans up his brother's body to reach the drawer in his nightstand, feels his muscle stretch taut as his fingers close around the bottle of lube he keeps there. "I fucking missed you, Sam," he says, flicking open the lid to squeeze some of the gel onto his fingers.
"Missed you, too," Sam replies, arching up against Dean, closing his mouth over the sensitive skin beneath Dean's jaw, teeth grazing. "Didn't want to leave you, but I couldn't stay. Couldn't be what he wanted. Couldn't be like you." His hands move to cup Dean's firm ass cheeks, spread them apart for Dean's questing fingers.
Dean stretches himself open with Sam's help, lowers himself down onto Sam's cock without much more warning than a guiding hand. "Sam," he gasps, riding Sam hard, feels the press of his brother's flared cock head deep inside of him, against his prostate.
Sam flips them over, pounds into Dean with abandon. Dean gets proved right, gets firsthand experience just how rough Sam likes it. His teeth mark up Dean's chest, little bites that are followed with the swipe of tongue and gentle suction. "I'm close. Fuck, God, I'm close."
"Yeah. Come on, Sammy." He wraps his legs tighter around Sam's waist.
Sam fits a hand between their bodies, the slightest touch of his fingers setting Dean off, come streaking hot and wet over their stomachs. It's enough to send Sam spiraling over the edge. He spills into Dean without a sound, mouth open wide, bottom lip dragging along Dean's jaw.
Dean rolls until they're on their sides, Sam slipping from his body, but they stay tangled together. "Stay," Dean whispers into Sam's throat. "Don't leave again, Sammy. Stay with me."
The quiet between them stretches out, the look in Sam's eyes not giving anything away as to the reason for his hesitation. Then he nods, catches Dean's mouth in an agonizingly slow kiss that's full of passion and lust, that's full of love and promise. "I'm not going anywhere."