SATURDAY
Dean's plan had been to wake Sam up with a stiff dick down his throat. The guy is already gone by the time Dean rolls over in his insanely comfortable bed.
Dean had never slept so well in his life; it had to be the mattress. He rarely falls off the coach, but he usually has a few sleepless hours in the middle of the night. Not here. Seriously, this mattress feels like it's filled with clouds or something.
He's unwilling to entertain the idea that it has something to do with Sam, other than the body heat, maybe.
Sam is showered, dressed and in the kitchen rooting around in the fridge. He turns his nose up, holds up a hand and won't even let Dean come close to him until he's had a shower, too. "I mean it. Go, wash. You smell like a kangaroo."
A quick shower winds up taking half an hour. The water pressure is out of this world. Just when Dean thought nothing could be more luxurious than that bed...
Once his skin is all pruny, Dean puts back on his jeans and one of Sam's t-shirts, which only looks slightly stupid hanging off his shoulders. He returns to the kitchen with a fluffy, snow-white, lavender smelling towel wrapped around his head. Sam hovers over a silver bowl surrounded by ingredients. He is definitely his mother's son.
He also finds Sam's landline phone wrapped in its cables on top of the trashcan. Dean holds it up, the question in his eyes before he asks, "Kaput?"
Sam takes it from him, steps on the pedal so he can drop it into the can. "I'm getting that line shut off. I'm, also, probably, going to wind up getting a new cell phone. I'll let you know the number when I do."
"Okay." Dean doesn't ask the series of questions that could follow.
"Bigger fish: I have one egg." Sam holds it up to show Dean.
"Congratulations?"
"That's not going to cut it. One egg and no coconut oil. We're going to have to go shopping." Sam unties the apron from around his waist.
"Dude, I don't have to have…"
Sam cuts him off. "I want to make you pancakes. I will make you pancakes."
"Okay." Dean stops arguing since it's clearly a matter of honor.
If Sam only knew, he usually has potato chips and a beer for breakfast. He can't even remember the last time he had an egg that wasn't shaped like a hockey puck.
Sam pokes him with the spatula. "You're a growing boy. I want to fatten you up.
"You want to fatten me up? That's what you like?" Dean pokes out his abs, so he looks like he's about five months pregnant.
"Not too fat. Just … I want to feed you. Put your shoes on and stop talking back."
How're you going to say no a guy who wants to feed you?
"Yes, sir."
Dean ignores the phone buzzing in his pocket, so Sam does the same. He can't help but grin and shake his head when the kid peels his sleeve up over his shoulder. Dean flexes beside a glossy cover featuring a cute guy Sam has never heard of or seen before. He pokes out his lips like a duck and asks, "Me or Chris Pratt?"
Sam smiles. "You. Every time."
"That's what I thought." He kisses his own bicep and tosses the magazine on top of the groceries.
Dean obviously has opinions about Chris Pratt, because his nose is shoved so far into the pages of that rag that Sam has to grab the back of his shirt to keep him from stepping out into traffic.
Dean gapes over at Sam like he had forgotten that he was there. He rolls up the magazine and stuffs it down into the canvas bag of groceries. His arm slides around Sam's waist. He hooks a thumb into one of his belt loops and starts to hum.
Sam tenses at the unexpected contact. He searches left and right for spectators before he slings his arm over Dean's shoulder. Since Sam is sure no one is watching, he's even so bold as to kiss Dean's temple.
The kid chuckles as they cross the street.
Dean has eaten in Waffle Houses and IHOPs and other fine establishments around this great nation. What he's been calling pancakes all his life might as well be cow patties.
Sam's pancakes are not even real. They're too light and fluffy to be real. And it's not Aunt Jemima syrup slathered on them either. Sam cooks actual fucking berries for him and makes some kind of warm jelly stuff that would make Mary Winchester proud. Then he tops it all with whipped cream. Not that spray out of a can, non-dairy crap that Dean had been addicted to as a little kid. This is real grass-fed cream that Dean watched Sam put into a blender and whip until it was all stiff and scrumptious.
Of course, Sam doesn't have any of it, because there are about three things that Sam will eat. Dean sure as shit eats every bite on his plate and goes back for thirds. Sam just stands there with what looks like a swamp water smoothie, smiling while he watches Dean stuff his face.
When he's done, Sam clears the table. Dean eases up behind him at the sink. He rests his face on Sam's shoulder and rubs his hand over his chest. Whoever knew somebody could be so sexy washing dishes? "How can I ever repay you?"
Sam tries to slide away. Dean holds him tight and burrows his nose in that warm spot between the shoulder blades. He takes two fists full of rock-hard pecs.
Sam pats his hands and tries, again, to get free. Finally, he takes Dean's wrist and leads him over to the sofa. He perches all the way over on the opposite arm rest, like a gigantic bird.
"What?" Dean eyes him, suspicious.
This has the distinct feel of a sit-down.
Sam wrings his hands, anxiously, between his own knees. "I just want you to know that's not the only reason you're here."
"I'm totally fine with it, if it is." Dean nestles his socked foot in Sam's crotch.
"It's not, though." His face is firm with sincerity.
Dean smirks. "You keep talking. I want to see if I can get you off like this."
"Dean." Sam catches his foot, peels off the sock and wiggles his fingers a few inches from his sole.
"Dude." Dean tries to yank back his foot, but Sam has his ankle in a vice grip.
"Yes?" Sam grins and raises Dean's leg.
He nuzzles Dean's instep. Then, he licks it.
Dean narrows his eyes. "You're kind of a freak, you know that?"
One of Sam's eyebrows lifts. "Do you like it?"
Dean's not sure, so he doesn't answer. He watches Sam suck his big toe into his mouth. Dean's mouth falls open, but there is nothing he can say. It's actually way hotter than something so gross has a right to be.
Those huge paws of Sam's graze up his calves, under his knees until he's working Dean's thigh muscles. And damn, that's amazing, too. Sam grabs hold of Dean's arm and trades his toe for his thumb, cheeks hollowing like he's getting paid to do it. Dean's jaw goes slack. "Fuck, Sam."
The way Sam looks at him, with his eyes all dark and dangerous, Dean just knows he is about to get pounded. Sam flicks open the button to Dean's jeans and pulls his zipper down. He drags the pants all the way off and tosses them over the back of the sofa.
Sam opens his own fly and draws out that monster.
"Shit." Dean swallows, mesmerized by the sight of Sam's managing his enormous dick.
Sam may as well be penetrating him already with his intense, unblinking stare. Dean pants like a hungry little slut, because, well, damn. Sam is a thing of beauty. His manhood is awe-inspiring, and Dean is in fucking awe.
Taking a dick is easy. There is, literally, nothing to it but to lay there and take it. On the other hand, enjoying getting fucked is 70% psychological. Dean knows if he's going to take that thing and not feel like he's getting split in half, he is going to have to chill the fuck out.
He takes a deep breath. By the time he's breathing out again, Sam has swallowed his entire dick.
"Ho…" Dean's head jerks up from the sofa.
Sam reaches up and pushes him back, encouraging him to relax. Dean moans and rests his hands on Sam's neck. Sam remains completely still for a moment, waiting for Dean move before he slides all the way off, tongue dragging against the underside. Sam hums a vibration through Dean's shaft and right up his spine. "Ah. Fuck. Do that again."
He does it over and over until Dean feels like he's got low-level electricity coursing through his veins.
Sam's tongue circles round the tip of his dick before he slowly engulfs the whole thing again. Lips pressed to Dean's pubes, he swallows a few times in succession.
Dean tucks his chin to his chest, mouth contorted, legs trembling. "That's so fucking good."
Sam works him smooth and sweet and makes the pressure build so dizzyingly slow that Dean starts to keel over. Without changing his rhythm, Sam catches him and pushes him back onto the sofa.
Sam peeks up between strands of his hair. Dean wipes them out of his face and takes a firm handful. Sam moans on his dick causing a flare to burst in the center of Dean's chest. "Yeah, Sam. Fucking look at me… God, you're so … your fucking mouth."
There's no train of thought to continue. Only gibberish and hitched breath as his hips rise from the sofa, chasing the warmth. Sam's hands slide around and grip his ass. They drag Dean even closer, the fingers of one hand sliding between his crack. Before his mind can react to that, Dean's stomach tightens. His balls contract and he shoots down Sam's throat, both hands curled tight in his hair. "God, Sam."
Sam leans back against the arm of the sofa, watching him come down. When the blood has finally returned to his brain, Dean reaches out to return the favor. Sam takes his hand and kisses it before he flashes a smile. "I should get some work done."
If Dean wasn't so well-fed and utterly sucked-out, he'd worry that he's messed up somehow. As it is, he just lays there, basking like a lizard on the leather until his damp ass sticks to it.
Sam stuffs in his earbuds. Debussy.
He looks at the numbers, crunches a few. He valiantly pretends to work for a solid hour before he sighs, shakes his head and places his glasses on top of the file.
For a while, he just hovers at the door to the living room. Dean has removed every stitch of clothing and is laid out on the sofa reading Dante - no doubt plucked from Sam's shelf. He doesn't raise his eyes to ask, "You done?"
"I don't think I'm going to be able to to get much accomplished." Sam's eyes rove over the long line of Dean's pale body on his black leather couch.
Sam wants to paint him, fuck him and then, paint him again. This boy is a near painful kind of beauty.
Dean rests the book on his chest and asks earnestly, "Am I bothering you?"
Sam huffs softly, voice catching in his throat. "No. I, just … don't want to work while you're here."
Dean's smile is like a reward for wise decision making. "So, what do you want to do?"
Sam pats him on the back. "Come on. Three more."
"Dude. You just said one more." Dean huffs and completes another squat with a pair of 50 lbs. dumbbells hugged across his chest.
"Yeah. And three more after that."
"Fucker." He finishes his reps and lets the weights clang heavily to the floor. "You trying to fucking kill me?"
"I'm trying to toughen you up, little jerk." Sam slaps his chest.
"I'm going to toughen you up, bitch." Dean pushes him down onto the workout bench and pins him there with his hands on Sam's knees.
Smirking, Dean pulls Sam's shirt up over his head. "Think it's time to climb bareback mountain."
"That's so bad." Sam shakes his hair to make it fall back into place, but he only winds up making himself look wilder.
Dean takes two fistfuls and yanks Sam's head back. He clamps onto his throat and sucks like he's going for blood.
"Jesus." Sam's hands clasp onto Dean's back.
Dean twists out of his grip to tug off his own sweaty shirt. He drops his boxers to the floor before stepping out of them. Licking his lips, he curls them into a dirty half-smile.
Sam buries his face in his hands. "Okay. I'm sorry. This is too much like a porno."
Dean tucks one knee between Sam's open legs to crawl onto the bench. "So?"
"I can't." Sam stands and drags Dean by the hand into his bedroom.
Dean doesn't resist, but on the way, he chuckles. "Oh, now, you're a fucking Puritan all of a sudden?"
Sam sits at the edge of the bed and helps himself to a palmful of Dean's dick. "Okay. So, you were saying?"
Dean uses the fingers coiled in Sam's hair to drag his face into his crotch. Sam moans and burrows his nose into Dean's pubes.
"You like that?" Dean strokes back the soft strands to get a clear view of Sam's face- his mouth parted, eyes closed like a man in prayer.
"Mmhm."
"Show me. How much do you like it?"
Sam nuzzles against Dean's wood. Then he licks, hazel eyes searching up for approval. Dean pats his cheek lightly. "That's good. Get on your back."
He does as he's told, but props up on his elbows. Dean falls to his knees and takes that ten-inch miracle in both hands. "This thing is a fucking masterpiece, man."
Sam's breath hitches. "I can't exactly take credit."
"I'll have to remember to tell the coach he sired a beast." Dean grins and starts him off with a lick to the tip.
Sam's head falls back like it's about to topple off his shoulders.
Dean wets the corners of his mouth to keep them from cracking as he takes Sam as far as he can without choking. It's no small task. It feels like his jaw is going to come unhinged. He barely manages half of it, but he lets spit slide down into his palm, twisting his wrist to give Sam friction and pressure on the whole shaft.
Dean pulls all the way off and takes a second. He fucking hates to gag - can't understand how Sam loves it so much. But he can make it good without that. With the base of The Beast in his fist, Dean hollows his cheeks and bobs up and down. His mouth makes a filthy squelching sound that gets his own dick hard.
Through all of this, Sam is perfectly quiet, stone still except for his thighs quaking against Dean's ribs.
Even with Dean controlling the pace and depth, he goes a little too far. Sam's tip brushes the back of his throat. He gasps and pulls off, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He tries not to let on how close he is to throwing up and takes a few breaths to collect himself.
Sam reaches down for his arms. "Hey. Come here and kiss me."
Dean's still not ready for that, but he needs a break. He crawls all the way up Sam's body. A huge hand cups the back of his neck, tries to urge him close. Dean resists and Sam releases him with a smile. He whispers, "You're incredible. You know that?"
Dean doesn't feel fucking incredible. He buries his face in Sam's pillow, concentrating on the guy's heart pumping against his chest.
Sam's hand passes gently up and down his back. "Dean. Do you actually like this?"
Dean leans up and squints, trying to figure out what Sam is asking.
"I mean, being with guys."
"I came on to you. Remember that?"
Sam nods, not looking very convinced.
Dean would never say so, but there are a lot of things about sex with guys that he likes more than with chicks. Guys are ready to go with little to no foreplay. With guys, you don't have to worry about getting too rough and knocking their heads against a wall. Then, there's the whole taboo side of it. Being with guys is like giving a honking middle finger to the rest of society.
Girls are soft and nice; Dean definitely likes chicks. But nothing gets his blood going like a big, strong, red-blooded, American male. His taste in men is remarkably similar to his mother's with one exception; Dean prefers potentially dangerous guys who, maybe, could kick his ass, but who never would.
Sam is perfect. Dean peers down into infinitely patient, constantly changing hazel eyes. "Yeah. I like it."
Fucking guys is awesome, as long as Dean can control the situation - which he usually can, even from the bottom. The fact that Sam wants him to top… Yeah. Perfection.
This whole little soul-searching moment is a dick shriveler, though.
Sam strokes his back. "Should we get up?"
Dean takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "I'm not done with you." He slides back down to the floor, on his knees.
This time, Dean pushes Sam's legs back over his shoulders. He's surprisingly limber for such a large guy. Dean lowers his head and gulps in one of his balls while stroking his dick slow and easy, the way Sam likes. With his other hand, he stretches up and pinches Sam's nipple.
He jolts. "Whoa."
"You like it?" Dean raises his head to check Sam's expression.
"Yeah. Just … not so hard."
Dean lets one of Sam's legs down, so his foot rests on the mattress, knee bent up toward the ceiling. He smooths his hand over the dense patch of welts over the back of Sam's other thigh. "Are you ever going to tell me about this?"
"Not now."
Fair enough.
Dean tilts his head to take a long look at Sam's tightly puckered, pink asshole. He licks his lips. "I've never done this. You have to let me know if it sucks."
He slides a palm over the swirl of soft, dark fur and dives in, face-first. Carefully, he flicks his tongue over the hole. Sam's hips shift. He sucks in a quick breath. "Fuck, no, that does not suck."
Dean's head pops up. "You just cussed."
"Yeah." Sam's palm covers the back of Dean's head. He gently, but firmly sets him back to work.
It's nothing like licking a girl - none of that slime and stuff. Thi entrance is resistant instead of open and inviting. There's definitely an odor, but it's more earth than ocean. One thing that's exactly the same - Dean is getting high on the way Sam whimpers and shakes. He smiles into his mission, wrapping both arms around Sam's thighs.
He licks from top to bottom, nudging his nose up between Sam's balls. Yeah, there's definitely a warm Sam smell that no amount of douching could wash away. Dean breathes it in and leans back to see how wet he's gotten everything. He rubs his palm over Sam's soft, damp fur.
Sam has got a fistful of sheet and the other arm over his face. Dean smiles and nips his ass. He flicks his tongue back and forth over Sam's hole, just like he would a girl's clit. Sam's thighs tighten and threaten to crush Dean's head. "Good?"
"Mmhm."
So, Dean does that some more until Sam is shaking, just like a girl. Then, he stiffens his tongue and slides it slowly past the reluctant ring of muscle. Sam groans. Dean palms his cheeks and pulls them apart so he can curl the tip of his tongue and lick the surprisingly soft inside of him. It's a strange sensation - like the asshole wants him in and out at the same time. His range of motion is definitely limited, but he flickers the tip as much as he can. Then he moves his head back and forth, tongue fucking Sam until his own dick demands attention.
"Oh, my fucking God, Dean."
"Dude. Stop it. You're going to go to hell." Dean presses his thumb to Sam's wet hole then pulls away. "You should see this. You're totally twitching."
"Yeah. I can feel it."
"It's hot."
Sam tucks his arms under his legs and pulls his knees up to his ears.
Dean sucks in a loud breath at the display. "Ready for me to be a pain your ass?"
"Funny." Sam gasps.
"I'm seriously going to fuck you so hard." Dean spreads lube over his own dick, shuddering slightly at the relief of touching himself.
"Then, stop talking about it," Sam pants like he's been in a marathon. The sheets are already dark with his sweat.
Dean slips in his middle finger, chanting the instructions to himself. He twists his hand, palm to the ceiling, curls his finger and searches for Sam's prostate.
Just when he's about to give up, Sam's entire body jerks. He yelps and looks like he's levitating, the way his body comes up off the bed. The only thing touching the mattress are his heels and his head. "What the fuck have you been watching?"
"Not watching. Reading. Is it good?" Dean dips the tip of his thumb into him again.
"Hell, yeah, it's good."
"Then, it doesn't matter." He brushes over Sam's nub again just for the reaction. "Cosmo."
Sam starts to smile just before his face twists. "Shit."
"Should I do it again?"
"Yeah."
Dean smiles when he gets the same spectacular result. "I could do this all day."
"You would wear me out." Sam squeezes the base of his shaft and exhales loudly.
Dean grabs his shining dick like it's Excaliber and tucks himself between Sam's wide open thighs. "You ready?"
Sam nods and blinks up at him. His hand rises to brush down Dean's face. "God, you're so beautiful."
Dean ignores the uncomfortable twinge of heat in his chest at the comment and nips Sam's finger before he begins to ease into him. Sam lets out a long, low moan. Dean pauses to let a shudder pass through his body.
"Are you…" He wipes a tear from Sam's cheek with his clean hand. "You good?"
"Yes," Sam answers breathlessly and runs his hands down Dean's back. "Yes. I'm good. Please, don't stop."
Dean burrows his face in the crook of Sam's shoulder and presses in, slowly. His body trembles again with the effort of restraining himself.
Sam murmurs, "You don't have to be gentle."
"I know." Once he's all the way inside of Sam, Dean forces himself to be still, anyway. "You're so hot. So tight."
"Dean."
"Shut up, Sam."
Sam chuckles quietly, and Dean pulls those magnificent, mile-long legs up around his waist. Sam's ankles lock at the small of his back.
"I'm going to fuck you now." He gives one sharp snap of his hips before he starts to pound Sam's ass like a fucking maniac.
The room tilts.
The planet shifts.
Dean has a vision of himself cracking Sam in half so that he can creep in and burrow himself someplace in the center of him where he would never have to leave again.
Sam clutches onto his arms. "Oh, God. Dean. Fuuuuck."
"So good. So fucking good." Dean can't stand it. He hates it. Hates how much he loves being inside of him. How much he wants Sam. How much he wants Sam to love him and no one else on earth.
'Jody's right. I'm really losing it. I've lost it.'
He crushes his hand over Sam's face and grinds it sideways into the pillow. Punishment for being perfect.
"Holy fucking God." Sam cries out, tenses and releases his load all over his own chest.
It's only a few seconds before Dean explodes inside of Sam, crying out like a little girl. It's too good. Too intense. He grits his teeth, tries to clamp down on the swell of pleasure and not come quite so hard. He doesn't have any control over this thing anymore. His body collapses beside Sam, shaking like a crack fiend.
Sam smooths his hand down Dean's side, mumbling, "So good."
Dean lays there, feeling violated and defenseless, like he is the one who just got fucked.
'I am. I'm fucked.'
There isn't even anything he can do about it.
'Sam owns me, and he fucking knows it. He has to know.'
A smile spreads across Sam's face, as if he's heard Dean's thoughts. "I didn't take you as the Cosmo type."
"You're welcome." Dean punches him in the ribs and rolls onto his back, still catching his breath. "I didn't read the whole fucking thing. Just the Things You Haven't Tried article and Taylor Swift. That girl is hot as shit."
"Meh." Sam hands him the box of tissues from his night table.
Dean takes a few and deposits the condom in them. "Are you kidding me?"
"She doesn't do anything for me?"
"Does any chick?"
Sam takes the messy tissues from his hands and adds the trash to his own. "I think I could be great friends with Jen Aniston."
"Shut up." Dean yawns, holds out his hand and Sam gives him the remote control.
Sam laughs all the way to the bathroom. He shakes his head, giddy and slightly embarrassed by his flushed and grinning face in the mirror.
By the time Sam gets back, Dean is flipping through the channels. He sits at the foot of the bed with a hand on Dean's ankle. "So, what made you seek outside help? Not that I'm complaining. I definitely appreciate that you did research for me."
Dean lands on a nature documentary and rests the remote on his stomach. "You give the best head I've ever had. Just wanted to return the favor."
"Well, thank you." Sam snickers. "Next time, check out Loverboy. For our people, by our people."
"Yeah. Your mom doesn't get that one, so…"
Sam laughs and squeezes his foot. Dean pulls away. He rests one ankle over the other, Sam's fingers drum on the mattress. He walks them toward Dean's leg like a spider. Dean gives them a light kick, just like he would a real bug. "You probably don't have any experience with this, but most girls are pitiful at it."
Sam catches his foot again. "I do, actually."
Dean mutes the TV. "You do?"
"Yeah." Sam smiles over his shoulder at Dean's burning curiosity. "I was married to a girl."
"Stop the fucking presses." Dean turns the television all the way off and sits upright. "No shit."
Sam continues. "We were together for a year before that. Like you said, atrocious head. A for effort, though."
"Wow." Dean processes that for a full five minutes before he asks, "So, where is she now?"
Sam shrugs. "Probably, hopefully, married to some straight guy."
"Huh. What's her name?"
Sam moves around to the side of the bed and lays down. "Ruby. Salins-Winchester, last time I saw her."
Dean watches Sam's face. "Did you actually like her?"
One of Sam's fingers traces over Dean's lower lip. "Very much. I loved her. I just didn't 'like like' her."
"Wow." Dean lays back, blinking at the wall.
Sam snickers and tugs on his earlobe. "Yeah. Now, you know that."
"You got any pictures?"
Sam laughs uncomfortably "What is with you and the pictures?"
Dean plucks at the trail of hair in the center of Sam's chest. "Just a thing."
It's weird. It isn't something Dean has ever asked anyone before. He just wants to know, needs to see who has had Sam before him. Dean would die before he admits it out loud, but he wants to be sure that he's hotter.
"So, would you like a photograph of every person I've ever been attracted to? Or just the ones I've slept with?"
"Whatever, dude." Dean huffs and flops onto his back.
He picks his buzzing phone up from the table on his side. It's just Jody again. He silences it. 'Screw her.'
"You don't have any hotdogs?" Dean stands with the refrigerator door wide open, wearing only his ratty, smelly, checkered boxers. "Isn't that, like, a staple?"
'Pink slime and nitrates?' Sam winces and answers, "No. On both counts."
"Hm. That's going to make it more difficult." He pulls an artichoke from the produce bin and holds it out. "What the hell is this?"
Sam takes it from his hand, puts it back and closes the door. "That's an artichoke and I'm going to call for Thai."
"Tie?"
Sam can actually see the spelling in Dean's mind. "It's … Asian food?"
"I like Asian." Dean's eyebrows flicker up. His smirk is lewd enough for Sam to catch the innuendo.
"Okay." Sam heads back to the bedroom to find his phone.
"Unless they have some hottie delivering, don't bother. I said I'm cooking, I'm cooking." Dean's nose is back in the fridge.
Sam stops at the sofa, turns and pours all of his misgivings into his expression.
"I don't know what's up with that bitch face. You put on some of that elevator music, put your big ass feet up and get prepared to have your mind blown."
Sam cues up Eine Kleine Nachtmusik and grins when Dean starts humming and dancing along like it's a rock song.
The smell of sauteeing onion hit him and it requires an incredible amount of willpower to keep from spying on Dean.
To his credit, what he comes up with is edible. Considering that Dean has never seen tofu in his life, the stir fry is remarkably good. And if the rice is a little gummy, Sam doesn't say anything. Dean watches him take his first bite and waits for a reaction. Sam nods and hums his appreciation. "It's good. It's really good."
"Damn straight."
Sam smiles and subdues the desire to reach out for the hand not shoveling food into his mouth like an excavator.
"Seriously, what the hell is this shit?" Dean spears a piece of tofu on the end of his fork and examines it suspiciously. "Tofu. What is that?"
"Coagulated soy milk."
Dean frowns at it. "Remind me to stop asking?"
When they're done eating, Sam scrapes the remaining cubes from Dean's plate into the trash and washes the dishes. He dries his hands, hangs up the towel and wanders into the living to find Dean. He's sitting on the back of the sofa with his bare feet on the seat. He flips through Dante's Convivio as if it were a comic book.
Sam chuckles at the sight. "What do you want to do now?"
"You." He spreads his legs and palms his erection.
It's so far over the top. Sam should laugh instead of lick his lips and reel on his feet. "We have an appointment in a few hours."
"Appointment?" Dean's brow raises in question.
"Yeah." Sam grins. "It's a surprise."
"I don't really like surprises."
"Maybe you'll like this."
"Or maybe you'll just tell me what it is." Dean puts down the book and stalks toward him.
Sam stands his ground, but caves on part of it. "I want to have you measured."
"Measured?" He turns up his nose. "What? For like a cock cage or something?"
It's a good thing Sam isn't drinking. He would have probably choked and died. "No."
"It's a surprise. Fine." Dean tugs the hem of Sam's shirt out from his pants. "Few hours is good."
Dean had a guy try to put him on lock down once - teacher at his last school had called it a 'chastity device.' Dean had told him point blank he could shove the thing right up his own ass.
But for Sam, he'd think about it. The idea of Sam in a cage is hot as fuck.
Dean cups Sam's wood and watches those marble eyes grow dark. He can't decide whether he wants to bend him over the edge of the sofa or put him on his knees. "What do you want, Sam?"
"Whatever you want," he answers without hesitation.
A flash of heat surges through Dean. "Get on your knees."
Obedient and eager, Sam looks up like he's awaiting further instruction.
Dean strokes his hair. "Good boy."
Sam half smiles, half whimpers. His hand moves to his dick. Dean nudges it away with his foot.
"Get over by the sofa."
When Sam starts to stand, Dean stops him with a foot in the center of his back - not hard. He's not trying to hurt him. Just see how far he'll let Dean take this shit. "Crawl."
He crawls.
"You know what? Take these off." Dean lets him stand up long enough to undress him.
Then, he watches Sam crawl all the way over to the couch and rest his cheek on his arms. He arches his back, presenting himself like a cat in heat.
"Shit, Sam."
Dean stands there looking for a long time, just admiring the way Sam's nutsack hangs low. He moans softly, slowly humping into the leather. "Stop that," Dean commands.
Sam obeys. "Are you going to fuck me?"
"No."
Sam peeks up over his shoulder. "No?"
"You're gonna fuck yourself."
Sam cracks a little smile and raises his hand to his ass.
Dean nudges it away with his foot. "Not yet. When I fucking say so."
Sam exhales shakily and mumbles, "Yes, sir."
A flare goes off in Dean's chest and he chuckles. He's never been on the receiving end of that one. Now, he can see why guys like it so fucking much.
Dean reaches into his boxers and takes his dick into his fist. He jerks fast, and straddles Sam's back. If Dean shoots now, he'll get cum all in Sam's hair. He grins at the thought of that and saves it for later.
Groaning at the fresh wave of heat, he lowers himself behind Sam. He slides his dick between his wide open cheeks, spreading precome over his hole.
"Dean." Sam protests weakly.
Dean's mouth is wide open, skin on fire, head spinning. Forget all this domination shit. He needs to fuck Sam like he needs to breathe.
Sam's hand in his chest snaps him out of it, somewhat.
"Do you have any more condoms?"
Dean shakes his head.
"We can't." Sam strokes his face. "Let me..."
It takes a moment for Dean's vision to clear enough for him to nod and back away.
He sits on the floor, inches away from Sam. Legs wide, out to either side of where he's still leaned over the couch. Sam uses his left hand to hold himself open. The tip of Sam's long middle finger circles his rim.
"Yeah, Sam. That's good. Good boy."
Sam's hole resists for a second before it swallows the tip of that finger. "Is that your cum?"
"Yeah," Dean answers, breathless.
Sam moans and works his finger in and out.
"Shit." Dean bites his lower lip.
He covers Sam's left hand with his own. Stroking himself like he means fucking business, his left thumb massages that little sweet spot between Sam's sac and his asshole until he's rumbling and shaking like a 12-cylinder engine. "Oh, God, Dean."
Dean works Sam's sac for a while. Then, he smacks that ass for the sweet hiss he knows he'll get. Sam is writhing on his own finger. His back is covered in sweat. Dean beats himself so hard and fast, he has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, face, stomach, ass clenched tight.
The second his pointer finger slips into that tight heat alongside Sam's, Dean crashes over the edge.
"Fuck." He comes all over Sam's soft white carpet.
Some of his slick lands on the back of Sam's leg. Dean leans forward, rests his cheek on the small of Sam's clammy back. "Holy shit. That was hot."
Sam reaches for his own dick. Dean reaches around and catches his wrist. "I don't want you to come yet."
Sam whines, but puts his arm back up on the couch. Dean runs both arms down Sam's flanks. "Sam, you are so fucking hot."
He scoffs, like he doesn't believe it. Dean rests himself on his back and they're instantly stuck together, as if by suction and not sweat. He hooks himself over Sam's shoulder and licks the salty drop from his chin. With his arms tight around Sam's chest, he grinds - limp but still so turned on it doesn't make sense.
When Dean finally stops moving, Sam asks, "Can I now?"
"No. And don't fucking ask again. I'll tell you when."
"Yes, sir," Sam murmurs into the black leather and shudders.
Dean smiles against his skin. He closes his eyes. Could fall asleep right here. "Dammit, Sam."
"You do know you're heavy, right?"
Dean is completely rapt by the ferocity or the blood, or both. He slowly bites into an apple while the leopard mauls and devours a monkey.
Sam watches Dean with the same intrigued silence. His eyes wander the entire length of the boy's body. They hover over the hand at rest on the remote control on his chest. He longs to touch, but not disturb. There isn't a way to do both. His fingers tap anxiously on the mattress. "Dean."
"Huh?" He doesn't look away from the TV.
Sam's mouth is dry. "I think ... we should, maybe, talk about what this is. I mean, if it's a 'booty call' that's fine. If it's, you know, something more than that, we should … "
Dean plucks Sam's limp cock. "Strictly carnal. Simpler that way."
Sam nods and bites his lip. It was the answer he'd expected, but not necessarily the one he would have given. "Have you ever been in love?"
Dean scoffs. "Is that even biologically possible for guys?"
Sam knocks the kid's hand away from playing with his foreskin. "Um, yeah. I was in love with Castiel for a while. Head over heels, no one else in the room, in love."
For a second, Dean's eyes burn with unmitigated hatred. Just as quickly, the expression is replaced by a mischievous smirk. "I bet he looks pretty good in heels."
"It could be because he was my first. I'm just saying, it does happen to men."
"Yeah, but you're gay. So, does that count? Aren't you guys, like, a third species?"
Sam's jaw actually drops. "That's not remotely offensive."
"I mean gender or whatever." Dean waves his hand, as if he could brush the comment out of the air.
Sam closes a hand around Dean's thigh. "And what are you? Exactly." He holds his breath for this answer.
Dean shrugs. "I'm not anything. If you got to have a label, I'm open-minded."
"That is very evolved of you." It's also an evasion, he's sure. Sam knocks the cocky kid onto his back and straddles his hips, watching his face for signs of discomfort.
"That's me. Top of the food chain." Dean folds his hands behind his head, ever strident.
Sam taps a finger over his heart, just below his strange, moon-shaped birthmark. "But you've never been in love?"
Dean clears his throat and bends his knees for Sam to lean back on. "I think I actually represent the next stage for humanity. Telekinesis and polygamy. You have to be really fucking advanced for this shit."
"Polygamy suggests marriage. I think you mean polyamory."
Dean shrugs. "Whatever."
Barely holding back laughter, Sam runs a hand down Dean's simpering face. "So, you can move things with your mind?"
"Probably."
Sam smiles and kisses the boy's forehead. He's too adorable and Sam adores him. "And you're entirely impervious to all manner of emotional attachment?"
"What, are you a dictionary, now?"
Sam pecks his cheek, nips his nose and sits upright again. His fingers curl over Dean's shoulders. It's not even his fault. He has never had his hands on anything so completely lovable. "Maybe we should get out of bed, go for a walk or something. I can't have a real conversation like this."
"Or you could stop talking and suck my dick."
By some miracle, they arrive 10 minutes early for their appointment. Charlie is with another customer. Sam crosses his legs as Val approaches with a tray of pastries. Dean takes two and holds his other hand over it. "No sugar for him."
Sam smiles. "No, thank you."
Dean hops up off his chair. Val swings her waist-length, bone-straight, black hair over her shoulders and stands beside Sam's chair. They both watch Dean touch every single item in the boutique that he can get his hands on.
"Anything to drink for your … companion?" Her brow lifts enough for Sam to know it's a loaded question.
"Water's fine. Or do you prefer juice?" Sam doesn't raise his voice, but Dean hears him.
He looks over his shoulder at the pretty Asian woman serving Sam. "I'll have what he's having."
"Just water, please," Sam requests.
She nods and retreats to fulfill the request. Dean leers at Val for a moment and goes on running his inquisitive hands down the bolts of fabric. "Did you ever see Kingsmen?"
Sam has absolutely no idea what that is. Knowing Dean, he assumes it's a TV show.
"Why, hello, my dear!" Charlie emerges from behind the curtain and greets Sam with the usual, exaggerated exuberance.
Sam abandons his drink so he can stand to meet her halfway.
The previous client, an older gentleman, is on his way toward the counter to confer with Val. He stops to appraise Dean as if he is on the shelf. The man takes a few steps in the boy's direction, gaze lowering to his ass. Dean doesn't even seem to notice. He disappears behind a row of bolts.
Sam bites the inside of his cheek, stomach knotting.
"Do you work here?" The man's voice grates on his nerves.
He doesn't hear Dean's reply, but the man smiles and takes another step forward.
Sam's chest burns, muscles tighten. "Dean."
The other man's head snaps around. He regards Sam and treats himself to another full scan of Dean's body before he walks over to Val at the counter.
Sam crosses the space to take Dean's side. Part of him wants to kiss the boy silly, right there in front of them all - to mark him, claim him. Instead, he places a light hand on the small of Dean's back and makes introductions. "Dean, this is Charlie Bradbury. Charlie, Dean."
"You want to cover this face?" She asks with a finger below Dean's chin.
Sam presses a silencing finger to his own grin. "Sh. He doesn't know."
"He also hates secrets." Dean adds and rolls his eyes.
"You have enough time, right?"
Charlie punches Sam's arm good-naturedly. "That's why you pay me the big bucks. Right this way, handsome. Let's get your measurements." She ushers Dean behind the curtain.
Sam has a sip of his water and cracks his book on his crossed legs.
The older man approaches and whispers, "Is he yours?"
Sam's jaw aches from how tightly he clenches his teeth. He thinks of shouting Yes and No, and of beating this asshole to a pulp. He forces a smile.
"For hire or...You'll excuse me. Just looks like a stray, doesn't he?" The man looks off in the direction Dean and Charlie had gone. "Anyway. He's lovely. Enjoy."
Even after the man has left the shop, Sam can't seem to unfurl his fists. He can practically feel Val's eyes on him, but he doesn't speak. Neither does she.
When they finally emerge from the back, Charlie places her hands on her hips. Her tape measure is draped over her shoulder. "Well, he's practically perfect in every way."
This is not news to Sam.
"So, do I get a lollipop?" Dean stretches his arms over his head displaying his smooth, pale stomach in a way that can't be accidental.
"You want to run the thing by him?" Charlie nods toward Sam.
"Oh, yeah." Dean looks up at Sam like a kid in a store about to beg for candy.
Sam shifts his stance, mildly uncomfortable.
"Charlie says I can have this shirt and a couple other ones, if I just take a few pictures. Fully clothed. Am I missing something?" Dean asks, rubbing his chin dramatically.
"I tried to tell Sam, most of my clients are wrinkly old men who appreciate … well … Do I really have to spell this out? Are you two not fucking?"
Dean's eyes pop. He shakes his head at Sam. "Dude. I didn't say anything."
Charlie punches Sam's arm. "The way you look at him?. Do you really think you're being inconspicuous?"
"You should have seen him nearly tear off Terry's head." Val chips in from her station.
"Who's Terry?" Dean asks, all altar boy innocence, when Sam knows he knows.
Sam's face feels like it's caught fire. He sputters, but isn't sure how to respond.
Dean comes to his rescue by pointing at Val. "Yeah, well, you two are fucking, too."
Charlie doesn't even look at her co-worker. She scoffs. "Damn straight. We been together 13 years. Bitch better put out."
Val flips them all the bird, or perhaps just her lover.
"So, are we doing this or what?"
Val sets up lights and a white backdrop while Charlie gets her camera ready.
Dean helps himself to what remains of Sam's water. "So, Charlie says she's been making your clothes for the past two years. Walmart not good enough for you?"
"I have never stepped foot inside a Walmart." Sam doesn't intend for the remark to be disparaging. He simply has no idea what one would find in the store.
Dean shakes his head and huffs. "That doesn't even surprise me."
"Between these and these … " Sam gestures vaguely, frowning at his own disproportionate shoulders, hips and legs. "I can't exactly grab something off the rack."
"Dude, you do know that you're …" Dean searches for a word and comes up with, "gorgeous, right?"
Sam huffs. He glances over, hoping the others haven't overheard. "New topic, please."
"Dude." Dean shakes his head. "The first time I saw you, I practically jizzed my pants."
"That's poetic." Sam squeezes his eyes shut, laughing nervously.
Dean drops to the floor between his knees. "Shall I compare you to a summer's day?"
"No. Please, don't." Sam tries to help him to his feet, face burning and no doubt blushing brightly.
He scowls at the entertained snickers Charlie and Val are making no attempt to hide.
"Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May
and summer's lease hath all too short a day..."
Sam hardly knows what to say. Dean is kneeling, holding his hand, reciting Shakespeare in front of the closest thing to a friend Sam has. The whole thing is surreal and ridiculous and he likes it a lot more than he probably should.
"I can do the whole thing, if you want."
"No. That's okay." He helps Dean to his feet.
"We had to memorize it at my last school," Dean explains. "Never actually thought it would be useful."
"All right, turtle doves." Charlie motions for them to take their places.
Sam hovers on the border of the backdrop while Dean hops in and puckers his luscious lips into what can only be described as a school girl pout.
Charlie snaps a few. "He's a natural, isn't he?"
Sam chuckles. "He's a ham."
"Maybe, but you telling me you wouldn't stock up on whatever he's selling?"
Dean has no shame about putting it on for the camera: he flexes, tries a thoughtful pose with his chin in his hand, runs a hand through his hair, spins, wiggles his ass and glances over his shoulder. The more Sam laughs, the more outlandish he becomes.
All the while, Charlie snaps away. "OK, Sam, you get in there and kiss him."
"What?"
"Not that kind of website. On the cheek. Believe me, my clientele will gobble it up."
Dean tugs him by the hand, tucks himself under Sam's arm and turns up his cheek. Sam knows his own must be beet-red by now. The boy taps his face and chirps, "Come on. Lay it on me."
Sam couldn't deny him if he wanted to.
"You want to go get some ice cream or something?" Sam asks as he starts the car.
Dean finishes his wide armed, mouth gaping yawn before he asks, "What is with you feeding me ice cream? Is that, like, a fetish of yours?"
"No. I don't know." Sam shrugs and clears his throat. "I just thought you liked it."
"It's kind of creepy, man. Got this 'come here, little boy' vibe to it."
Sam winces and shakes his head. "Don't."
"I'm fucking with you." Dean smacks his arm and smiles. "Dude. You gotta lighten up. Look. I'm younger than you. I'm always gonna be. That's just how it is. Some people are… you know. They're not going to understand that."
Sam nods, the word 'always' on repeat in his mind. "Yeah. I know."
"Fuck 'em," Dean says and sits quiet for a moment, apparently ruminating on that great nugget of universal truth.
Sam breathes heavily, trying to find some of that devil-may-care attitude Dean seems to have in spades.
"What I could really go for is some pie."
Dean finds a fifty year old greasy spoon with an app on his phone. Tas-T Diner, the place is called. Sam's never been there, but Dean's so keen on the idea, that's where they wind up.
Dean stuffs in another forkful and doesn't bother to swallow before he asks, "What is even a rhubarb?"
"It's a … plant." Sam attempts, but there's no way to explain without showing him.
"You do know that's a bitch answer, right?"
Sam takes a deep breath. If he never hears that word again, that would be fine. "Do you have to call me that?"
"Do you have to act like a bitch?"
Sam groans. "It's just... it's kind of... misogynistic."
Dean eyebrows shoot up and he doesn't bother to contain his laughter.
Sam rolls his eyes. "It means - "
"Yeah. I know what it means. And that's probably the bitchiest thing I've heard in my life." He sticks a piece of pie into his grinning mouth.
"Yeah?" It takes a lot to piss Sam off, but apparently Dean Smith has got what it takes because he swings back with, "Well, you're a jerk."
Dean raises his coffee before he drinks. He's clearly heard that one before. Sam could have called him an asshole, but that seems kind of harsh - even if it's true, at times.
Sam shakes his head, completely perturbed. He huffs. 'This kid.'
Dean leans forward on his elbows and lifts his laden fork to Sam's mouth. He grins like the little imp he is. Sam should call him that. See how he feels about it.
Still, annoyed as he is, Sam can't help but mirror a smaller version of Dean's smile. But he keeps his lips shut, declining the peace offering of pie. "I probably shouldn't."
Dean gives him an encouraging nod and presses the pie to Sam's lips. "Just a little."
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam notices a man watching them. A chill works its way down his spine. Since Dean is never going to take no for an answer, Sam gets it over with. He takes the pie and swallows without chewing. "Happy?"
Dean follows his gaze. "Sam, look at me. Fuck. Them."
Sam huffs and nods.
"Say it with me."
"I get it."
"I don't think so." Dean points at a woman who is also staring. "Look that chick right in the eye and say it."
When Sam refuses, Dean turns and glares at her. "Hey. You got a problem?"
"Come on. Don't." Sam puts his hand on Dean's wrist.
When the kid turns around, his face is taut, mouth set. "Come, now."
Sam blinks. "What?"
"Come. Right now."
Sam considers arguing, but strangely finds that he doesn't actually want to. He had decided when it started that he was going to go along with this - all the way. When Castiel used to want to play this way, he always expected Sam to be the dom. Now that the shoe's on the other foot, Sam wants to obey. At moments, he feels like he could follow Dean to the ends of the earth, if the boy asked right. The thought is unnerving and freeing at the same time, which is unnerving all over again.
Mind reeling, Sam rises to go to the bathroom.
"No." Dean barks, not bothering to keep his voice down. "Here."
Sam looks around the diner. People are mostly minding their own business again. He leans down to whisper. "Dean, this… This is a game for at home."
"It's for when I fucking say."
Sam slides back into his seat and tries to reason with a force of nature. "Listen…"
"Are you gonna do it or what?"
"Dean. This is a public place." It's like tossing logic into a hurricane.
"Do you want me to go under the table and take care of it for you?" Eyes trained on Sam's, he knocks his fork to the cracked linoleum floor.
It lands with an improbably loud clink that makes a few people look in their direction. That doesn't seem to be a issue for Dean. "Three. Two…"
"You're insane." Sam grits his teeth.
Blood boiling, already hard enough to cut diamonds, Sam swallows and searches the room as he surreptitiously opens his pants.
"Y'all need anything." Their waitress touches their table as she passes.
Sam forces a tight-lipped smile.
"No, ma'am," Dean answers with his green eyes dark and burrowing into Sam. "Now."
Sam's head swims, heart rate out of the roof. "Dean."
"Are you doing this?"
Dean's coffee shakes as Sam's trembling thigh makes contact with the table leg. Sam takes a deep breath and sits back. The moment he touches himself, he squeezes his eyes shut, pleasure amplified by the imminent danger of getting caught.
"Open your eyes, Sam. Look at me." At least Dean has the decency to talk more quietly now.
Sam obeys, and a blaze surges through him. Dean is leaning halfway across the table, breathing through his mouth. His eyes are still fixed on Sam's. So are the man's at the counter.
"Don't you fucking look at them." Dean grabs Sam's face and makes him comply.
"Dean," he whimpers and strokes.
"That's it, baby. Take care of yourself. That's it. Fuck these losers. This is about me and you." He's whispering now - voice barely audible from a few feet away.
Dean's hands are under the table, too. His right arm moving subtly.
There is a lash of fire for every movement, every word and a blanket of heat brought on by Dean's constant, penetrating gaze. Sam's not sure he could stop if Dean ordered it.
"That's it, Sammy."
Sam shakes away Castiel's pet name for him.
"Come. Now." Dean breathes the words.
Sam does as he's told. An avalanche of pleasure sweeps him under from his head to his curled toes. His body shivers and a small, broken sound escapes his bloody lips. He has bitten the hell out of them trying to keep himself quiet.
Before he's even breathing normally again, Sam reaches for a napkin.
"Uh-uh." Dean holds out his palm and gestures with his fingers. Sam gives him his left hand. Dean's eyes remain steely until Sam dredges up his soiled right hand. With his eyes still gripping Sam's, the kid sucks the come from his middle finger and moans like it's better than his pie.
Dean has already said he doesn't love the taste of semen, but it's not about that. Sam's not sure what it's about.
"Dean," he whimpers with his finger hanging out of the kid's mouth.
Castiel was unpredictable, but one thing Sam could always count on: no blatant public affection. Cas had suffered enough beatdowns to have learned that lesson well.
Sam's brain and body buzzes. He feels like he's entered a different universe. Like he's possibly dreaming or dead, and none of this is real. Dean is a mirage and Sam is hallucinating. There's no other feasible explanation for what just happened.
When Dean finally lets Sam wipe his hand, everyone in the place is watching them. Maybe they think his underage boyfriend has eaten pie filling from his fingers. Just maybe no one has called the cops on them yet. Sam shivers, not daring to raise his eyes to anyone's face but Dean's.
Dean licks his lips and says, "Good boy."
In the middle of the night, they're laying naked on the cloud - AKA - Sam's bed.
It's a good thing he actually digs Sam, because he would probably keep coming around just for the bed.
Dean's watching Yes Man while Sam makes out with his hand. Truth be told, Dean is pretending to watch Yes Man. Every cell in his body is aware of the brush of soft lips and scruff on his palm, the warm slide of tongue between his fingers, the hot suction when Sam sucks on them. Every little thing Sam does sends a smoke signal to Dean's dick.
Suddenly, Sam stops and it's all Dean can do not to complain.
"Let's go somewhere," Sam says, just as Jim Carey and that hot, goofy girl are getting on a plane.
Dean grins, assuming it's a game. "What, like these guys? Anywhere?"
"Yeah. You said you don't have school Monday."
Dean shrugs. "Some kind of Teacher Work thing."
"Have you been to New York in the fall?"
"I've never been to New York in the ever." Of all the places Dean and his mother have been, they never go anywhere people actually want to be.
"Okay, then. Done." Sam hops up and leaves the room.
Dean watches him go, because, that's a sight to behold. Sam returns less than a minute later with a laptop. Sitting cross-legged, he types feverishly. Dean watches the movie, more or less ignoring him until Sam asks, "What do you think of a 7:30 departure? It's brutal, but then we'll have more of the day in town."
"Wait a minute. You're not serious?" Dean sits up and sees by the travel website on Sam's computer that he's dead serious.
"Of course, I am. We could catch the first plane out. Be there by noon." Sam types and clicks. "Just got to find a hotel."
"Yeah. It's not gonna happen."
Sam looks over his shoulder at Dean, question plain on his face.
"You had me right up until 'plane.' I don't fly."
Sam smiles. "No one is asking you to fly. All you have to do is sit there and let the pilot do his job."
"Ha." So, now Sam's got jokes. "That's hilarious. Still not gonna happen. What's wrong with here? Your place is great."
"I haven't had a change of scenery in... a long time." He says it like he's giving a eulogy.
"Then, we can go for a walk."
Sam smiles softly and tilts his head in that way girls do when they try to convince you of something. Like pouring on the cute is going to make you want to watch Bridget Jones instead of Predator. "Have you ever been on a plane?"
Dean may look like a sucker, but a sucker he is not. "No. That's how I'm gonna keep it."
"I used to fly every week, sometimes twice."
"Good for you, Sam."
"It's not that bad." Sam shuts his laptop and looks Dean right in the face. "Look, are you thinking about college ball?"
"I'm not thinking about anything right now." Dean gestures to the TV. "That's the beauty of movies."
"Okay. You know what? Another time." He opens the screen and gets back to his typing.
"Not likely."
"I haven't been a road trip in forever. We can just drive somewhere."
Dean picks up remote and mutes the show. "You know, I'm not some kind of chick you have to wine and dine and take places."
"Yeah, I think I noticed." Sam grabs Dean's crotch. "I want to go somewhere, and I would love it if you would come with me."
"Yeah, well. I got homework and shit, so..." Dean scoots off the edge of the bed and goes into the bathroom.
His English teacher had assigned chapters for the long weekend. Not that Dean had any intention of reading them. He had started that book thinking it would be about baseball or food and it's not about either. Just some whiny kid complaining about phonies. Whatever, dude. People are fake. Suck it up.
When Dean comes back out, Sam is sitting on the side of his bed. "So, you want me to take you home?"
The laptop is open beside him. Dean nods at it. "You going to New York?"
"I don't know." Sam's hands are folded between his knees.
"You wanna go, you should go." Dean steps into his shorts. They're pretty ripe. Flipping them is no longer going to cut it. These bad boys need to go in the wash.
Sam stands and crosses the floor in a few broad steps. His hands slide down Dean's arms. "I want to go with you, Dean. That was the point."
Dean had known all along that it was the point. His inner jackass just wouldn't let him appreciate it. "You gonna let me drive?"
"Do you have your license?" The look on Sam's face makes it clear how awkward it is for him to be asking that question of the guy he's fucking.
He's going to like the answer even less. Dean replies, "Got my license to ill."
"So that's a no?" Sam doesn't even crack a smile.
"I drive better than you." Jody has made Dean do at least half the driving since his feet could reach the pedals.
Sam rolls his eyes. "So, no."
"Whatever."
In the dim light of the bedside lamp, Sam smiles softly at Dean's attempt to stifle a yawn. His long lashes rest on his cheeks for a moment before his eyes pop open again.
Sam chuckles. "You can go to sleep. You're not going to miss anything."
Dean nods and smacks his lips sleepily. "Yeah."
Sam looks at his mouth with a more intense hunger than he's felt in a long time.
Dean rolls over, facing away and murmurs, "Night."
He tenses, almost imperceptibly, when Sam attempts to make of him a cuddly, little spoon. It was worth a try. Sam kisses Dean's neck and rolls over to shut off the light.
