A/N: My apologies for having taken so long to finish this scene. It proved oddly challenging to write and other commitments got in the way, but I hope now it's finished you'll feel it was worth the wait. This follows directly on from the previous action so, if you have time, please re-read the last update before you continue. It'll help to recreate the atmosphere, and there's an important reference back at the end of the scene. Hope you enjoy the scene :)

Opening the blinds had been a pointless exercise really: they only had to close them again. And Dean took his boots and socks off, just to be kind of on a level with Sam who was still in just his boxers and jeans. That still left Dean over dressed by a t-shirt and over-shirt but that was kind of the point: so Sam had something to "unwrap". He was oddly nervous about the responsibility, like he might somehow mess up the complex task of removing a shirt, but it seems Dean had plans for that as well.

"Let's slow the mood down a little," he said, moving over to the laptop and starting to search through his vast range of play-lists.

Sam suppressed a smile. "You want to go slow? Really?" he asked, feigning surprise. He wondered if Dean had ever, in the heat of passion, just ripped off his clothes and gone for it . . . and then he decided he really didn't want to know the answer to that question.

Dean quickly found what he was looking for and as he sauntered back toward Sam he reproved him with an arch of his eyebrows. "Trust me," he insisted, "there are some things you don't want to rush." Taking Sam's hands in his, he laid them on his stomach and moved them slowly upward, holding them between the warmth of his palms and the heat radiating through the thin material of the tee, giving them time to feel every line and contour, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the solid thump of his heartbeat, letting them rest there while his eyes held Sam's: wide, dark and inviting.

Sam swallowed. Point made.

He realized he could hear the music of a new track playing quietly . . . if "music" was what you would call it . . . just a steady percussive rhythm playing over and over, and one low continuous note on some kind of woodwind instrument – a didgeridoo? It had a quality of tribal music: a deep, rich sound, vibrant and earthy . . . kind of like Dean . . .

Sam lifted his palms up and over the curve of Dean's shoulders and pushed the over-shirt along with them until it slid down his arms to the floor. His body was swaying under Sam's hands, just slightly, and there was a suggestion of movement in his muscles, a subtle tightening and relaxing in time with the rhythm. Sam could feel it as his fingers traced back down to Dean's waist and slipped under the t-shirt where warm flesh quivered under his touch.

The music was gaining texture now, more percussion, swishing sounds, a steady tap on a wooden block, maybe there was even a bass guitar in there strumming out the rhythm, but there was no sign of a melody, just the continuously suggestive beat and that long tremulous, rumbling note. Something about that sound was stirring things deep inside Sam, and his jeans were starting to feel tight and constricting. He ruched up the t-shirt and began pushing it up Dean's body, watching the stretch of his muscles when he lifted his arms, and breathing a little quickly, he realized. The room seemed to be getting oddly warm. There was a feeling of tension in the air, of waiting for something to happen; he might have finished pulling off the t-shirt more quickly than he'd intended.

And then he would have pulled Dean into his arms but Dean had other ideas. Placing his hands firmly on Sam's hips, he guided him backwards, still with that slight back and forth sway to his movements. It off-balanced Sam a little and when the edge of the bed butted into the backs of his legs he dropped down onto the mattress with a bump that drove a small gust of breath from his lips. Dean followed him down, parting his thighs to straddle Sam's legs and dropping his knees onto the mattress either side of Sam's hips, and suddenly his threats about lap dances rushed back into Sam's head.

"Oh, no, Dean, wait!" Sam objected. "I didn't think you'd seriously – "

"Hell, I'm serious!" Dean interrupted. "I researched this."

"Researched how?" Sam demanded, before he could stop himself.

For a brief moment Dean actually looked embarrassed. "Tutorials on youtube," he confessed with an awkward shrug, and just a hint of a blush gracing his cheeks.

Sam laughed, relieved, and not to mention surprised that Dean had needed to consult youtube for advice on lap-dancing.

"Adapted to my own inimitable style," Dean insisted, emphasizing the point with a disturbingly voluptuous roll of his body.

Sam was caught between embarrassment and curiosity and, if he was honest, growing arousal. The way Dean's body moved, the play of his muscles in time to the music was . . . Sam sucked in a quick breath and chuckled. "Well, since you've gone to so much trouble . . ."

Dean rolled his shoulders from side to side as he leaned close to Sam. "Anything for the birthday boy," he murmured, breathing warm over Sam's ear. Then he lifted Sam's hands once more and ran them leisurely up his legs and over the curve of his hips, leaving them resting suggestively at the belt buckle while his own hands continued up Sam's arms and draped themselves over his shoulders. A new element entered the music: brass instruments breathing just isolated notes here and there . . . the same note. Still no tune. The music was all suggestion and promise, wait and anticipation. There was a continual sense of forward momentum but no clear direction, nothing you could get a solid grip on; all you could do was trust that eventually it would get somewhere . . .

Sam could see why Dean would like it . . .

The rock of Dean's hips, the press of his arms against Sam's shoulders, had Sam's body swaying with him. Sam exhaled a tiny shivering breath and his dick swelled against the unyielding denim of his jeans. He was starting to sweat and he noticed Dean's flesh had a slight sheen to it, too, and when he looked up he found Dean staring back down at him, eyes blown wide and dark: he was feeling it, too.

With trembling fingers Sam unbuckled Dean's belt and drew down the zipper on his jeans. His breath caught when he got his first glimpse of the bulge that was stretching the snug material of Dean's under-shorts. As he peeled back the denim he couldn't resist trailing his thumb over that warm mound, and he smiled when he heard a responsive hitch in Dean's breath.

"Naughty," Dean admonished, chuckling quietly. "You have to finish unwrapping your present before you can play with it."

Sam grinned and obediently finished drawing Dean's pants down his smooth, taut thighs. When they were down as far as they could go Dean swung his body back and straightened up. The jeans dropped to the floor, pooling around his ankles, and he stepped out of them, unhurriedly, one leg at a time, then kicked them off to the side out of the way. It was a cheesy stripper move and Sam hovered on the border of laughing, but Dean kind of carried it off . . . and it kind of turned Sam on . . .

There was a transition in the music, the beat got heavier, harder, like a slow hand clap; Dean bent his knees and dropped his hips into the downbeat, raised and dropped again – up, down, up, down – and Sam watched with rapt fascination as his body moved, thigh muscles rippling, abs tightening, biceps flexed, arms, shoulders, all a subtle expression of the rhythm. Sam was reminded of something . . .

"Is that . . . a haka move?" he asked.

Dean pursed his lips as he rose and dropped, rose and dropped, a little closer to Sam each time. "There might be some Maori warrior influence," he acknowledged.

"With didgeridoo music?" Sam queried.

Dean looked blank for moment, then irked. With a sudden forward motion he slid his knees across the bed cover, snapping his hips into Sam's, and Sam gasped and moaned a little as he felt Dean's crotch warm and snug against his.

"Don't diss my cross-cultural moves," Dean growled into Sam's ear, nuzzling the sensitive flesh behind it with the tip of his nose until Sam was shivering from warm chills skittering over his shoulders and down his spine.

Dean sat up and started working his hips right in front of Sam, dropping until he was almost – but not quite – sitting on Sam's knees, and rocking forward until he was almost – but not quite – thrusting into Sam's face. As he moved he was running Sam's hands up and down the warm, slightly sweat slick flesh of his thighs: up the outside, around and over the warm curves of his butt as he raised his hips, back down to his knees as he dropped then back up the insides, over the smooth, rippling arch of muscle, up to his hips and almost – Jesus! Sam's fingers itched to grab at Dean's shorts, pull them down, and Jesus fuck he wanted out of his own jeans, needed out of them right the fuck now!

Dean must have read his mind. His hands stroked up Sam's arms to his shoulders once more, rocking him in time with the sway of his own body and filling his head with thoughts of things that all required his pants off, then Dean gave him a little push and he was falling backwards onto his back, and he felt Dean's fingers at the waistband of his jeans, popping the button.

"Oh, yeah!" he gasped. "Oh, fuck, yeah!" He pushed his hips up into Dean's hands, felt warm fingers against his crotch and heard the metallic rasp of the zip being drawn down. "Gguuuuuuhhhhhrrrrrrrr!" he moaned as the material of his jeans gave and parted and he felt blessedly free from their constraint. Dean slid his hands under the denim, over Sam's hips and under his ass, and Sam's back instinctively arched up. Cool refreshing air washed his thighs as Dean tugged, the jeans came off in one fluid pull and Sam heard a clink and thud as they hit a wall somewhere over the other side of the room. Then Dean was kind of crawling up his body, deliberate, panther like, and he was hovering over Sam with a big cocky grin on his face . . . and Sam couldn't just let that go . . .

"I thought I was supposed to be unwrapping you," he pointed out.

If anything, Dean's grin broadened. "Oh, my bad, Sam. That wasn't what you wanted?" His body undulated over Sam's and, just barely, the warm bulge of his shorts grazed the tented front of Sam's boxers, sending a sharp flaring thrill of pleasure and excitement through Sam's groin. "You want me to put them back on again for you?" he enquired

"Gguuuuuuuuhhsh-sh-shuttup!" Sam gasped, and to emphasize the point he grabbed Dean's head and stopped his mouth with his own. Dean played along, at first, rolling his lips over Sam's and suckling his tongue while his body continued to ripple sinuously above him, teasing him with an occasional brush of his hips until Sam was oak-hard and aching, and whimpering into Dean's mouth. But then Dean pulled away, sat back on his haunches and his hips were rocking backwards and forwards, up and down, and with each downbeat his body dropped and his crotch bumped lightly down on Sam's, briefly riding the length of his dick before rising up again.

"Jesus, Dean!" Sam gasped breathlessly, humping up and chasing Dean's body with his but, somehow, Dean managed to stay maddeningly out of reach. He made a grab for Dean's hips and tried to push him down but Dean swatted his hands away.

"Don't you know you're not supposed to touch unless you're invited, Sam?" Dean taunted, smiling. "It's against the rules."

"Fuck the rules!" Sam growled, and then he realized he was holding an ace he could play . . . in fact, it was an even better card than an ace. "My birthday, my rules," he insisted.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Oh, yeah?" he challenged.

Sam grinned. "Yeah," he retorted, grabbing Dean's hips again, then he humped up and rolled, taking Dean with him and pinning him on his back on the mattress. Dean gasped and his eyes widened but only momentarily. Sam waited, gave him space to adjust, and then he relaxed and grinned back at Sam.

"Well, since it's your birthday," he acknowledged with a nonchalant shrug, then his thighs embraced Sam's hips and he began moving beneath him, still in time with that friggin' rhythm, but damned if Sam wasn't moving to it, too. It was kind of impossible not to and, besides, it felt good: the slow steady bump and grind of their bodies and some solid friction at last. So good. Dean thought so, too, he could tell. Each thrust from Sam drew gasps and grunts from his lips, and Sam met them with his own breathy sighs and moans. Their mouths sought each other once more; lips, tongues, melting together, and Sam swam in the dizzying taste and scent of Dean, cradling his head, fingers tangling in his hair, and he could feel Dean's warm hands sliding down his back and over the curve of his hips, fingers gathering up the back of his boxers and burying themselves in the flesh of his butt. And – oh, thank God – the music felt like it was getting somewhere at last, sounded like it was actually trying to break into a tune or at least a refrain, just a couple of notes really, playing back and forth, but there was something growing.

Their breath sounded loud, coming out in hard staccato bursts as they rocked together. Dean's fingers were wrapped up in Sam's boxers, pulling and rolling until they were just a tangled rope around Sam's hips. He lifted up and Dean pushed them down his thighs, and then there was just the one thin layer of Dean's shorts separating their flesh as they slid and pressed against one another. Sam gasped and moaned into Dean's mouth, feeling his heat, his hardness, moving beneath him, and felt the sound returned to him as a growl, a low rumble that reverberated in Sam's chest.

They broke for air and Sam was staring down into Dean's eyes staring large and liquid back up at him, his plump lips parted and huffing broken gusts of air with each thrust of Sam's hips. Gradually his head rocked back and his eyes flickered half closed and a hungry groan escaped his mouth that Sam felt thrill though every part of his own body.

"U – uhh . . . Sam . . ." Dean gasped, and he rolled his hips, lifted his knees and folded his legs over Sam's back, and now Sam was moving with his shaft pressed against the so, so hot flesh of Dean's ass. Sam was moaning from the friction, the delicious ache of it, and he could hear Dean's voice crooning next to his ear.

Another shift and – God! – Sam could feel the puckering rose of Dean's flesh pressing hot against the tight, sensitive head of his dick, and only the thin elastic material of the shorts preventing him from – fuck! The tone of their mingled groans shifted, climbed the scale, turned urgent. The shudder, the rock of Sam's hips was all but automatic as he mimed fuck movements against Dean's body and his skin flushed hot with visions of being inside Dean, feeling Dean's heat, tight and quivering around him . . .

It was too much – too much – Sam broke away, in defiance of Dean's whimpered protests and the heavy aching weight leaping and quivering between his own thighs. He rested his head on Dean's chest, trying to regain control of his panting breath, feeling the rapid rise and fall of the rib cage and the rapid thump-thump-thump of the heart beneath his forehead. Dean's eager, encouraging thrusts beneath him weren't helping him to focus, but he was afraid of being consumed by feelings that could push them both into something neither of them were ready for. He moved lower instead, and Dean's breath gusted out a little faster, a little harder, as Sam's head coasted down his body until his lips brushed the trembling flesh just above the waistline of his shorts. The rhythm of his body movements acquired a kind of excited stutter and his whimpers became snuffles of excitement and anticipation.

When Sam moved to the front of Dean's shorts and started running his tongue over the outline of his dick, he sensed from the accompanying moans that Dean's upward thrusts were no longer voluntary. As he licked and sucked, Sam could taste the salty flavor of Dean's juices leaking through, and he found himself rubbing his head and face over the warm mound, drinking in the earthy smell of clean sweat and sex. He started nipping and nibbling softly, just tracing the edges of his teeth over the twitching, straining column . . . and then Dean just kind of lost it a little.

"Nnnnuuuhhhh! S-Sam!" he stammered. "Fuck – nngg – gguuh – take 'em off – ahh – fuck . . . take – Sam – t-take them off!"

Sam looked up, breath caught in his chest, excited and exhilarated and heart thumping at the sight of Dean, eyes heavy-lidded, jaw slack, and panting through loose, parted lips. His fingers shook a little as they curled around the waistband of the shorts and he peeled them down. Dean actually whined as his dick was released, a tiny needy sound that made Sam's flesh buzz and his insides flutter. Dean reached for Sam's head and his fingers curled into Sam's hair, not pulling or pushing, but just coaxing, urging Sam toward him.

"Mmm – Sam . . ." His hips shivered and bucked upward. "S- Sam . . ." he gasped.

Sam's lips curled close to the quivering shaft; it leapt and strained as if it was seeking for him. He took it in hand, stilled it, held it, and he glanced up into Dean's eager eyes and licked his lips before dropping his head, opening his mouth and sinking down slow, long and smooth. Dean let out a cry that began a whole octave higher than his natural voice, ululated down the scale and ended low, low, guttural and raw. It resonated through Sam's body, made him shudder, made him want more. He played his lips and tongue up and down Dean's length, licking and sucking until Dean was keening and writhing beneath him.

Sam was half conscious of music rising, swelling in the background as Dean suddenly rolled and swept Sam over onto his side, fumbling at his boxers and dragging them the rest of the way down his legs, over his ankles and off. He lifted his knees and finished kicking his own shorts off as well, then scooted down the bed, lifted and wrapped his fingers around Sam's swollen, aching dick. It was Sam's turn to gasp and pant now, and to watch as Dean's tongue swept wetly over his lips, watch those lush, glossy pads part and watch, for as long as he could, their slow roll over his waiting shivering flesh before his vision melted into white blur and dark blotches and he sank into the moist heat of Dean's mouth.

He felt rather than saw Dean move, twisting around, inverting himself on the bed until Sam became aware of the heat of his body close to his face, then the familiar earthy scent, the brush of smooth taut flesh against his mouth leaving a slick, salty tasting trail across his lips. Sam's eyes snapped open momentarily then closed again as he reached for Dean, opened for him, swallowed him down, and he shuddered as the glide of Dean's flesh in his mouth was accompanied by a moan from Dean that hummed through Sam's body until Sam was moaning in harmony with him. And Dean's hands were warm all over him, fondling his balls, curling and sliding up and down his shaft. And Dean's mouth – God! So hot, so wet – his lips: so soft – his tongue: languid, busy tongue, doing things; thrilling, aching, dizzying things.

Sam's free hand threaded between Dean's legs and Dean quickly spread his thighs open for him, inviting his touch, and as his fingers traced over the sensitive flesh behind Dean's balls he felt the long arching shudder of Dean's body, and the thrill of his responsive groan buzzing through his own flesh. There was something pleading in that sound. Dean's thrusts were urgent in his mouth, hips pushing, angling forward; thighs splayed wide apart and trembling. A series of tiny noises communicated he wanted something from Sam:

"m – m – m – m – mhamm – m – mha-ammm . . ."

Sam trailed a tentative, exploring finger back from Dean's balls until he felt the crinkled rose of flesh under his touch and Dean bucked like he'd sent an electric charge through his body.

"MMMMMMMMMM!"

Dean's growl reverberated through his flesh and then he was pumping his mouth feverishly up and down Sam's shaft until Sam was blind with pleasure and it was a reflexive, instinctive thing when he curled his finger and pushed, dipped it into the puckering heat of Dean's body, just the tip, but it was enough. Dean bucked again, gasped, Sam felt his balls draw up, tighten, felt Dean full and hard and pulsing in his mouth, tasted him over his tongue and in the back of his throat, and a moment later the answering throb in his own groin, pumping into Dean as a hot stretching tingling tremor thrummed along the length of his body. Somewhere in the midst of it he felt Dean's warm hand moving up him, reaching, seeking, finding his, and their fingers interlaced as they exchanged panting breaths and moans.

Sam's head was spinning. He drew away to get air and nuzzled against Dean's still gently throbbing shaft, feeling the radiating warmth of Dean's body and the tickle of coarse hair against his face. After a little while he felt Dean tug at his hand and then he sat up and kind of grappled his way up Sam's body until he was back the right way and lying at Sam's side. Gathering up the bedcovers he drew them into a warm cocoon around them both and pressed his lips soft against Sam's. The kiss went on a long time, and Sam could taste the slightly sharper tang of his own juices mingled with Dean's in their mouths. Eventually they both needed air again and they rested with their foreheads leaning together while they waited for their breathing and heart rates to return to some semblance of normality. Sam watched with a strange kind of fascination as Dean blew long, low breaths out from between his pursed lips.

"Was that O.K, Dean? What I did?" he asked.

Dean's eyelashes flickered up briefly then lowered again, and he huffed out something like a soft chuckle. "Yeah, that was O.K, Sam," he assured him, and kissed him again. Then he squirmed and wriggled and seemed to be making himself comfortable against Sam's shoulder. He closed his eyes. "You O.K, Sam?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sam said, even though he was worried they might be getting too comfortable, might be in danger of falling asleep. He was pretty sure Dean was starting to drop off when he mumbled something low and quiet that Sam didn't quite catch. Sounded something like 'ahurmbloo'.

"What?" Sam asked.

Dean seemed to stop breathing, and he just muttered "nothing, Sam" then, after a moment more, "I said, happy birthday."

A/N: The music Dean plays in this scene is from the soundtrack to the movie "Crocodile Dundee". If you're not familiar with it, or would like to remind yourself, you can find it on youtube by searching the phrase "Crocodile Dundee - Theme from Crocodile Dundee" (Make sure you click on the Silas Krieger version). Then close your eyes, forget about Crocodile Dundee, and imagine Dean dancing to it. Go on. You'll be glad you did :)

.