Taking in Strays

by PrincessDesire

The night of the fire, Sam is taken by an angel and raised as a hunter with no knowledge of his Winchester ties, so when he meets Dean, he doesn't know that he's not supposed to be attracted to him.

9. Chapter 8: The Perfect Summer

July 15th, the day that Dean picks up Sam, it's 93° which wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't also intensely humid. It's not so bad with the Impala's window down, the warm air ruffling up the sleeve of his t-shirt and across the spikes of his hair, a reminder that he's due for a cut, but when he gets out of the car the air feels thicker, like he could reach out and grab it. Also, his jeans are damp where his ass and crotch have been sweating. It's not exactly the entrance that he wanted to be making into the Ackles's new home. Sam's waiting for him in the archway of the front door, posture faux-casual as he leans against its frame. He's in a white wife-beater, a different look for the kid and not a bad one, and he's got on cargo shorts. He smiles at Dean when their eyes meet. Disgusting sweat excluded, Dean's damn happy to be in San Antonio.

"Hey there, Kid!" he calls. "Where's our dog?"

Sam purses his lips and whistles. Within seconds, a fucking cotton ball is racing towards him. Cujo is about twice the size she'd been when they caught her, maybe even three times, but she's still not menacing, bloodlust or no. Her tongue, a combination black and pink, rolls out of her mouth and she head butts Dean's jeans with all the momentum of her run. "Ack!" he cries out as his leg threatens to buckle. "Trying to knock me over?" he asks the beast as it wiggles in excitement around him. He bends down and strokes her head, admonishments previously made to Sam for this exact act forgotten. Cujo is ridiculously cute. She looks a bit like a fluffy teddy bear, but with definite dog-like traits. If she didn't have those creepy pink eyes, she could be a calendar dog. "You're no match for me!" he says to her as he knocks her onto the grass. She likes it, gets back up and growls playfully.

"Now who is playing with the waheela?" asks Sam, voice all mockery.

Dean smiles at Sam. "Forgotten me already huh? I've got to try harder to stick in your memory." He has to hand it to Sam, because he doesn't blush at Dean's teasing, maybe he's gotten too used to how Dean throws out innuendos every chance he gets.

"You're my mom's boyfriend's son," Sam says. "Don or something?"

Dean approaches Sam, waheela circling his feet like a force field of fur. When he's only a foot or so away from the kid, who looks like he might have grown another damn inch in the month they've been apart, he says, "Something like that."

There's a naughtiness gleaming in Sam's hazel eyes. In a way, it's not dissimilar from Cujo's expression after he'd knocked her down, that desire to play. "Hey, Dean," he says softly.

"Hey, Danny Boy." Dean raises his hand and gently pushes the bangs covering Sam's left eye back over his ear. "Miss me?"

Sam shivers, an involuntary gesture that Dean appreciates even if his poor heat-deflated cock can't. "Not a bit," jokes Sam. "Come on in. Chal's just double-checking the shed for anything that I might need." He turns and leads the way into the house. It's blissfully air-conditioned and Dean closes the door behind him, wants to be able to do that to the whole overly hot world. He recognizes some of the furniture and art around the living room like the ugly green rug under the coffee table and the painting of the Hoover dam. Cujo darts past them and circles a small doggy cushion near the stairs that lead up to what Dean assumes to be Sam's loft. She sits proudly, claiming the spot as her own, not like Dean could take it from her if he wanted to. He could barely fit his foot inside the cushion. "She's got herself a bit worked up about my leaving," says Sam. At first Dean thinks he means Cujo, but then he realizes that they're still talking about Chal. Dean wonders how long she'll be outside because he wants the full tour of Sam's new room complete with a demonstration of the sound-carrying qualities that Sam has bitched about.

"Well, you are her precious baby boy, after all!"

"Shut up. Just because some of us have parents that like us…" Sam jokes.

There are three duffels on the stairs, each one taking its own step. "That all your taking?" he asks Sam. Dean hopes so because there's way more important shit that need to fit in the Impala's trunk than Sam's tighty-whities.

Sam shrugs. "And my laptop bag."

"Nerd," offers Dean. Then, something catches his nose's attention; he lifts it into the air. "Do I smell cinnamon?"

Sam laughs. "You look like Cujo when you do that!" He leads Dean to the kitchen, each step smelling more delicious, and points to a tray sitting atop the counter.

"Oh man, cinnamon rolls!" They're very obviously homemade, no popping cans here, but they look wonderfully sticky. His mouth waters as he hovers over them waiting for Sam to give him the green light on being able to grab one and make it part of his intestinal tract. "You make these, Sammy?" Dean asks, sneaking a peek over his shoulder at Sam.

Sam shrugs. "I make lots of food, especially breads."

"I still dream about your garlic bread," admits Dean. He pinches at one of the doughy cinnamon rounds with his thumb and forefinger. It squishes beneath his fingers, enticing with its soft edibility. He can tell it's delicious before he even bites into it and once he does, he moans. "Oh man, Sam, this is a-mazing!" he says with his mouth full. He smiles at Sam, the icing oozing over his lips as he does.

Sam laughs. "Dude, chew with your mouth closed!" Instead of obeying, Dean draws in close and chews with mouth gaping open deliberately swilling the food around as disgustingly as he can. Sam tilts away and he follows, chasing him around the kitchen island with his saliva and the half chewed cinnamon roll. "Ah! Dean! Get away! Oh dude, that is so wrong!"

Finally, Dean closes his mouth and finishes the bite. It really is the perfect cinnamon roll. He looks around the sunshine-filled kitchen. It's like a television commercial, every cooking utensil in its place and lace curtains on the window above the sink, even has one of those rotating ladle holders. "You're going to make someone the perfect wife someday."

Chal chooses that moment to make her entrance, which is awesome because it makes his insult that much funnier, Sam standing there looking embarrassed and irked but unable to say whatever retort his brain was concocting. Chal's in black bike shorts and a tube top and he doesn't mean to, he really doesn't, but for a second he ogles Sam's mom. She's got kind of a butter face, but there isn't a damn thing wrong with the curves keeping up that tube top. In her right hand is a shovel, dirt clotted inevitably in the curves of the metal, and hanging from her left hand is a necklace. Dried mud covers her knees and she has a smudge on her chin the shape of muddy fingers. "Hey, Chal."

"Dean!" she cries, as though surprised, like she could possibly have missed the sound of Baby in her driveway. She reaches out to hug him and he steps back, not really feeling like getting clocked by the shovel, but it doesn't matter what he does because she's determined and fast and soon he's pressed tightly against her soiled tube top.

"Sam will be of such use to you!"

"Uh, Chal, shouldn't you be telling me to keep him safe?"

She looks confused. The shovel brushes against his jeans, swaying with every slight movement she makes. "He is quite adept at survival. He is also more powerful than you and John." Even with the robotic recitation of what Chal deems facts, though Dean definitely disagrees with her assessment, his father's name on her lips sounds musical, that one syllable all but floating on cartoon hearts.

"Dean thinks that you should be worried about me. You know, since I've never been on this long of a hunt and never with anyone else but you."

Dean doesn't understand why it needs explaining, wonders not for the first time if maybe something isn't quite right with Chal mentally. Whatever it is, Sam hasn't inherited it that he can tell.

"Oh!" Chal says, brain cogs clicking into place. "I am worried! Though I believe my concerns to be futile, since worry won't protect him, and unfounded, since he is so capable!"

Dean nods, resists opening his mouth since he fears that an uncomplimentary opinion might leak out.

"Will you be leaving right away?" she asks Sam.

Sam's eyes look to his and Dean shrugs, comfortable with whatever the teen wants to do. He wants to be as flexible as possible, do whatever he can to minimalize Sam's anxiety. Dean's heard of homesickness, knows about it in theory if not from experience, knows how awful it feels. He dreads when it will hit Sam, hopes that it won't be so acute that he has to run the boy back home to mommy, because that could involve one hell of a drive back.

"I'm ready now," says Sam.

"After I eat a couple more cinnamon rolls." Dean pops a second gooey treat into his mouth and smiles at Sam who he can tell is pleased underneath the disgusted face.

"So, it looks like you survived another day without being eaten by the yellow line," says Dean.

They're pulling duffels from the trunk of the Impala. It's evening and only their third stop this trip, the first to not involve food. Sam can't help but be elated by how run down and shitty the motel that Dean has chosen looks. The chain-link fence that runs around all but the entrance to the office, the chipped corner of the sign (The Stay In), the color-TV proclamation, and the moon crater-like potholes in the asphalt mean adventure to Sam, mean experiences he hasn't had and places from which he's been sheltered.

The duffel is heavy, grooves of the rippled texture on the straps already marking his hand as they approach the office, shoulders pleasantly bumping together. "I didn't have to do any driving. I got to look at the scenery." Sam sticks out his tongue. "While you played chauffeur."

"Better than having you crash my baby with your amateur driving skills."

The front office is another tableau of adventure. Security monitors and laminated signs that read "Suspicious activity will be reported" and "proper identification required" are taped and re-taped to the edge of the front desk. The guy behind the warning-decorated desk looks to be about Dean's age and he sits up with slight interest at his new customers.

"Hey," the guy says.

"Hey. Double for one night," says Dean smoothly, hand already reaching into the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet.

Sam watches the transaction, his brain documenting every detail, but he's also still looking around the office, noting things like the portable fan with masking tape holding down the on button and the little table that holds coffee fixins, some opened packets of sweet-n-low spilled out onto the stained white tablecloth.

Dean leads the way to their room, number 4. It's not a long walk, but it feels like heaven to Sam's cramped legs that not even school had been able to condition for sitting in a car for such extended periods.

Sam gets two steps into the room, doesn't even get to take it in before Dean's pressing him against the door, using Sam's back to shut it. Dean's mouth is on his neck and his hands are on the button of Sam's shorts. Sam makes a conversational, "urk," and that's apparently as long as it takes Dean to undo the cargo shorts, because they're falling to his ankles, preceding his boxers by nanoseconds. It's impressive, especially when Dean's still working his mouth, licks and nibbles and kisses, on Sam's neck. Then the mouth forms words, lusty low-voiced growly words, "Wanna make you come, Sammy. Tell me I can?" As aggressive as Dean's actions are, Sam knows that he would stop, will stop that warm mouth and the nimble fingers if he doesn't give permission because that's how Dean is. Sam was shocked by getting slammed against the door and getting stripped down, but that doesn't make him any less eager for this, makes him more eager, if that's possible. He's been dreaming about this for a month now, a month of having Dean whispering what he likes, pretty much offering Sam a blueprint of how to turn him on, the right things to say and do.

It takes courage, but Sam speaks the words that he knows Dean wants to hear. For Dean, he can be brave. "Make me come, Dean. Want you…want you to choke on my cock…"

And fuck if Dean's whimper isn't totally worth the embarrassment of saying such a thing aloud; the sound races into Sam's ear and along his bloodstream.

Then Dean is dropping onto his knees and Sam can't brace himself properly for the sensation of Dean's lips on his dick. It doesn't matter that he's felt it before, that sweet, sweet fuckable mouth moving up and down with firm pressure and no hint of teeth; it's been a torturously long month, the absence of this particular sensation made more obvious by the wicked words that have traveled between them along phone lines, increasing the desire, making it more acute.

Because he's thinking it and because he knows that Dean will like hearing it, he voices the thoughts, more delirious ramblings that waft and curl like warm breath in cold damp air and he doesn't phrase them; they phrase themselves, entities in their own right compelled by his desire to take form. "Missed your mouth. You're so fucking good at this. Been thinking about this. Too many weeks. God, God, God. Your mouth, Dean. It's so good. Been thinking about your mouth. Oh, yeah, take me all the way. You want to choke on it, right?" And choke he does, the sound almost as nice as the sensation. Dean's mouth is a tight tempting heaven and with each slight change of pressure or movement, Sam can feel Dean's tongue and cheek and lip.

He lets his hand roam through the short bristles of Dean's hair, just petting, not trying to yank down on Dean's head. There's no point anyway, because Dean's taking him down to the root. His shoulders bump the door as his hips sway back and forth with Dean's mouth. "Jesus, Dean," he gasps.

Sam thinks the sensation can't get any better; Dean proves him wrong. Dean's left hand climbs up his thigh, roams to the place behind his balls, cups them while one finger strays further back, tickling the sensitive skin just in front of his asshole. He moans, feels his dick pulse. Now his hands are gripping Dean's head and Sam's fucking glad he has something solid behind him, because the world is starting to lose focus.

Dean alternates between just sucking the head and under-ridge and taking the whole thing down. When he focuses on the head, little suction noises arise from the change of pressure. When he goes all the way down, Dean moans or chokes. Sam's lost in a haze of wonderful sensation and sound. He has no need to want for anything, not when Dean is here, serving him. Inhibitions nearly gone, he says this to Dean. It's uncertain how he manages it with Sam's cock that far down his throat, but Dean full-on whimpers, efforts doubling because now his hand is gripping the base of Sam's cock, jacking anytime his mouth leaves skin bare.

"Dean!" cries Sam, orgasm suddenly looming before him. All he can do is breathe, can't even make a single sound, as the come floods out of him. It's only once it's almost finished that the whine comes out of him, a gasping spitty ordeal.

"I call dibs on the shower," says Dean, his hand wiping at the corners of his mouth, saliva, and ejaculate glistening where he rubs.

Sam just stares, his legs too shaky to move and his head ringing too loudly to allow thought, as Dean stands back up and, grabbing his duffel, disappears into the bathroom. All Sam can hear are clunks, the thuds of Dean preparing to bathe and his own heart reluctantly slowing, samba to waltz. His shorts are still around his ankles when the shower water starts.

Sam is quite certain at that moment that this is going to be the best summer of his life.

John calls with a case for them as they're eating donuts at either end of Sam's bed the next morning. Dean talks particulars in between jellied bites. Sam can count the number of times he's even had a donut on his fingers so he relishes the too greasy, too sweat treat as new and as part of the on-the-road gig. Watching the way Dean's tongue darts into the berry-filled hole creates a warmth in his belly, memories of last night dancing in his head. Sam's only regret about the previous night is that once again he missed an opportunity to kiss the older boy. It's weird that he's come twice by lips he hasn't kissed. He hopes to rectify that situation as soon as possible. So far it's been Dean making all the moves, guiding what they do and when they do it, but Sam suspects, based on his love of being commanded, that Dean might appreciate him taking the reins entirely. If, that is, he can work up the balls to do so.

"Yup, we're on it," says Dean. "Of course. Yes sir. We'll call you as soon as we finish talking to the curator."

When Dean hangs up with John, Sam asks, "We have a case in an art gallery?"

"Close." Dean wipes the donut glaze off his lips with the back of his hand and once again Sam's lost in memoryland – and he'd just gotten grounded in the present! "We're going to The New Mexico Museum of Natural History and Science."

Sam likes the cases with ancient artifacts, even if they are so often bespelled to harm others, and museum trips are awesome, hunting or no.

"Pack your duffel, we've got a security guard that saw another security guard get his brain bitten into by mummy."

Dean gets up, dusting crumbs off his lap, and starts tossing stuff into his own bag, completely nonchalant about the bizarre thing he just said.

"Like a Boris Karloff mummy?"

Dean purses his lips. "That's what the man said."

"We're gonna kick ancient Egyptian ass!" says Sam. This is so much better than another pissed off ghost.

Dean grins proudly at him. "That's the spirit, Sammy! Let's cap King Tut!"

The security guard had been right; it was indeed a mummy, an undead Ancient Egyptian wrapped in yellowing bandages and groaning like a dude with a hernia. The substantiation of his claim undoubtedly came as little consolation to the man who, immediately upon confirmation of his earlier sighting, had his skull cracked open and brain sucked out. Dean will never understand how so many dead guys, despite not having functional digestive systems, still have crazy appetites. They always seem ready to binge on human flesh like a recently-dumped girlfriend with a gallon of Haagen-Daaz.

He and Sam had conducted their interviews as state cops, more jurisdiction than the local fuzz but less suspicious than a sixteen-year-old FBI agent, examined the scratch marks on the inside of the sarcophagus door belonging to a rather sated-looking, at least Dean thought so, mummy, and then killed a couple of hours eating and napping, in separate beds, in the hotel room before returning to the museum armed with both standard and mystical weaponry. Though it was Dean's first mummy, his suspicions about how to waste the old zombie proved to be impressively accurate. Mummies light up like they're coated in gasoline. They'd had to clear out from the barbecue fast, museum smoke detectors remarkably more efficient than motel ones. They'd scooped up the ashes, more mud, really, once the sprinklers had kicked in, and packed them in a Ziploc bag for carrying convenience – no telling if the bastards could regenerate from incineration. They'd left the very loud and watery building with their baggy of Tut and smiles of victory. It seemed to Dean that he ended more hunts wet than bloody. This time it was both, Tut having gotten the drop on him while watching Sam identify the guard/snack. The undead jerk needed a manicure but it didn't feel too serious, the scratches on his back. His tetanus shot was up to date, so with a little soap and water, Dean figured he'd be good as new.

"Why are we always Happy Meals to these jerks?" Dean asks, sliding the key card into the hotel door. He waits for the green light before continuing his rant. "I mean A) these guys don't have working stomachs and B) we can't be the most healthy things to eat. Would it kill these guys to try a frickin' salad instead?"

The room smells like cigarettes and it's pitch dark inside, heavy drapes drawn tight against the outdoor lighting, flood lights way past their prime buzzing as they generate their unnatural yellow glow. It's a comfort, the 250 square feet of borrowed territory, because, for tonight at least, it's his sanctuary, his smelly home away from home.

Sam follows in behind him with buoyant steps despite the weight of the duffels, caches of guns and knives, jeans and shaving cream, hanging on his shoulders. "If they ate salads, then you wouldn't have a reason to test their flammability."

Dean doesn't bother correcting him; he'd still grab his lighter if he saw a mummy pulling a Bugs Bunny impression, carrot hanging from its gnarly mouth. "I get dibs on the bathroom. Gotta wash mummy germs off my shoulder."

"I can help," offers Sam.

It's not in Dean's nature to accept help and it's not like his dad offers assistance often enough for him to change that. Still, as he tells Sam, "It is in kind of a hard to reach spot." He consoles the part of him that complains about displaying weakness with the rationalization that if Sam is shit at first aid, then that's something he'd rather know now than later when it counts.

Once in the one-butt bathroom, he pulls off his shirt, plain black, no need for cop uniform after they'd dismantled the museum's security cameras in a couple of key spots. He turns back to the mirror and tries to get a good look at what they're dealing with. Four parallel lines crusted with blood. They don't look deep.

Sam says, "They're not bad" as he steps into the bathroom.

"I know that," snaps Dean. He doesn't need consoling. "I'm not some ten-year- old with a scraped knee."

"You sure sound like one," retorts Sam, but the eyes that meet Dean's in the mirror hold only mirth.

"Pff. Whatever, Nurse Ackles, just stop ogling the goods and get me fixed up."

Dean kicks off his boots and socks before sitting on the lip of the tub, feet on the cold ceramic of the tub. From here, he's low enough to give access to the wound and Sam cleans it as he plays with the little rectangle of packaged soap. The smell of disinfectant is almost as well-known and comforting as the smell of motel. Sam's hands work quickly and professionally. It stings at first, when Sam digs into the wounds with the iodine, but by the time that Sam pats down the adhesive tape along the edges of the bandage, it feels tons better.

"Shrug," Sam commands. Dean obeys. The bandage must hold firm because Sam steps back and says, "Done. You can now stop calling me Nurse Ackles."

Dean can't keep from feeling at the bandage. He stands up and turns around and he's pretty much chest to chest with Sam. He sees a twinkle in Sam's eyes that indicates that their proximity hasn't escaped the kid's notice. "You getting Florence Nightingale on me?" he asks softly, no need to speak at normal volume when his mouth is probably eight inches from Sam's ear.

Sam scowls. "Always the girls' names with you." He reaches past Dean to grab something from the first aid kit open on the toilet lid.

"Well, I can't help it if you make it so easy, always giving me those googly eyes."

Sam's hands now hold a roll of gauze, long fingers fiddling with the white near-transparent fabric. Dean watches him, certain that there's something he's missing, because Sam's eyes aren't looking at him and his demeanor has shifted, but he has yet to put his finger on which direction the shift occurred.

"How should I look at you, Dean?" he asks, voice low, teasing, sexual where the words aren't. He runs the loose end of the gauze roll across Dean's hand, no, across his wrist, lets it drag a few times before catching it with his thumb, extending the fabric and wrapping it around.

Dean's breath catches when the implication of the action hits him. It's actually embarrassing how just that small motion, just the hint of restraint, makes his lower lip quiver.

Sam finally does look at him and the twinkle is a full flame. "How would you like me to treat you?" he asks, but it's a question for permission not information. "Would you like to be tied up, Dean?"

Dean doesn't speak, doesn't think he can. He sucks his lips and nods. He wants to be tied up more than Sam would imagine. It hasn't been that long since the last time he was bound, but the last time he'd been imagining it was Sammy doing the binding and now Sam's offering it to him for real.

"Rope?" asks Sam.

Dean nods again.

Sam releases the loose gauze, throws it into the box. He touches two fingers to Dean's neck, moves them higher to his chin. "Ankles too?"

Dean shakes his head. The fingers move over his mouth. He sees a flash of uncertainty in Sam's eyes before he speaks, but once he does, the words are out with as much confidence as Daniel, rookie state cop, had carried himself. It's more exciting to know that Sam's comfort zone is being pressed, acting the dom so that he can keeping getting orgasms from Dean. It's unnecessary; Dean would drop down to his knees for Sam anytime he asked, but being told to go there is so much better, so much hotter, so he might just hold on to that tidbit for now. Besides, with Sam in this mood, he doesn't seem very inclined to vocalization. "Is that so that you can spread for me?"

Dean nods.

"You gonna be my toy, Dean?"

He finds his voice, because the words are habit. "Yes, Master."

Sam's tongue darts out, licks his own lips, as though what Dean had said was yummy. "Then get in bed while I get the rope." Dean moves to obey, but there's a hand on his arm, and Sam is whispering in his ear, lips brushing the lobe. "No clothes."

It's surprising how good he is at sounding authoritative when he needs to. Sure, he'd heard Sam's demon-ganking voice, but that wasn't this one. This one is pretend. Someday, Dean vows, he will receive commands from the other, the one with cold evil at the edges, but for now, his skin is aching for the burn of the rope and the possession of his body.

He chooses Sam's bed; let him stew in whatever juices end up sliming the sheets by the time they're through. He lays down, nude down to the fur on his toe knuckles, and waits with anticipation. He watches Sam rifle through his duffel, movements methodical. He pulls out a few other trinkets that make Dean's eyebrows raise; with the bottle of ID lube, nipple clamps, Lifestyle condoms, adjustable-size cock rings, crazy butt plug that even Dean would be too timid to try while sober, ball gag, and paddle, Dean is starting to think that Sam might have been planning this. He holds off on teasing the kid about it, because he doesn't want to kill the vibe, but afterwards, all bets are off. For now, it's kind of cool seeing how much thought Sam's obviously put into whatever it is he's about to do.

When Sam looks at him, Dean can see the smile he's fighting off as clearly as if he just let it spread across his face; he has a terrible poker face. Dean knows he looks good naked, but it's probably a bit more than that. Dean's favorite moment is when someone realizes that he's all theirs to do with as they want. He thinks this moment might be now, spread out on the motel sheets, arms-outstretched like Christ and absolutely ready to bow to Sam's will.

Rope in hand, Sam approaches the bed. "If my toy wants to stop, he says, "Android." Then I stop and check-in, make sure my toy isn't broken, and see if he wants the play to end."

Dean can't help the eyebrow that rises sassily on his forehead. He also can't help the taunt that comes out, falling from his lips before he can suck it back. "Someone's done their research." He wants to retract it. He wants Sam to feel proud of himself, vain even, the better to order him around, the better to use him. He's broken the fourth wall of sex play and he could punch himself. He lowers his eyes, lets the guilt rise as much as it wants to his face, wants Sam to know that he's penitent, that the teasing had been accidental, instinctive.

Dean has never needed a safe word in all the times that he's played slave to women and men with experience and without names, partners that have left bruises and welts, sometimes even scars, but never touched deep enough. He won't use it with Sam, in part because he knows that Sam won't hurt him badly, but mostly because he wouldn't mind if he did. It's good that Sam has learned how to play the game, might even use it in the future after he's used Dean up and moved on.

"Close your eyes," Sam commands. Dean obeys, gratitude for Sam's disregard of his verbal slip filling him. "I'm going to bind your wrists together, Dean."

When Dean crosses his arms above his head, making things as easy as possible, Sam chuckles. The intimation of his own eagerness doesn't bother Dean one bit; he's never minded being a slut and he's just happy to be given the chance to be Sam's slut. Before the rope, he feels Sam's fingers. They're so long; Dean wonders for the hundredth time just how large Sam is going to grow. Thumb over the veins of his wrist, a gentle stroke, and then Sam's teeth, nibbling at the sensitive skin there, before the touch of the rope. It's too smooth. Dean wants rough hemp rope, something that will burn when he twists. He frowns.

"The toy is displeased," observes Sam. He hasn't even knotted anything yet, just wrapped the rope around twice, as though seeing if it fit.

Dean shakes his head vigorously. He has preferences, but he's not displeased, wants Sam to keep going.

He can hear Sam move away; he's a good slave, or toy as Sam seems to prefer, and so he keeps his eyes shut tight, though he's desperate to know how badly he's fucked up by having shown unhappiness with the material choice.

"Because he'd prefer this?" Sam's voice, low, teasing, asks before he wraps Dean's wrist with something else.

Dean moans, because he can already tell that it's hemp, rough, and scratchy and because Sam had known, without him having to say a word, what he wants. Even the best masters aren't psychic; this is just Sam knowing him, which is so incredibly hot and new.

The rope tightens and he can feel Sam's fingers creating a knot. He wants to start pulling on it, but it's too soon, his struggle would hinder the process. Instead, he tries to guess the type of knot by feel, guesses it's a simple half-hitch or similar variant.

His skin itches, but not from the rope. It's impossible not to be excited when bound. It's one of his favorite places to be. Nowhere to be, nothing to do but please. All he has to do is allow someone to do whatever they want, and they love him for it. It's the easiest acceptance Dean's ever found.

Sam pulls on the rope, raises Dean's hands higher and the movement stops short. Sam's tying the rope to something, without his sight, Dean can't tell what, but it's secure enough that when he tugs, he feels no give. Dean smiles. Clever kid, he thinks, and then Sam's wrapping his ankles. At first it startles him, thinking that maybe he's ignoring Dean's request, that he isn't actually going to fuck him, but then, the ties aren't uniting his legs. Sam drags rope under his Achilles tendon and over his ankle several times before setting into work on a knot. Dean squirms, arms pulling uselessly against the rope. Again he isn't sure what Sam's using as counterbalance, but slowly, each of his ankles gets pulled outwards towards the edges of the bed and locks there.

Sam is making him feel special, like he's worth restraining. That feeling intensifies when he feels Sam's eyes on him. At least, he knows that Sam isn't moving anymore and there are prickles, hairs tickling upwards, that make him feel watched.

The room is quiet for a full minute, no movement, no conversation, just Dean and Sam and rope and trust. Dean basks in it.

Then a hand presses on his stomach, across his navel, and the bed next to him lowers with Sam's weight. "You know," says Sam in the softest of voices. "I haven't touched you before, Dean." A finger lazily swirls down from his belly button through the patch of hair above his penis. "It's only been you touching me. Now, all of you right here… well, I can touch anything I want, can't I? It's not like you're in a position to stop me."

Dean breathes in shallowly, quickly. The finger feels good, the words feel better. He bites his own lip, worrying at one corner.

"I gave you a safe word, my Toy, but you don't know if I'm going to listen to it." Sam probably doesn't realize the taboo his words are crossing, breaking the sacred trust of top and bottom, but he sure as hell realizes that Dean likes it what with the way that Dean can't keep his body still, every pull of rope on wrist and ankle sparking pleasure and want in him.

The playful finger runs across his thigh, skates across the sensitive skin of his balls. It tickles like hell but Dean doesn't laugh, though his abs and teeth clench in unison to prevent it. It travels back up across his limp penis, squeezes at it a bit. This part of sex never changes for Dean and with Sam, he imagines that the explanation will need to be lengthier, because he's gonna latch onto it, a waheela with a bone, like he does. Instead of the question Dean's expecting, he feels Sam's mouth and that is much more pleasant, though it catches him by surprise and his lips make a popping noise.

No doubt the head that Sam gives would be better if he were hard, if Sam could bob like he's trying to do, like the porn stars do, but as it is, it feels wonderful but sloppy, amateur, or maybe Dean's just thinking that because he knows it's the teen's first time. He loves that Sam is giving him this first, like he's let him have so many other firsts, but Dean also wishes that he was giving him something more exciting, something more to expectation.

A hand follows the mouth, jerks him in between sucks and licks. Dean moans, sensation igniting his nerve endings. He pulls on the ankle bindings; they distribute the weight well, and Dean's glad that even though he's fucking a virgin, he's also fucking a hunter.

Sam eventually stops, which is good, because Dean wants to be fucked, but then he does get the question. "Dean?" Sam asks in a tentative voice.

Dean's grateful that he's been ordered to shut his eyes, because he doesn't want to see the look of confused disappointment on Sam's face. He would break himself apart before letting Sammy down and he won't, because sex is something he's good at, making people feel good. He just has to redirect Sam's attention. "Thought you wanted to fuck me, Master," he pleads, arches his hips upwards.

There's hesitation in Sam's voice. "Do you… want me to?"

Dammit, he thinks. This is not how it's supposed to go. He frowns. He wants the dominant voice back, the reason why he's still got his eyes shut, the reason why his hands are in the air even though his shoulders are starting to fuzz with lack of blood. "Want to please you," he says.

"But you…"

"Sam," says Dean, breaking character, has no choice because if they have the conversation now, the one about his fickle cock, he's never gonna get fucked, never going to own some small part of Sam, never going to feel loved, even if it's just lust in disguise. "I want you to fuck me. I want you to control me. Please." The word please only seems to leave his lips in situations like this or in sarcastic valley girl drawl when some stranger is being an idiot. "Use me."

It may be the permission, or the words, or another act for the benefit of his partner, but Sam moves into action. His hands are grabbing at Dean's thighs, fingers biting deliciously into the flesh and Sam's mouth is on his, licking his lips, opening his mouth with the force of his kiss. Then Sam's mouth moves over his neck, and his nipples, and his hands are lower, moving underneath him, cupping his ass, raising it.

Dean exalts in the passion, thrives on it, could fucking drink it down like it was water. He feels warm and wanted, hot and desperate. Sam's everywhere, biting and scratching, and now his cock is twitching interestedly, and for a strange short moment, he wishes his hands were free so that he could grasp at Sam too, feel the strong thin body under his fingers, but the impulse passes as quickly as it comes, and just wants Sam inside him. He moans and pleads, "Please….Please master."

But Sam removes his body, heat following, and Dean is hoping to god that Sam's just getting lube, because he's gonna scream if Sam's fetish is to leave him tied up and wanting, lusting after a filling cock that he can't see because Sam still hasn't told him he can look. He'll learn what Sam likes, but he goes ahead and whimpers a bit, lets his master see how great his need is.

The last thing that Dean expects is what he gets, and he does look, because Sam's fingers are on the knots. He's yanking them undone, freeing his wrists. Sam is naked and beautiful, face determined and cheeks red. The loss of the ropes is a small cost for the view of seeing Sam this way, plus, as soon as Dean's arms fall back to the bed, he realizes just how numb they were getting.

"I did not…" snarls Sam, grabbing Dean's jaw with his thumb and forefinger, squeezing into it, "Say you could open your eyes."

It is possible for a human to liquefy, Dean's seen it, but when he does it, it has nothing to do with a Vore nor any other supernatural creature, just Sam's luscious angry words and the pain radiating up his jaw. He whines, the image of Sam's intense eyes burning behind his now closed eyelids. The pressure of Sam's fingers lighten and then there are lips again, pressing into his. They don't linger, Sam doesn't either. He's away again, leaving Dean to puddle on the bed, waiting with racing heart and closed eyes.

Next it's his ankle restraints and Sam rips them off hurriedly, runs his large hands over the tender exposed skin, and then places licks there, until Dean huffs, his best restrained giggle, because man, that tickles.

"Get on your knees."

Yes! Dean's mind cries. He scurries to obey, head lowered and ass up. His wrists feel a bit shaky, but he puts most of his weight on his knees and thighs. He knows the blood will return soon enough, that his arms will pulse and burn, red hot where they now feel like ice.

"I'm going to fuck you, Toy, but first, I'm going to get you slicked up for me."

If they weren't already in the moment, he'd request less lube, but as is, he's obedient, plus, he'll get the pain setting into his arms and wrists soon, plenty of fuel for his libido. "Yes, Master," he whispers.

The lube is fucking cold, but Sam's fingers aren't and they slip inside of him, two right off the bat. Dean groans, pleasant pressure making his ass clench, encouraging his hands to grab into the mattress. Then it's three and Sam is pushing them in and out, and his hips are rocking back into the fingers, yeses falling from his lips every time they're all the way up inside him.

"Fuck," says Sam and his voice is a breathy rasp, an absolutely overwhelmed and overwhelming sound.

Dean's knees shake under him. "Please, please, Master, please." The fingers aren't a cock, aren't good enough. His hips don't seem to know that, bucking as they do backwards, lurching as though Dean's fucking and not just getting fingered. Sam pulls his fingers out, shuffles around, grabbing more of that cursed lube.

When Dean feels the head of Sam's cock for the very first time against his ass, he could cry because of how badly he's wanted this for so long. He's making a noise, a whine and a squeal and he just wants so badly. Sam's hands are on his ass which he's offering up, lowering his shoulders and spreading his legs to best offer himself up, body language screaming that he's all Sam's. Then Sam is in him, one swift glorious glide in and fuck if he hadn't been right about that amazing cock head. "Fuck!" Dean yells, every internal nerve ending lighting up like a Christmas tree.

Sam is also cursing, streams of "fuck" and "oh God," even some unintelligible words. Sam's cock slides back only a little before driving into him again and then the strokes lengthen, a sweet rhythm that he keeps by pulling on Dean's hip bones, urging him to ride as much as he's being

Each time Sam bottoms out, Dean's vision sparks pinkish white, the color of the back of his eyelids in sunlight. It feels as warm as sunlight, the stretch of his ass, sure, but also the emotions pouring over him. Dean's never liked anyone that's fucked him, not like he likes Sam. This joining, this intense, scream out from his bones pairing, is breaking him from the inside out. That it feels just plain good is an awesome bonus, his ass clenching around the invading cock sending lightning zaps across his skin, through his cock, through his brain.

They're both panting, both swearing. The box springs crunch beneath them, creating a song, each thrust a note. When Dean's wrists give out, he just switches to his elbows, and Sam's hands move down along his back, pushing into it, fighting for leverage as his cock pistons out of Dean at an angle the greatest mathematicians would be impressed by.

"Fuck Dean, gonna… gonna…"

"Fill me up, Sammy. Give it to me. Fuck me, Sammy," he encourages. Then, the litany of, "Use me, use me, use me," that always makes them come, always makes cocks boil over, streams out of his mouth. He isn't even sure if he means them this time, because this is something different and the go-to lines don't fit quite right. Sam is still puffing away, a steam engine of lust behind him, and Dean is feeling closer to coming than he ever has with another human present, cock feeling full as it bounces between his legs, shifting with each slamming of Sammy's hips. And he says, unintentionally, without any scheming to get the cock to release, "Need you, Sammy," and he feels Sam throb inside him, hears the choked sound of Sam's orgasm, feels the way Sam's hips lose any coherent rhythm, instead pressing as tightly as they can, hummingbird hip thrusts as he comes deep, so blissfully deep, inside of Dean.

Sam gasps, collapses across Dean's back, but Dean's already wriggling away, untangling himself from the Sasquatch's limbs, fleeing to the bathroom. It's only a few steps away, but it feels like a mile with the way his knees threaten to collapse and in his fear that Sam might see his face. He slams into the door, shuts it, locks it, behind him, doesn't even bother turning on the light. He scrambles for the shower, pushing back the curtain and then fumbling for the handles in the dark. The water is loud, like he needs.

Dean wipes at his face, tears still rolling down, wipes them on his forearm and with his fingers. He doesn't dare sniffle, isn't sure the water is loud enough to hide that tell-tale sign. He leans against the wall, nearly perforating his skull with the towel hook, and cries silently. He keeps hearing the words "Need you," repeating in his head, thinks of how it felt to say them. He'll come up with a way to explain them, pillow talk, or maybe he'll pretend he hadn't said them at all, and he'll wash the evidence of his tears away in the shower water but for now he gives himself this moment to just lose it, shaking and scared and feeling shit he doesn't understand.

When John pulls up to the house on West Mariposa Drive, Chalendra is right there in the front yard, wearing bright orange ear plugs that match the belt sander spinning away under her hands, goggles, and a dust mask that covers her mouth and nose. He kills the Sierra Grande's engine and waits for her to finish her task. A plume of wood dust rises up from a sturdy-looking cart. John thinks the wood might be birch, at least in hue, but then, he's better acquainted with metal. She stops the sander, examines its texture looking for spots she may have missed and she must find one, because she starts the tool back up, going back to one spot with gusto.

Though he's her boyfriend, as she'd made abundantly and embarrassingly clear in front of Dean and Sam, he can't help but feel like a creeper as he watches her work. She's a knockout in cut-off shorts and a tube top, sweating in the summer heat and handling a power tool like a pro. If he didn't already know her, he would have to get to know her, just watching her like this, have to introduce himself and pull out a level of charm he hasn't used since his twenties.

Once she sets down the sander, he gets out of the truck. The grass is striped from a recent mowing. Bluebells line the driveway and the path leading to the front door. This is rare for him, being able to see a peaceful suburban setting without some horrible tragedy at its heart. Every time he goes to the white picket fence areas, he's in disguise, an FBI agent asking questions about a grisly murder or a missing child or a gas line repairman who needs to convince the family to get leave their house for a few hours so that he can purge something nasty from the basement or attic. The wholesome environment used to be all he knew, back when he still had Mary and hopes for the future, but it's foreign to him now, seems naïve. Horror comes to these places just as frequently as trash-filled back alleys and pitch-black abandoned warehouses. The rows of bluebells serve the same purpose as his police uniform, masking the truth, burying it beneath something safe and ordered.

John makes it to the sidewalk before Chal notices that she's got company, her head turning to the sound of his boots. He smiles, pleased to see her and glad he'd been able to pull off the surprise. The temptation to tell her how close he'd been to San Antonio the previous night had been acute.

"John Winchester!" she cries, voice barely muffled by the mask.

Catching her up in his arms as she flings herself at him is one of the greatest sensations he's ever felt. Her waist feels small where his forearms tighten around it. He can smell her coconut shampoo and her sweat and the dust of the cart. Her body is surging with energy and happiness. His own is doing similar, but primarily focused lower, and he's glad that his jeans are restricting.

"John!" she says again. When she looks at him, it's through the goggles, but her eyes are still bright and excited, the brown of her irises overwhelming her pupils in the direct sunlight. "You surprised me with a visit!"

He nods and pulls down the dust mask, quickly replacing it with his lips. At first, he's kissing teeth, because she's so smiley, but soon they're on track, lips and tongues saying their own salutations. The heat of the day ratchets up as her kisses have the same effect they've had on him each time he's had the opportunity to feel them. One of his hand threads through the hair of her ponytail while the other stays around her waist, pulls her possessively close to him.

When they finally separate, though only so far, they're both out of breath. She smiles, cheeks rosy red. "I like kissing," she says.

"You do it very well," he says, also smiling.

She laughs. "I've just been trying to emulate your actions." Then, she seems to realize something. "You found a hunt here in San Antonio?" she asks urgently. "I hadn't noticed anything!"

Still twiddling with her hair, he shakes his head. "Nope, just thought I'd stop in and visit my gal." The endearment feels good on his tongue, much like his gal does. "I figured you might want some company with Sam away."

She smiles. "You're afraid I have been lonely! Well, I have been catching up on projects, as you can see. I do feel his absence though." She gasps. "The house! Oh, I haven't invited you in! Come and see my house!"

Her hand entwines with his and then yanks hard turning his arm into a leash as she makes her way across the grass to the front door. His attempt to avoid trampling the flowers leads him to crash into her once they reach the porch. She's sturdy, barely wobbles, but she does laugh. "Sorry, I should not be manhandling you!"

"Please do," he says with a wink.

She pulls back the screen door and he enters, thrift store smell hitting him. He'd forgotten about the rickety second-hand furniture and dusty knick-knacks that her last house had, how he'd been sniffling the rest of the night because of the smell. He barely has a chance to look over the room before an animal is wriggling against his leg, demanding his full attention. He cranes his neck down, sees the beast, and freezes.

Instead of a dog, as he'd expected for the instant before he'd looked down, he sees a small waheela, fluffy, and white with pink eyes that match… its collar.

"Chalendra," his throat sounds dry. "Why is there a waheela in your living room?"

The thing whines, its front paws alternating between stepping on his boots, which he can't feel for the steel-toe, and digging at the rug beneath them. Chal, behind him gasps.

"Oh…." She says. She's pulled up the goggles and they sit atop her head like two round hats. Biting her lower lip, she looks at the waheela then back up at John. "Well… I…."

Annoyed with being ignored, the creature yips, sound not unlike the kind a puppy would make.

He waits but she pulls a Lucille Ball face, obviously not wanting to share the truth of the situation, and he feels the trickling of a headache seeping into the center of his forehead. He rubs a hand over his face as his brain catches up with the situation. Dean. Dean and Sam, they'd been the ones to do the final sweep of the waheela cave back in Michigan. "They brought it back to your house?" he asks, feels the edges of anger, the first drops of rain before a storm. "Dean let Sam bring a monster home as a pet?"

Her skin-kissed shoulders lift in a shrug. "It is a very tiny monster," she says.

He shouldn't glare at her. After all, she had been with him while they'd been going against the hunter's code, hadn't participated directly in the thing's rescue. He can't help it, though, because, as he reminds her, "It isn't going to stay that size forever! When it goes into its blood lust, it's going to kill people, small or not!"

All joviality gone from her, only because he's yelling and mad in the living room into which she had just invited him, she replies. Her face is calm, confident, as are her words, and it helps, somehow, because it doesn't feel like she's making excuses. "It has a very well-constructed cage located in a heavily-sigiled area of quarantine during its rage times. As for its inherent wild traits, these have been about inconvenient, but really more similar in nature to a puppy or cub than an actual feral beast." She smiles, softly, tentatively. "She's actually quite sweet."

He paces, not knowing what to do with his anger, unsure where to direct it in Dean's absence. "I raised him better than that. That thing's parents tore apart a teenage girl! You think you can contain it, but you can't." She doesn't contradict him with words, but her face does. "It only takes one slip!" he yells.

"John Winchester, you will keep your voice down in my home," she says, voice quiet, threatening in its firmness.

He stops moving, rubs his forehead. He's not mad at her; he's mad at his son for allowing Sam to do such a stupid dangerous thing. "Sorry, Chal. Goddammit. I could beat that boy."

The hand she places on her shoulder works, gets his attention and calms him. "Dean allowed a hunter to bring her to a hunter household. You must remember that we are not weak, not as vulnerable as other humans." Then, after a moment, she loops her arms around his waist. Nose to nose, she says, "They showed compassion and you should be proud."

He huffs. "Compassion. That just means weakness."

"Sam's greatest strength is his compassion. His heart has the power to change the fate of this world."

Her conviction, a solid structure nearly visible in her words, gives him pause. He would never say bad things about her son in front of her, but more than that, John remembers how frighteningly powerful Sam had been in Ohio. Abilities like that, Sam could very easily be something that needed hunting. Things like compassion keep it from being so, keep John and others like him from having to consider Sam the enemy.

"I don't like it," he mutters, childishly.

She kisses him, quickly. "I like her."

"Her?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Cujo!" Chal says happily, pointing at the white fluffy beast.

He groans. "Dean named the damn thing?"

Sex, which has more devotees than Starbucks, is not overrated. Sam had expected it to be like really good masturbation, just stimulated genitals and relaxing physical release, hadn't expected to feel the arousal in every millimeter of his body, the pleasure striking parts of him that he's fairly sure don't have nerve endings; when he'd come inside of Dean, he'd been positive that even the tips of his hair had enjoyed it.

That's not to say it was perfect, because there were moments when Sam was convinced that the whole endeavor was a disaster, like when he'd first tried out his master voice and then waited for Dean to mock him or when he'd pulled all those sex accessories from his duffel (the culmination of several deliveries from and one remarkably humiliating trip to Adult Novelties on New Braunfels ave.) and Dean had mocked him. Then, of course, there was the moment he'd realized that, despite every kinesic and audio clue he was receiving to the contrary, Dean's dick had been completely limp and Sam had instantly felt like the lamest, least experienced lover ever to climb into another man's bed. He'd thought he was doing so well, Dean writhing around in his restraints making those puppy-like whimpers that were somehow just as hot as Dean sucking his dick. The discovery of Dean's flaccidity had knocked the wind out of his sails and out of his lungs.

Joaquin had told him, as they watched their fellow classmates skate around the frozen Thread Lake, "Every girl is different." He'd been talking specifically about Deanna Lasky and his own cunnilingual prowess, a boast half-heartedly disguised as advice imparted by an under-qualified sexually active fifteen-year-old boy, but it had flickered in his mind as Dean lay beneath him begging in the most desperate of voices for Sam to fuck him while his cock slumbered against his pelvis. There were puzzle pieces drawing together and Sam didn't have any idea what the whole pictures looked like, but he wanted to, wanted to fit those pieces that he could together, and start understanding who Dean was underneath the masks that Sam was only beginning to see that he wore. Dean needed to feel used to enjoy sex, needed to be at someone's mercy. Sam didn't need to know why, at least not just then while they were in the moment, just needed to give him that. If Dean needed to be mistreated to get off, then Sam was totally ready to be an asshole.

The morning after Sam has discovered the awesome of sex, they're putting impressive dents in the plates of greasy breakfast foods, piling away the drippy hotcakes, crispy hash browns, too thin bacon strips, juicy sausage, and boysenberry jam-topped wheat toast.

"I haven't eaten this much bacon in my whole life," Sam says.

Dean speaks with a mouthful of hash brown. "Must've been tough to get a hold of, what with Chal being vegetarian and all."

"When I was little, yeah. I didn't have any meat at all til I was like, six, I think. Hard to miss something you've never had."

Dean quirks his head to the side and squints, considering. "I don't know. I kinda miss Catherine Zeta-Jones and I've never had her." He grins, proud of his joke.

"So, where are we going next?"

Dean shrugs. "Dunno. We'll probably just drive, pick up some newspapers in the next place we land. Either that or Dad will call with a lead."

As freeing as it is to just do the pin in the map method that Dean is suggesting, its inefficiency irks Sam. "Why don't we check the net; then we wouldn't waste time driving somewhere that's a bust."

"You in a hurry?" teases Dean, boysenberry jam oozing across his lower lip.

Sam can't believe, with those full, enticing lips, that Dean isn't a good kisser. He isn't terrible, just sort of robotic, maybe a little cold. Sam had felt like he needed to compensate, probably bringing in too much tongue and saliva, to make up for Dean's lackluster osculation. Yeah, the previous night hadn't been perfect.

"Just seems easier, that's all. I can drop by the local library and find a case in minutes rather than days."

"Cool, well, we can do that then," says Dean.

His quick agreement surprises Sam. "What?" You're not gonna call me a nerd and ignore my suggestion?"

"You're a nerd whether I say it or not, so why bother?"

Sam rolls his eyes, then hides his smile behind his coffee mug.

He doesn't even bother to tell Dean about the first two case leads, possible haunting and possible possession, that he stumbles upon in the Miami Herald because he remembers Dean's rant about Florida, and would rather not have to listen to it every mile that they're in the sunshine state. The possible case of exsanguinated redheads north of Seattle that he does tell Dean about earns him some kind of "Yay, vampires!" blowjob right there on the passenger side of the Impala, verifies that he chose correctly.

On the 550, Dean talks about how he learned about cars from John, who used to be a mechanic before he became a hunter. His voice is the essence of sentimentality whenever he talks about the Impala, but more so when he tells Sam about the day that his dad passed it down to him, a four-wheeled legacy. Sam lightens the mood with the story of his first driving attempt; it's been four years and he still wants to blame that fence for being too stealthy.

On the 64, they take a piss and gas break. Dean buys Red Vines and Doritos.

On the 491, they swap dirty jokes. Sam manages to remember a few of Chal's angel limericks and Dean laughs.

On the 191, Sam goes into details about the day he'd had his first kiss, which Dean had identified months back as the worst date in the world. Dean rolls his eyes when he hears that Sam had met her in a library, but is otherwise very considerate, even looks sympathetic when Sam gets to the part with Amy ganking her own mom to save his skin. He also talks about Todd and the grocery store groping, how he'd liked the sensation better of scratchy chin and large hands, even if there was none of the emotional weight that his kiss with Amy had brought.

He asks Dean what his first kiss had been like and Dean says, "I was ten. He was nineteen." Dean doesn't explain and Sam doesn't ask.

On the 70, Dean suggests they find a motel. Sam, looks up from Maus and, noticing the darkening sky, agrees.

While Sam makes his nightly call to Chal, Dean showers and shaves. He adds a few Visine drops to his road-weary eyes and brushes his teeth, hoping to banish the onion ring breath from lunch. By the time he steps out of the bathroom, he knows he's got that look going on, the one that means he can pull anyone he wants, and he's looking forward to Sam ogling him just for a little outside confirmation, but the son of a bitch is lying on the bed, forearm over his eyes, and Dean's pretty sure that he's asleep judging by the deep rise and fall of his chest.

Well, they've spent nearly every moment together anyway. Dean's a touch disappointed that he's not going to get to drag Sam with his fake ID to the local watering hole, not going to get Sam tipsy with strong spirits and provide ample opportunity for the creation of stories that Dean will never let him live down, but it'll also be nice to be solo again for a while. Out of deference to Sam's age and inexperience, and also since he's never just left before, Dean actually leaves a note. "Bar – back a.m," he writes. He looks around trying to decide where the kid will see it, ends up leaving it on the toilet lid. Closing the heavy door as gently as possible, Dean sneaks out into the night, leather jacket slung over one shoulder.

The Impala's tires squeal as Dean swerves to make the turn in time to get into the parking lot of The Luck of the Draw Saloon. He'd nearly missed it and with a name like that, Dean definitely wants to check it out. It's been at least a few weeks since he's exercised his poker face and now that his money has to go twice as far, now seems like the perfect time to give it a go. Unfortunately, he forgets that he's in Utah, and is disappointed to find that the name is no indicator of the type of activities he can enjoy there. At least the saloon part holds true. He orders a scotch from a man who never once looks at his face despite checking his ID.

The place has a fair share of customers, not too busy, not too quiet. Dean drinks and considers both the people and his options for the evening; there is the potential for overlap of the two. There's a gal with long black hair and sad eyes. She's looking back and forth between the happy hour menu on the table and the door. If she's being stood up, then she'll be a sure bet if Dean wants to pick her up. There's a man who hasn't stopped looking at Dean since he came in, but Dean's tastes don't generally extend to guys in their forties, even if they are more experienced, and there's also something about him that Dean just doesn't trust. On some nights, that would make the guy a prime catch with Dean just letting him do what he wanted, acting like a victim when he could have the guy incapacitated in three seconds.

It takes time, time enough for the girl to give up on her date and leave all alone, for Dean to realize that he's just not feeling it tonight. The alcohol is warm in his belly and he orders another one. When he turns back to the room from talking with the bartender, the creep is there at his elbow, smile curling like the Grinch's.

"What are you drinking?" asks the guy.

Dean isn't going to go home with this man, knows that already, and so as a fellow meat market shopper himself, he saves the guy some time. "Not gay, sorry."

"I've never heard of that drink," the man jokes.

If this guy intends to seduce a straight guy that looks as good as Dean, he'd better learn some better lines. Dean thinks that Sammy could teach this man about witty comebacks. "Just trying to save you the time."

"It's only ten," points out the guy.

"We're in Utah," counters Dean. The creep has too many negatives going on to think that ten isn't too late to get laid tonight. He's older, in a straight bar, in Utah, and if Dean remembers correctly, it's also a weeknight.

The man laughs. "True enough. Well, good luck on your hunt, then."

It takes Dean a second to get that the guy isn't talking about werewolves and ghosts. "You too, man."

The guy walks away and Dean drinks the second glass of scotch. It's hard to be enthusiastic about fucking someone that isn't as hot as what he has back in his hotel room. In a way, it would be easier to go home with someone here. Then he wouldn't have to worry about having another emotional bitch fit, crying like a baby while getting fucked by Sam just because he feels something. He asks himself for the millionth time that day why he'd said he needed Sam, isn't sure it's true but knows that it is how he felt at that moment. That he's also losing interest in fucking others is a serious red flag. It's one thing for Dean to give his body to someone else to smash to pieces, his heart is a whole other story.

He throws back a couple of kamikazes and worries. Sometimes he makes conversation with the people around him, but mostly he thinks. He makes his way back to the hotel before midnight, buzzed, maybe a touch drunk, but nothing that won't burn off in another hour or two.

Sam is under the blankets now, just a bit of brown hair sticking up from the fluffy white pillow in the light from the open door. Dean closes it quietly behind him, but Sam wakes anyway. "Have fun?" the raspy sleep voice of Sam asks.

"Yeah, go back to sleep."

"Okay." It's a testament to Sam's tiredness that he doesn't argue.

Dean gets ready for bed; this is mostly just stripping down and emptying his alcohol bladder. On the toilet he finds a note in Sam's handwriting. It says, "Sleeping – conscious a.m." Dean chuckles before wadding up the message and chucking it in the trash. Smart ass even in his sleep.

Movies only focus on the loss of virginity if the female is under eighteen or the male is over eighteen, so Chal doesn't know how to feel about it now since even her human body is way past the eighteenth year. So much of how she's been taught to act in relation to other humans has come from Hollywood and, barring that, Sam. She knows how she feels about the sexual experience itself. That is pom-poms and Sam's cinnamon pull-a-parts and finally crossing the snowy egret off her rare bird watching list. What she isn't certain about is what comes next, how human society expects her to feel about herself, how she is meant to change the way she interacts with others. If she was a more movie-compatible age, then other women would think her promiscuous. As she has yet to make friends of either gender in Texas, this isn't something she needs to concern herself with. The man that she "loses her virginity to" (as though it was an object to be presented to others), will treat her differently depending on his attractiveness and the point in the film during which they had sex. John is remarkably, almost angelically attractive, so that could bode poorly for her. Another mark against her, is that their relationship is new, which she likens to being early in the film. The female protagonist never ends up at the end of the film with the man she loses her virginity with in the first half of the film.

It's all very confusing.

John, flared nostrils vibrating, is sleeping beside her, unaware of her confusion.

She hadn't answered Sam's nightly check-in call earlier, had been a bit too busy with the toe-curling, fingertip-numbing, body-purring activities. It's very late, but if Sam was in the house now, she knows that she would go to his room and wake him up, ask him for advice, and let him soothe her fears, so she's going to do it now and not let the distance change their relationship.

Moving lithely, she sneaks out of bed and shuts the door behind her as slowly and carefully as she can. The house is dark and she flips on the kitchen light, hears the jingle of Cujo's collar from her place at the foot of the stairs that lead up to Sam's room. As she dials Sam's phone number, the waheela comes into the room, shuffling and blinking, still half asleep.

"Chal?" he asks, voice groggy. She's amused to think of the resemblance between him and his pet who is lying on the tile next to her feet.

"Hello, Sam. I am safe."

He exhales. "Good. What's going on then?"

She searches for proper wording, but can't seem to find it, trips around the basic idea instead. "I've lost my virginity and I am not sure how I'm supposed to act now. I mean, what I should expect to feel differently and how people will be treating me now. If I should now try to find someone less attractive or if he really is the man at the end of the film."

"You what?" he asks, voice louder.

"I had sex."

"What? Tonight? Wait, don't answer that. With who?"

Chal scratches off a bit of dried tomato sauce from the counter with her fingernail. "With my boyfriend John."

She knows Sam well enough to picture his expression as he speaks and it makes her smile. "Oh God, Chal. I did not need to know that! You… ugh. Chal, you're weird. I'm just putting that out there."

"Yes, but how am I supposed to act now? Is he still my boyfriend? I wouldn't want to think that I lost my virginity to the jock with anger issues."

"Jock? Anger issues? Oh man." Sam makes a noise like a groan and a sputter mixed together. She's sure his phone must be covered with his saliva. "It's not a movie. You're just you, okay?"

"I haven't changed?"

"Well, yeah, you probably have. I mean, it's a big deal, but... God, I can't believe I'm having this conversation."

A voice, too low to be understandable, rumbles from the background. Sam answers a question the voice must have asked, "Believe me, Dude, you do not want to know."

"Oh, did I wake Dean up?"

"Yeah," he says. "Look, only you get to decide what it means to you, okay? If you don't want to change, don't. If you do, do. You're still Chalendra Ackles. This doesn't make you any less of a hunter or a mother or, or, you know what."

"Or former angel," she guesses.

"Yeah. This is just gonna be another part of you. It won't be the only thing that defines you."

Chal smiles, heart warmed. Just as she knew he would, Sam has said the perfect words to allay her fears. She misses being able to hug him, misses him period. "Thank you," she says gratefully.

"You're welcome. I guess? You really need to get some female friends for stuff like this."

"I will attempt to do so before you return home."

"Awesome. Good night, Chal."

"Good night, Sam."

Dean and Sam pass the drive through Montana exactly the same as the day before. It's all about stories from both their lives set to the backdrop of farm land and AC/DC, off-color jokes and Night Ranger. When they pull off for food, bacon cheeseburgers, Sam shows him some more pages of Hunters that he's drawn, some while on the road and some in the hotel during the night when Dean's out cold. Dean has never had such a good time traveling to a hunt. The years when he hunted with dad had mostly passed in silence, amicable enough but rarely fun. When Dad was sober he was tense, would have been considered by most as paranoid, but then, most didn't know that bumps in the night could kill you. Now that he's got Sam providing him a counter-example, his childhood feels just a bit sadder, like it needed the help. It would have been a lot more fun if Sam had been around then, filling the Impala with sarcasm and bright smiles.

"We can get into Everett by tonight, but it's not like we can question witnesses at midnight anyway," says Dean around Missoula.

"And, if we luck into finding the nest, we'll want to do it by day."

"Psh. How fast do you and Chal find nests?" Dean scoffs. It takes him and Dad weeks. An appropriate comparison, finding a vampire nest is like finding a needle in a haystack.

Sam rolls his eyes. "I said if we luck into it. Good to plan for every contingency."

"Learn that in boy scouts, Sammy?" Dean teases. Sam's quiet and so he takes a peek at the kid's face. "Oh man, you really were a boy scout?"

Sam plays it off. "Lots of guys were boy scouts."

With an evil grin, Dean says, "Guess that explains where you learned those knots."

Every now and then, Dean gets an idea light bulb so bright that he doesn't end up minding all the negative consequences that follow its implementation. His brain has outdone itself tonight. Between the taste of Bayern Pilsener on his tongue, the feel of medium rare steak in his belly, the touch of the warm night air, the sight of the ridiculously twinkly stars brighter than a rich chick's engagement ring, and the clinking sound of Baby's engine cooling beneath his back, this might be the best night ever.

"Is this crappy beer or do I just not like beer?" asks Sam, a warm shoulder against his.

"The beer is fine. You'll get used to it."

"How many would I have to have to get drunk?"

Dean laughs. "Only have a six-pack, Sammy. Should have told me you wanted to get drunk; I'd have bought harder stuff."

The breeze is cool, brings with it the scent of factory. Dean considers going for a second bottle, but he's so damned comfortable on the Impala's hood, cradled by the metal surrogate mom that she is. "You ever been drunk?"

"Nope," says Sam, sounding surprisingly unself-conscious about it. Dean figures he must be as relaxed as he is.

"That goes on the to-do list then, you know, once we're out of nest range."

"Sounds good."

"Big mammoth like you, it ain't gonna be cheap."

"With my luck, I'll end up being a lightweight." The metal pops as Sam rolls onto his side. Dean turns his head and looks at Sam's face illuminated only by moonlight. He can tell that Sam's thoughts are serious, probably brought on by the peaceful night. "Why did you start with the submissive stuff?" asks Sam as though he's asking what time it is. Dean's glad he didn't go for the second beer because he'd be doing a spit take.

Minutes pass while Dean considers whether or not he wants to answer. He doesn't talk about that part of himself. Even when he's doing it, there's this spring-loaded trap ready to send him back to his real self at the slightest sign of judgment. That he hasn't felt that with Sam, especially with how sexually green the kid is, is a freaking miracle. Sam's always just so grateful for anything that Dean put out there. He digs that acceptance. Whether he answers or not really comes down then to if Dean even knows why. Like anything sexual, there are always going to be reasons that make the brain pop up its "This feels good" signals, but in his experience, these are best left unexplored, good to keep the magic real by not learning how the trick is performed.

Dean sighs. "Not sure I know, Kid."

Sam nods, accepting the answer. "Can I ask another?"

"Why not?"

"Have you ever been in love?"

That's a much easier question, not just because it's a yes or no one, but because he knows the answer. "Nope. Was never in one place long enough."

Sam lays back. Dean would ask Sam the same question but since he knows Sam's only gotten to first base with one gal and had a quickie make out once with a guy, he's pretty sure he already knows the answer. He does, however, think of a question that's been bugging him. "Why do you call your mom Chal?"

"Because that's her name, dumbass."

"Whatever, dumbass. Most kids say 'mom.'"

Sam laughs. "I'm just kidding. Well, Chal's my adopted mom."

"Whoa, wait!" Dean sits up on the hood, arms behind him to keep him upright. "She's not your real mom?"

Sam's eyes glitter up at him. He's amused by throwing Dean for a loop with his revelation. "Nope, my mom and dad died when I was a baby."

"Wow. Why didn't you say that?"

"What's the difference?" he asks. "She raised me."

Dean thinks that he would never be able to accept another woman as his mom, but what does he know? He barely remembers his mom. His dad has had to be both his parents. Sam's lucky he's gotten another shot. Looking at it that way, it doesn't seem so bad.

He lies back down. "Makes sense, I guess. I'm lucky Dad didn't bite it the night my mom did."

Sam frowns, big dark eyes concerned. "I…" he stops, sips again from the bottle though his face clearly shows he's not a fan. "That's what you and your dad are hunting? Why you're targeting demons?"

Sam's intelligence saved Dean the trouble of explaining, and that is a relief. He shuts his eyes, lets a "yep," pop his lips.

"I hope I can help get him."

Dean smiles. "We've got a better shot with you than we ever had before."

"So, I guess Chal suggesting I join you guys was a good thing. And, not just for the kinky sex."

The beer bottle on his belly rises up and down as Dean laughs. "Yeah, Sammy, it's a good thing."

The night passes both slowly and quickly as they talk about things they haven't before, not with others. By the time they finish the six-pack, it's nearly dawn and they've run out of things to say, have been just lying side by side on the Impala enjoying each other's company.

The thirteen days it takes to locate, case, infiltrate, and eliminate the vampire nest are filled with interviewing witnesses, checking the marks on bloodless bodies, and watching security camera footage. The nights are sci-fi movies, take-out, and Dean's mouth and hands. A goth chick tells them about her friend who left a nightclub with a heavily-accented pale stranger and never returned home and Dean climbs into the shower with Sam, works an orgasm out of him with shampoo and experienced hands. As FBI Agent Tyler, Dean confirms the deep lacerations on the neck of one victim, then he returns to the hotel room where Sam has managed to get the internet on his computer (Seattle, it seems, is a little ahead of the game technology-wise) and he crawls, still in his suit, between Sam's legs and fellates him while Sam tries not to crush the life out of his laptop's keyboard. As state police, they get the security guard of the nightclub to allow them access to hours of mind-numbing security footage and Sam slurps on Cup of Noodles while Dean slurps on Sam.

Sam never knows when to expect these impromptu orgasms, is starting to have a Pavlovian response to Dean's presence. All he needs is that twinkle in Dean's eyes, sometimes a full-on wink if Dean's really frisky, and his dick hardens. It worries Sam. That's due in part because he can't help feeling like it's a bad idea to become habituated to something he can't keep; summer will be over eventually and then he'll only be seeing Dean sporadically, when he comes through town in between hunts. Primarily though it worries Sam because he doesn't understand what Dean gets out of it. Whenever Sam tries to reciprocate, reaching out with his fingers, Dean shies away, attempts to turn the focus back around, and Dean's cock is never fully hard. He doubts now that Dean did come when they fucked, the time that he'd rushed off to the shower immediately after Sam had filled his ass with much overdue ejaculate. It's completely possible to enjoy sex without orgasm, Sam understands this, but he isn't even sure that Dean does enjoy it. The noises he makes, the words that he says, the way his eyes sparkle greedily while he does those things to Sam's body that Sam's pretty sure no one else could ever do, they all say he enjoys it. But then, after Sam gets off, Dean is back to Dean again, as though a director has called the scene to an end. The disconnect is jarring and it becomes more and more uncomfortable each time it happens. Sam wants to give too, wants to offer something that Dean wants. God knows he'd do anything for Dean. It isn't until the night that they burn the vampire nest that Dean finally asks for something in return.

All Sam can smell, even after his shower, is the smoke. He swabs his finger around both nostrils trying to pluck imaginary ash from the tiny hairs there. When he emerges from the bathroom, white stiff towel snug on his hips, he asserts, "Next time, we get out of the building before setting it on fire."

"Agreed," says Dean who took his shower first, giving nature apparently not extending past the bedroom. He's lying on the bed, muscular body still dotted with water, little lickable drops in sporadic places. Sam can see this because he's not wearing a stitch of clothing. He hasn't seen Dean naked since the mummy hunt and the pleasant sensations of that night flood his brain, slowing the cogs of comprehension, and it takes him probably a half minute to notice that beside Dean's him, spread out, as though on display, across a wet towel, are four knives in descending order of size.

"Uh, Dean?" he asks.

Dean smiles a particularly mischievous smile. "I got an idea, Sammy."

Those exact words in that exact tone are how trips to the ER start. "Why am I worried all of a sudden?" he asks.

"So, all this hunting vampire crap got me thinking…" starts Dean. "Stop looking at me like that!"

"What look?" Sam asks, genuinely ignorant, and hoping he wasn't only staring at Dean's dick.

"Like I'm asking you to give a reach-around to a werewolf."

Sam thinks that if Dean had wanted to avoid triggering any trepidation, he shouldn't have lined up weapons on the bed, but Dean's ability to strategize seems solely relegated to field tactics. "Okay," Sam says. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, repeats a chant three times, and adjusts his facial features, letting them relax into the affection and trust that he feels for his friend. When he opens his eyes again, he feels calmer and more open to considering Dean's idea. "Sorry. What's your idea?"

Dean smiles from his creepy fungal toenail to his highest freckle. "So, we've ganked the blood suckers, right? Well, I was thinking maybe you'd want to see what the big deal is."

Sam blinks, completely and blissfully uncomprehending. "What?"

"You know, with the whole drinking blood thing." Dean's toes wiggle, excitement or nervousness, Sam can't tell. "My blood."

In Michigan, there were these two goth girls who carried around vials of each other's blood as necklaces. The other kids thought it was weird, sure, but about par for the course for goth chicks. Sam, though, knew that there is power in blood. Even if Chal hadn't told him, he would know it instinctively. He didn't judge them; they were just kids playing with things that they didn't know could turn real dark real fast, like little girls using Ouija boards at slumber parties, but he'd wanted to warn them, to tell them that there really are supernatural creatures out there and that nine times out of ten, they crave human blood. Messing with something powerful, something with allure for the dark monsters they fight, should be something that Dean should know better than to do. Even if they don't bring ritual into this, it's a dangerous thing, a stupid thing to suggest. And that's just the hunter inside him talking; that's not even touching on the fact that Dean wants Sam to bleed him.

"Now don't freak out," says Dean to Sam's silent panic. "Think about it. You've never tried it. You might never find anyone else to offer again. And if you don't like how it tastes or whatever, you can still keep cutting me. I'll still let you."

"Jesus," Sam says. Dean's eyes are pools of supplication. "I don't want to cut you, Dean!"

The hurt that he sees in those beautiful green eyes tells him that this is more than a hunt-related whim, more of an unfulfilled desire thing. It's all nuts, all of this. Then Dean is sitting up, posture hunched, covering his genitals and belly. The vulnerable places, Sam thinks. He'd been so desperate to have Dean ask him for something and here it is but it scares him, not just the activity, but the reasons that are compelling Dean's desire to be sliced into. He would pay good money for Dean to just want a blowjob, to just want to be held gently, anything that Sam can give him that he knows won't harm Dean's psyche more than it already is.

Sam moves to the bed, maneuvering deftly to avoid the trip trap his towel makes as he does, thighs wrapped by the white cloth like a vice, knees on the bed behind Dean. He places his hand on Dean's shoulder. "Hey," Sam says. "That's a good thing, Dean. You shouldn't want me to cut you."

The broad lovely shoulders he's touching shrug. "I do, though," words spoken so softly, they're almost lost to the patter of Seattle rain outside.

"Why?" asks Sam. He's thinking about their talk in the fields of Montana, about how he'd almost felt like he understood what Dean is seeking.

The shrug straightens. Dean voice sounds confident when he says, "Because I trust you."

"Then you should trust that I wouldn't hurt you." It's too rational, because Dean's libido has never shown any rationality.

Sam shimmies over to Dean's side, pressing his hip against Dean's, and he looks at Dean's face, hoping to judge how badly this is going. But Dean doesn't look upset. He looks, though Sam would never say it out loud, sentimental. "I know you wouldn't. Not unless I asked you to. Which I am."

"Ask for something else," he pleads. "It's too much." He wants so badly to give Dean a fraction of the pleasure that he's given him, but he doesn't want to feed Dean's demons by indulging whatever dark part of Dean craves this pain and humiliation.

The light from the dim bedside lamp flutters through Dean's long lashes. It's almost easy to forget about the more feminine aspect of his appearance, full lips and lashes disguised by bow legs and machismo, but there are times, like now, when the fact that Dean is beautiful hits him, slams into his chest and steals his breath. Those lips are in a minor pout, disappointment making him look younger, more vulnerable. Sam tries something he hasn't before, at least not with Dean untethered. He leans in to kiss those pouting lips, feels suddenly desperate to erase the disappointment, to assure Dean that he's still cared about, still wanted, even if he wants what Sam can't give.

Dean lurches backwards as though Sam's about to slam a fist into his face instead of his lips. "Hey, no worries man, it was just a thought." He slaps Sam's towel-covered leg and stands up, personality already shifted to normal, non-servile Dean. "So, we could go drinking though I guess it's a bit late for bars to still be open," he says reaching out to grab his jeans that are dangling carelessly over the damask fabric recliner. Sam stops him, one hand firmly gripping Dean's forearm.

"Just this once, Dean," he says, means it.

The other Dean, bedroom Dean, the lovely compliant masochist, nods, absolutely no time between transitions. Sam wonders if he's going mad indulging in this madness with his lover, but he can't help wanting to give all that he can, to try anything he must, to make Dean happy. He's just not sure where the line lies between indulgence and abuse and whether he'll know or not if he crosses it. "You're going to have to tell me, clearly what you want and what…. Well, what you want. One cut? A hundred? Do you want it to hurt? Do you want me to scare you?!" he stops as his voice shrills, fear lacing his questions. For the first time since he's started fooling around with Dean, Sam worries what this dynamic is doing to him, who he's going to be at the end of this, after all the dominance and head games and love disguised as sex.

"Make me tell you," Dean whispers. His eyes close and he waits with childish glee etched into the crook of his smile.

Sam shakes his head and pats Dean's arm. "No, Dean. If I'm doing this, we're talking about it first, like it or not."

Dean's eyes open and he looks sheepish. He nods and re-takes his seat on the bed. "Want you to treat me like the priest."

"The one in Clever?" asks Sam.

"Yeah."

"Okay, but I didn't cut that guy." Sam's trying to follow and he can tell that talking about this is really embarrassing Dean, darting eyes and lowered head, that he doesn't like answering questions out of Slave Dean Character. "So, what parts should I do? Asking questions?"

"No."

Sam swallows. "Acting like I don't care?" Dean nods, as Sam suspected he would. "Like I want you to hurt?" Another nod of humiliated affirmation. Sam's stomach is swirling. He hates this, every part of his brain screaming that this is a bad idea, but he's going to anyway, going to give it a try. "Okay, Dean, but… hey, can you look at me a second?"

Dean does, but in a cautious way, as though expecting Sam to back out. He's in a limbo of his two selves, Dean Dean ready to play off the whole thing and Slave Dean ready to acquiesce to anything.

"Whatever we do, however I act until… well, until we get some clothes on, I guess, I do care. Okay?"

Even though Dean flinches at the words, as though it hurts him, Sam refuses to regret his words because dammit, Dean needs to understand. "Even though you're a huge pain in the ass, you're still my best friend, and I think you're awesome." It's his turn to feel embarrassed because he's never said anything like that to Dean, to anyone but Chal really.

"So, buddy moment over?" asks Dean, smile curling the right-hand corner of his mouth.

"Shut up, asshat," says Sam. He pushes at Dean's shoulder.

"You're going to like it, I swear."

Then I'll fucking kill myself, thinks Sam. He lets the thought stay far behind his tongue. "I'm gonna go put on some pants first." As he's pulling on his baggy grey sweats, comfortable pants he now thinks of as his hotel pants, a thought occurs to him. "Quick question. When does it end?"

Dean, who is now lying back on the bed grinning like the cat that ate the canary, says casually, "When you come."

"And if I don't?" asks Sam, because he's pretty damned sure that making Dean bleed isn't going to get him off.

"You will."

Now, with his pants on and Dean's words ringing through his head, Sam feels more confident, more ready to commit to this scenario. If he's going to do it, he's going to do it right. He digs around in his duffel, finds handcuffs, metal shining like new since they're used so infrequently. When he approaches the bed with them, Dean squirms, this time definitely from excitement. "I'm going to handcuff you," Sam says, knowing that Dean won't mind the spelling out of actions, knows that he'll like it. "Hold your wrists out for me."

Obedience, instant and intense, Dean's arms shoot upwards.

"So eager," says Sam, a phrase he's used more than once as Dean's mouth has gone to work on his dick, one that he always responds well to. "You like being used. That's good. I like…" he clicks the first cuff over the thick wrist taking care not to close it too tight, as tight as Dean would probably prefer it. "Using you," he finishes, almost believes his own words. "And I'm going to use you good tonight, Dean. Going to make you…" He clicks the second cuff. "Bleed."

As though a cold breeze has blown through the room, Dean shivers, nipples tightening into sharp points and he chews on his lip. Sam can't help it, seeing Dean aroused makes his breathing shallow. There is nothing sexier than a horny Dean. "Lower your arms," he commands. With wrists connected, he can only position his hands so many ways; he lowers them, prayer style, folded fingers, across his sternum.

Sam climbs atop Dean, ass on soft warm cock. It is impossible for Sam to hide the affection he feels. "Dean," he whispers. He can look at Dean like this, when he's handcuffed, and he won't get snapped at, won't get chewed out or get called a girl. He seizes the opportunity, drinking in the firm pecs, the cords of neck, the bristle of fur on chin, the look of desire in glassy eyes.

All good things must end. Sam reaches over for a knife. It doesn't matter which one, large or small, he knows they're all sharp, knows how little pressure he'll need to draw blood. Their eye contact never breaks as he takes the knife in hand, guessing by handle which one fate has chosen. And Sam tries, as hard as he can, to look at Dean as he would a demon. If it really was a demon beneath him, he wouldn't be getting hard, and he wouldn't want to toss away the knife and kiss until they both died of dehydration.

Instead, he turns his attention to the knife, hovers it over the tender flesh of Dean's belly, as though he's contemplating slicing into his entrails. He shakes his head, moves the blade higher, over the handcuffs to Dean's throat where he can see his pulse pounding a steady firm beat. Dean swallows. Sam allows the tip of the knife to rest against Dean's Adam's apple, ready to pull away the instant that Dean moves, but he doesn't. He lies perfectly still except for the stirrings of his cock which Sam feels beneath him. So fucked up, his lover is.

"Gonna slice into that sexy throat of yours," Sam whispers. Dean shivers, thighs clenching tightly. "What do you think you taste like, Dean? Think I'll find it as delicious as your cock?"

Dean whimpers and Sam's disappointed in his own cock which jumps at the sound even with the knife hovering over Dean's throat, and fuck, he doesn't want this to be hot. He wants to be revolted, but it's Dean beneath him, helpless and hungry and everything Sam's daydreamed about since he discovered masturbation.

He positions the blade to the side of Dean's neck, feels with his fingers to avoid jugular and carotid, careful even though he won't be cutting deeply; he wants to make sure if he slips or Dean jerks that he's not going to kill his sweet dear friend. "I'm going to cut you now. Hold still, Toy. Gonna make you bleed for me."

A whimper and then Sam's doing it, sliding the sharp edge over Dean's skin, gently but smooth, and the whimper changes direction, becomes an inhale of surprise. The red blood bubbles immediately, following the line of the cut like a zipper. Sam stares down at the blood, at the color so bright in the dim room. Then he's there, hands against Dean's chest (doesn't even remember dropping the knife) and his tongue is licking up the forming pool.

His mind sizzles, synapses overloading with the heat that flows through him like the taste of copper does on his tongue. He hears himself moan, feels his fingers digging into the skin beneath him, and then his whole mouth is on the wound, not just his tongue, and he's sucking. Beneath him, Dean is bucking his hips, cock firming into the cleft between Sam's asscheeks. It tastes amazing, like life being offered up to him, like power handed to him on the delicious platter of Dean's neck. His lips nudge the ripple of skin where it divides, encouraging the blood to flow more freely and it makes sounds come out of Dean's mouth. It's tangy and sour and he can also taste remnants of soap or aftershave that mingle with the blood because he's licking at Dean's whole neck now, not just the wound and he's licking up Dean's chin, making his way to those fucking lips, the ones he sees when he closes his eyes.

"You taste so good," he hisses, the words massaging their lips together, before he kisses Dean. He knows that Dean can taste himself, knows that it's the greatest thing ever, to share that flavor of his life essence. His hips are moving and so are Dean's and that's not just a partial erection beneath him, not anymore, and Dean kisses him, not like a robot, not like a slave, but like Dean, warm and wanting and taking the blood from the inside of his cheeks and his tongue and off his teeth. They're panting and gasping and Sam doesn't know what's going on, doesn't really care as long as it means that Dean is kissing him. But the taste is going away, drowned by spit, and he leaves the lips, with the quick thought that he'll return soon, forsaking them for the wonderful taste of Dean's blood. The spot is pooled again, the time allowing for a gathering cluster of the warm liquid. He slurps at it like a soup. Each lick makes him harder and he feels like he could pound nails with the fucking thing by this point.

"Dean, Dean, have to be inside you," he hears himself whimper. His hands are darting around Dean's chest and his face, fingers pinching the wound, worrying it to make it give more. "Please, have to be inside you."

There is blood and there is lust and it isn't unlike how he felt when Cujo had made him go crazy, except all he can think about is pushing himself as high up inside Dean as he can. His vision is red, like the blood. Obedient, Dean is twisting beneath him, bearing both their weights since Sam isn't going to stop pressing himself up against the warmth of Dean's body and the wetness at his neck.

Slowly, Dean twists around so that his handcuffed hands are beneath him and his ass is against Sam's grey cotton pants, tented almost as though in caricature of an erection. Sam doesn't want to leave, not even for an instant, but the lube has never been far away and the pants can be taken off easily on the way to grab it. The elastic in the band snaps as he wrenches the pants to the floor, grabs the lube off the nightstand and gets his hands back on Dean where they belong.

The bottle spurts out a huge amount of lube and he coats his dick first before touching the tight pucker offered up by the tilt of Dean's hips. Dean moans as he does, and again when his finger climbs up inside.

"Please," he hears Dean beg.

With the hand not coated in lube, he reaches up, touches the wound, presses into it, delights in the small yelp of pain from Dean. "This is about me, not you," he growls and the loveliest sound Dean has ever made echoes through the hotel room. It is all want and need and desperation and it almost sounds like he's dying. Sam's said the right words, knows them now and commits them to memory.

Everything, Dean's asshole and cheeks and Sam's dick and hand are shiny with the lube, all ready to go and God knows that Sam wants to, but he wants one more taste before he does. "Lean back. I want more."

Dean obeys, the movement pulling his round ass away from Sam's cock as he stands straight up on his knees, but Dean's tilting his head to the side, offering him the wound and Sam can only mind so much. His mouth returns to it, to the bittersweet metallic taste that keeps Dean alive. It's flowing slower now, already healing, but the first swallow that drags it down his throat is still as delicious, still as invigorating.

Then he pushes Dean back down, not even bothering to give him a command, and slides his dick part of the way inside Dean's ass. It's better this time, better because Dean's hard. Sam's hand is feeling that, a new sensation for his hand, the hardness of someone else's dick. He slides deeper, enjoys the sounds Dean's making. Dean's holding himself up on handcuffed wrists and his neck is bleeding and there is a shine of sweat starting on his skin. Sam's eyes drink this in as much as his mouth did the blood, uses it to fuel his hips as he thrusts in and out of the tightness and as he grips around Dean's cock, jerking it in an uncoordinated manner.

"Fuck, Dean. Fuck, never felt like this…" he pants. "Can't fucking handle it…" It's true. He can't handle it, almost feels like he's going to black out every time his cock bottoms out. His vision is blurring, the world a swirling red and he can feel the orgasm building in his balls even though he's only been inside of Dean for a couple of minutes. He would feel sorry for it, but he can't, loves how he's feeling and would never stop feeling this way if he could.

Permission flows from Dean in the form of naughty encouraging words. He comes to Dean's deep voice saying, "Come inside me, Sammy. I'm yours. I'm all yours. I'm all yours." He comes and the red is all he can see, the copper all he can taste, the words all he can hear, and the tightness of Dean all he can feel. Then, everything goes black.

Sam isn't out for long, but is still disoriented as he comes back to consciousness. Dean's hovering over him, concerned expression and all, and the humiliation starts as soon as the realization hits him that he actually blacked out while fucking Dean. If there is a better time to find a hole to crawl in and die than now, he doesn't know it.

"Hey. You… kind of passed out there," says Dean awkwardly.

Sam rubs at his forehead which kind of hurts and says, "Shut up." Sitting up, surprisingly, produces no ill effects like dizziness or blurred vision. Dean's watching him, passes him a bottled water which he takes sheepishly. The water rinses away the coppery taste, which isn't much of a loss because the power that the taste had over him has ebbed, tastes just like blood now, not life.

"Should've told me you faint at the sight of blood, Princess." Dean looks at him slyly and Sam can't help it, he barks out a laugh. He covers Dean's face with one of his large hands and pushes the joker away. He was wrong to be so concerned about what the older hunter thought of him after they met, because he now realizes that Dean's going to like him anyway, going to accept him for the nerdy teenager that he is.

"Did you…?" he asks, gesturing towards Dean's flaccid dick.

"And practice my necrophilia? No thanks," jokes Dean. Sam's disappointed because he really thought that this time, Dean would finally come. It'd still be one compared to God knows how many Sam was up to, but at least they'd have a ratio if he did. Dean waves his hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. I got the part that I wanted." Then, in a lower secret-telling voice, he adds, "Told you you'd like it."

"Yeah, it seems so," says Sam. He's way worried about his reaction to the blood. It was like he was possessed. Dean should be worried too, might be if he knew what Azazel had done to Sam as a baby, if he knew the source of his powers. Sam is up for just writing it off as a fluke, maybe just finding a kink that bears a disturbing resemblance to an incident of childhood trauma. He's going to try that route, because his only other option is to worry about it constantly or explain to Chal what happened and get her feedback. Yeah, he's going to just stick with never doing that again and dismissing it as a weird thing.

"Well, I know you already got your nap in, but I think I'd like to catch a bit of sleep while there's still a little night left."

"Yeah, sleeping is probably a good idea. Um, but we should probably clean up a bit." There was still the matter of sticky lube everywhere and wound cleaning.

"Nah, we'll just sleep in your bed," says Dean, pulling back the covers and fluffing a pillow.

Sam shakes his head. He wants to share a bed with Dean like no one's business but he is not going to leave that cut disinfected, all of his training as a child too ingrained in him to ignore. "No, we clean that wound at least. I mean it."

Dean glares at him, but then his eyes soften. "Fine, but I'm cleaning it myself and you'd better not hog any covers while I'm in the bathroom."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Sam isn't too keen on climbing under the covers all gunked up like he is, but he is less keen on turning down Dean's offer to sleep together, so while Dean heads to the bathroom, he gets underneath the blankets, drinks a bit more water, and waits happily for his kinky teddy bear to return.

The bar, as Dean hoped, is packed. Granted, it's a lot of douchey Seattleites, but he doubts that Sam will know the difference, figures the kid will be happy just getting his drink on for the first time. Already that big goofy grin is spreading across Sam's face as he takes in the bustle of bodies, the clinking of bottles, and the din of conversations about inane things that don't involve the life or death struggles that hunters regularly face. Sam's dressed up a bit, button up dark blue shirt and jeans, and he looks all of fourteen, except for his monstrous size.

He leads Sam to the bar and the kid already messes up as he stands right in front of the spot clearly designated for waitresses to pick up orders. He yanks Sam closer to him, adjusting him to the side of the gold-colored rails. He waits for the bartender to start filling a drink close enough to hear him and shouts out, "Two double whiskeys and two IPAs." The bartender, busy, spares him a glance and a nod to acknowledge the order. Dean turns to Sam who is looking around the place like a kid in a candy store. "Once we get a shot or two in ya, we'll see if we can't find a lady that's interested in seeing your hotel room!"

Sam gives him the "You're the stupidest man in the entire world" look that usually only accompanies conversations about computers or books. "Dean, I like guys."

Oh, well, Dean hadn't really thought about that before. He's been assuming that Sam is a take it as you can get it type like himself, didn't actually think that Sam was only into dudes. "Oh, well fine then, some dude that wants to see your hotel room then."

Sam's shaking his head, but he's also smiling, and yeah, Dean can be a little slow on the uptake, but he gets it now. Sam will take the boys and he'll take the girls. Strangely, like the last time he came to a bar, Dean's still not feeling that need to bring someone back with him. He'll do it for Sammy's sake, make sure that the kid gets the full drunken bar experience complete with nameless stranger and headache in the morning, but he's still pretty sated from his morning shower wank and, of course, that crazy intense fuck that Sam had given him three or four nights back. He'd slept like a fucking baby that night, ass sore from Sam's dick and neck bandage pulling lightly on his skin, making him feel useful and wanted, like treasure. He'd even gone back to sleep after waking up wrapped in stupid sasquatch arms, figured that the kid didn't have to know that he'd woken up. He could, and did, play it off as weird that they both woke up cuddled up like sweaty kittens.

So, it's only for Sam that he starts objectifying all the people in the room, breaking them down by fuckability factors. He isn't sure what Sam's type is, has to be different than his own, but asking seems weird. At least he knows that Sam likes them handsome.

The bartender produces the alcohol and Dean hands Sam his first whiskey. It does him proud to see Sam knock it back, though that definitely wanes a bit when Sam makes a sour "icky" face. Then Sam begins coughing and all the pride leaves the building. "That's… strong," Sam manages to say, face red.

Dean shakes his head. "You'd better hope that none of the good-looking guys in here saw that."

"At least one did," says Sam with a wink.

It's too soon for the booze to be making him flirty, so Dean takes the compliment at face value. "Thanks, but I've already seen your hotel room."

He takes a few mouthfuls of his own whiskey which isn't bad for well whiskey. Then the twinges of a familiar melody strike his ear. The music playing in the bar isn't as loud as it would be in a club, low enough to get lost in the voices, and he strains to identify the song. It's I Think I'm Paranoid by Garbage, a song that he'd been instantly able to identify with. The familiar guitar licks and the alternating cloying and angry Scottish chick's lyrics combine with the taste of whiskey, make him feel relaxed, almost trance-like. For a second, he's glad this is just a bar and not a club, because he feels tempted to dance. Sam's people watching, large fingers curling around his beer bottle. Dean finishes the whiskey, warm pleasant burn down his throat, and eyes watching those fingers, remembering the way they felt wrapped around him and how… no, he can't let his mind go there. He stops the thinking and opens his mouth, since moving his mouth and thinking seem to be mutually exclusive actions for him.

"Okay, time for your pickup lessons, Sammy." He grabs his bottle from the counter and his friend's elbow and he heads to a section of potential one-night stands. There's a group of college friends, a mix of boys and girls, and Dean thinks that they've hit a smorgasbord between the boy with the bangs that are sticking crisply up with gel and the girl with the earring hoops that almost touch her shoulders. Buy one, get one free, he thinks before bumping the guy's elbow just hard enough to spill a bit of his drink. "Oh, hey," he says to the startled guy. "Sorry, about that! I am such a klutz! Good thing my friend here is loaded." He slaps Sam's shoulder. "Can he buy you a replacement?" Dean asks, hand offering up Sam like door #1 on that old game show.

The guy, eyeliner smudged in the corner of one eye, looks at Sam and, giving away too much enthusiasm, says, "Yeah, that'd be great."

Dean has plenty of time to congratulate himself on his prowess as Sam and the sticky-up bang guy make introductions and travel to the bar. In the meantime, the cluster of females of the group are looking at him, sizing him up. He smiles at them winningly. "Hey, ladies. Sorry, just had to help my brother out a bit. He's totally hopeless."

The blonde laughs the hardest, says in a low-pitched but somehow perky voice, "That's nice of you!"

"Why yes, yes it is, but now I should probably be looking for myself, right?" He's going through the motions. A quick glance at the bar shows him that Sam and Bangs are trying to get the bartender's attention.

"Well, you could try one of us," suggests the redhead. "But, Katie has a boyfriend!"

Katie is apparently the blonde, because she shoots a look of venom to the redhead who has ratted her out. The meat market is a cutthroat near post-apocalyptic world, a fact Dean's well-acquainted with. "Mind if I grab a seat, then?" he asks both girls. They nod eagerly and he settles in for a long wait as Sam still hasn't gotten the bartender to notice his existence let alone made any progress with Bangs.

Gil, the doofus with the stupid eyeliner and nail biting habit, keeps brushing his hand across Sam's leg every chance he gets. Dean has known Sam for months now, knows that his jokes aren't that damned funny. Even the girls are rapt by every word that comes out of his nerdy friend's mouth, as though he's some kind of Jesus or something. And Sam is eating up all the attention like the teenager he is. Dean's peeled the label off both his beers.

"Well, the reason he acts like that is because it always has been just about his sister and him. If his mom or dad took an interest in his life, then he wouldn't be a, what'd you call him? A twat?"

They are at a bar drinking booze and picking up chicks (and dudes) and Sam's talking about books. That shouldn't even work. Dean regrets selecting the group of college kids, frickin' know-it-alls.

Gil is nodding and stroking Sam's leg and Dean kind of feels like punching him. "But look at how even your remedy for his personality is buying into the social norm. 'A two-parent household could have raised him to be compliant,' is basically what you're saying. What's wrong with the way that Holden turned out?"

"Well, he's unhappy, for starters."

"Unhappiness can be essential for character growth," says the stupidly educated doofus. Sadly, Sam seems to consider the guy's point, as though he isn't just talking out of his ass.

Dean needs a break from this intellectual crap. He stands up and Sam's eyes immediately focus on him. "Just gonna hit the head," he offers.

Surprisingly, for how busy the place is, he actually gets a few moments alone in the bathroom. He sizes himself up in the mirror, plucks a stray eyelash from his cheek. He looks pissed and a bit bored. There's a tear in the corner of his lip from dry skin. He can barely see the scar under his chin in the weird lighting. Then someone comes into the bathroom, and he washes his hands, more for something to do than that he actually needs to.

When he returns, the girls are nowhere in sight and Gil is making his move on Sammy. His lips are next to Sam's big ear and his hand is on one slim arm. Dean waits, feet away, to see what Sam's call is gonna be. He's bagged the guy, but Dean's kind of hoping that Sam has noticed that he's kind of a loser and won't want to follow through. Sam laughs and Gil laughs and Dean figures he's awkwardly saying yes, gets confirmation when they both stand up to leave. Sam sees him standing there, creepily observing, but he smiles, dimples dimpling and Dean doesn't want to see him go back to the hotel with Gil.

"Hey Dean, ready to go?" he asks.

If Sam wants a threesome, he can just count Dean out, because he'd rather bite Gil's dick than suck it. But, Gil isn't putting on his coat like Sam is. Instead, he's offering up a hand. "Nice to meet you, Dean." Dean shakes the hand, numbly, and then Gil is gone, drifting over to the bar and Sam is right there, tall and skinny and young and free of eye-lined college kid.

"Um, aren't you taking him back to the hotel?" he asks.

Sam laughs. "Nope, I'm taking you back to the hotel."

Dean frowns. "You're not drunk and you're not bagging a bar skank? Sammy, this is not how the first trip to the bar goes."

But, Sam places one of his large catcher mitt hands on his chest and he's looking evenly at Dean, certainty and confidence illuminating his eyes. "We're going back to the hotel, Dean."

Dean doesn't get it, but he hasn't been having fun anyway, and waiting around another couple hours (or minutes if Sammy's past stamina has been any indicator)for Sam to finish fucking someone doesn't sound like an improvement, so, he shrugs and leads the way back to the hotel. They'd opted to walk, since Dean didn't know if he'd be getting trashed too, but it doesn't stop him from looking around at the street parking for Baby, such an ever-present piece of his life.

Summer Nights in the city feel like when a hotel room hasn't opened its windows in too long, chemicals and trapped air. Sam's steps align with his own as they head back to the hotel.

"So," starts Dean. "You know a lot about that literature stuff, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, I mostly read sci-fi and fantasy but I like the classics too. It's cool reading them and trying to figure out what it is about them that's made them last over time."

"I read To Kill a Mockingbird for school. It wasn't bad. I liked the little tomboy. She wasn't afraid of this creepy guy that lived in her town." Dean laughs. "Of course, I kept expecting him to turn out to be a vengeful spirit…"

Sam laughs too. "That would have been pretty cool."

"Right? Then the little girl could do a salt and burn and save the town while her dad saved the town from racism."

"Ha!" says Sam, enjoying the conversation. It pleases Dean that he can make observations about literature too. Take that Gil, thinks Dean in a smarmy voice. "Too bad you haven't read Catcher in the Rye. I'd like to hear you turn that into a horror novel."

"It sounded like a book about a prick. We got enough of those in real life."

Seattle streets are always a little wet, even in the summer. Dean isn't sure how since it hasn't rained since they've been there, but he has to hop over a puddle collecting over a blocked up grate. Car horns echo off of the taller buildings. They're not far now from the hotel.

"You disappointed about how tonight went?" Dean asks.

Sam looks surprised. "No, no. I had a great time."

"But you're sober."

Sam shrugs. "I think I was a bit buzzed for a while, til the whiskey wore off."

"I was supposed to make sure you were black-out drunk tonight. Wanted you to be praying to the porcelain god in the morning."

"Gee, thanks. Were you also hoping to shoot me in the leg?"

Dean can't help but laugh. "It's not like that. It's just that, everyone's first bar experience is supposed to go a certain way." He pulls out the keycard from his wallet, eyes scanning the parking lot for verification of Baby's safety and then the area around their hotel room, checking for suspicious characters or dark shadows. Everything in order, he presses the card into the slot and permits them entrance into the illustrious Days Inn, their castle of the past few weeks. The lighting, once Sam flips the switch, is much friendlier on Sam's face than the weird bar lighting and they've been in the one room long enough that its scent and feel have become familiar, an approximation of home.

"And that involves getting puke drunk and catching VD from a one-night stand," says Sam while Dean double-checks the salt lines.

"Hey, the VD is optional!" says Dean raising his palms to disavow any ownership of having said otherwise.

Sam sits on Dean's bed, unlaces his boots. Since it's not a bad idea, Dean follows suit.

"Seriously though," Dean says. "You could have bagged that guy back there. I wouldn't have minded waiting."

Sam shakes his head, begins unbuttoning his shirt. "You can't really be this dense."

If the opinions of others can be trusted, then, yes, Dean really can be that dense, though he doesn't know what it is he's missing. "What?" he snarls, annoyed that again his intelligence is being questioned and right after he'd made those great comments about To Kill a Mockingbird too.

"I didn't want to bag that guy back there." He's finished unbuttoning the shirt and it falls open as a leans towards Dean. "Wanted to bag the guy right here."

"Oh," says Dean. And sure, he's better looking than Gil and way less obnoxious, but still… "Yeah, but... I mean, you've already done that. This was about trying something new."

"Okay, let's," suggests Sam, a crazy hot edge to his voice. His eyes are on Dean's lips and Dean has plenty of time to avoid the kiss he can tell is coming, but he doesn't feel like ducking away and that's not even the first time he's felt that way with Sam, because despite how much Dean claims, in his head or aloud, that he doesn't like kissing, what they'd done the night that Sam had cut him open and sucked the blood right from him had been awesome, like no kissing he'd ever participated in. It had felt exposed which usually makes Dean want to run, but that time had made him feel accepted and it had been so hot that even his wang had gotten the hint that something was going on. Even if it was a fluke, the erection, and the ensuing almost orgasm, Dean kinda wants to do it again.

Sam's lips are thin in the corners, skin barely even pink where his smile ends, and even in the center, they aren't full like Dean's. They touch against his as soft as he's ever been kissed, like the memory of a kiss rather than the real thing. It shouldn't make his heart beat faster, this infinitely gentle touch, but it does because it's different, because it's new and suddenly he's scared that he knows what Sam is suggesting they try.

"Sam," he whispers against the patient lips. "I can't…"

There's a hand on his cheek, Sam's hand, and a long wide thumb caressing the skin just above his beard scruff. From the closeness of their faces, he can't focus on Sam's eyes, but he knows they're looking straight at his anyway. "Shhh. Dean, you're mine, remember?"

His stomach swirls, because no one has ever said that in a non-sexual way and he's pretty fucking sure that's how Sam means it now. It's scarier than any vampire, than any demon, to have Sam this close, touching him so gently. He tries to pull back, but then the soft hand strongly tugs his jaw, keeps it forward. There is no anger behind the movement, no cruelty, just an emotion Dean can't identify because he's never had it. "And I didn't say it that night, but it goes both ways." Again the near-queasy feeling below his ribs and Dean clenches his hands and unclenches them, is pretty sure they're going numb for some reason. "I'm yours too, Dean."

Oh hell no, his mind yells and this time he does pull back, freakin' stands up, nearly trips over his boots in an attempt to get away from Sam and the romantic words. But where is he going to go? He's standing between the two hotel beds, made up neatly by housekeeping, and Sam is sitting there looking at him as calmly as though Dean isn't freaking out, isn't about to dart out the door, get into the Impala, and just leave Sam's ass in this shitty chain motel until his mom can come and get him.

Things that he could say race through his mind, but none of them fit, none of them seem manly enough ("I'm too scared!") or kind enough ("I'm not your goddamned boyfriend!") or sensible enough ("Making love is gay!") to say. Instead, he's just standing there, letting his probably bugged out eyes convey to Sam just how uncomfortable he is with this situation. Sleeping together has been bad enough, (which they've done every night since the vamp massacre) but holding each other while awake is a whole level of intimacy that Dean can't handle.

Sam reaches underneath him, pulls at the bedspread, yanks so that the pillows are revealed and enough of the sheets for him to crawl under, which he does, shimmying his long jean-clad legs underneath. His shirt bunches around his nipples and armpits and he pulls his shirt down. His movements are slow, like he's trying not to spook a wild animal, but there's also no hesitancy to them. For once, his little Sammy seems completely comfortable initiating what he's trying to initiate. Warm hazel eyes look up at him. "Lay down, Dean."

He's acting like an idiot, knows that he is. The reason that Sam's treating him like a baby is because he's acting like one. He's also not used to disobeying an order to get into bed. These are two of the many reasons that he gets into bed and ignores the many reasons he shouldn't. Once at Sam's side, he braces himself, ready for anything, hoping to be ravaged, scared to be held. It seems that the latter is what's happening because instantly, Sam's upper body is over him and he's staring up at fresh teenage face dotted with small zits.

"What was the first thing you ever hunted?" asks Sam.

His brain attempts to shift gears. Sam's asking him about hunting now? Strangely, he answers. "Simple salt and burn, some dead woman who was hurting her grandchildren." It was the safest thing his dad could find to ease him into the family business. His dad had pretended to be an antique dealer, had brought Dean along to see show him how to act when in disguise. Then, Dad and him, though it was mostly dad, had dug up the woman's grave. The actual burning of the bones was an initiation given solely to Dean and the moment he'd flicked the lighter, he'd claimed the title of hunter proudly. "She'd done that Baron Von Munchausen thing with her kids and wanted to keep up the legacy, I guess."

Sam leans down and kisses his forehead and each of his cheeks. "Were you scared?"

"Not that time. It was an easy case."

"Still," says Sam, returning back to just looking at him. "Seeing an old lady's skeleton had to be scary to a kid."

Dean tries to remember if he was afraid, but he really doesn't think that he was. "I think I was just happy to finally be able to help Dad."

Sam smiles. "I get that. The first time Chal got sick, I was freaking out. She had a fever and couldn't keep anything down. So, I kept making soup and bringing her Gatorade. Even though at the time I felt pretty useless, she said I was the best doctor she'd ever had. I think it would have been a lot harder for her to face alone."

Dean nods. This isn't so bad, what they're doing; he's enjoying the heat from Sam's body and the scent of his warm breath when he speaks.

"Okay, you can have a jam session with any guitarist, dead or alive."

"Jimi."

"Page or Hendrix?" asks Sam.

"Both," Dean replies happily. "But I meant Hendrix."

This time Sam kisses his neck, licks a little.

"I see what you're doing, Sam."

"Of course you do," comes the reply from under his chin. When Sam rises again he's smiling. "It's obvious."

"It's a stupid thing to be afraid of," he says vaguely, afraid to define what "it" is, but he knows that Sam will follow anyway.

Sam shakes his head. "No, it isn't stupid. But it also isn't something you can run away from forever."

"Why not? I've been doing a damn good job so far." He has too, always leaving before they get attached, before they can realize that he doesn't attach, choosing men that are dominant and a bit scary, ones that are more eager to use him than to love him.

Dean reaches up and swipes the long bangs behind Sam's ear.

"Because it doesn't make you happy," says Sam softly.

"Oh crap, is this going to turn into another Catcher in the Rye conversation, because that went on too long already!"

Sam laughs. "You were actually listening!?"

"Wish I hadn't. Nearly put me to sleep." He enjoys the sound of Sam's laughter and the way his mouth gets so large when he does. "So, you think you can make me happy, Sammy?"

Several serious seconds pass as Sam thinks. His thumb is back to rubbing Dean's cheek, absent-mindedly now though. "Probably not," he finally says and Dean wasn't expecting that level of pessimism (or maybe realism) from Sam. "I think you'd have to be the one that makes you happy." Oh, that sounds more like Sam, hippy self-help book crap. He's about to point out exactly how stupid that sounds when Sam says, "But, I think I could love you if you'd let me."

The lump in his throat is bigger than Sam's Adam's apple and his mouth goes dry when he tries to swallow it down. He's had people say they loved him, men and women who got confused by orgasms into thinking they knew him, that they cared, but this is Sam and Sam really does know him. They've laughed together and hunted together, hell, he's even told Sam about his mom.

"Oh, stop looking so fucking skeptical. You're awesome man, and you know it. Hell, you know it better than the rest of us!" Sam's grinning deviously, making light of the overwhelming crush on his chest that has nothing to do with Sam's place on it and everything to do with Sam's place in it.

Dean doesn't want to joke about this. Maybe because Sam is right and all the one-night stands aren't making him happy. Being fucked hard while rough hands grab his throat has never made him feel half as good as Sam kissing him, touching him, and if he's really honest with himself, saying what he just did, that he could love Dean, that someone that he respects could love him.

He closes his eyes, lets the emotions run wild through his body and lets himself feel them, the fear, the dread, the happiness, the comfort, the self-loathing, the need. They are as much a part of him as the lungs he feels expand with air and the skin of his chest warm beneath Sam's weight and the bristles of chin hair that Sam's stupid thumb is still playing with. He can't do this alone. He can't break through the walls that he's constructed, feels too lost in them, too buried beneath how high they're stacked. "I need help, Sammy."

The next kiss is the sweetest. He doesn't see it coming, and not just because his eyes are closed, and barely feels it begin. It's almost as if they always have been kissing, their lips pressed loosely to each other's, only slightly moving, shifting with breath. It's Dean that spreads his lips a bit wider, feels the wetness of Sam's mouth, the gentle suction. His eyes open and he sees that Sam's are closed, lashes dark against his cheek. He pulls back a bit, just a bit, so that their lips are grazing against each other because he needs to swallow and needs to breathe. He does these things, swallowing down the saliva that it feels like he's producing in staring-at-pie amounts and breathing at least three good strong inhales before moving back. He can feel the teeth behind Sam's lips, the pearly grin's domicile when not in use. He opens his mouth again but this time he flicks out his tongue, licks the loose bit of dead skin that's always present on Sam's upper lip, the part right in the center that hangs down like a tiny stalactite. Then he licks at Sam's bottom lip. It tastes like beer and Sam.

For his part, Sam is still, not dead fish still, but patient still as Dean uses his tongue to feel textures he hasn't been able to acquaint himself with. Sam's lips are soft, even without the padding his own have. The corners of his mouth have sharp edges, the parts that curl up the highest when he smiles. Sam's tongue is smooth, feels large, though he guesses most of Sam's body is larger than his own. He stabs the tip of his own to Sam's, feels the small dip in the front that he's noticed when Sam is being childish and sticking it out at him. Dean pulls back again, sucking in spit, and Sam's eyes open.

They watch each other for several of Dean's loud heartbeats. Then Sam scoots on top of him, thighs wrapping around his hips, large upper torso bending down, offering his lips but not initiating anything. Dean kisses him, open-mouthed and deep, and their tongues meet up in the neutral ground of the kiss, sliding against each other, curling like ivy. His hands come up and, for the first time, touch Sam's cheek. Beneath his fingers he can feel the muscles of Sam's mouth as his tongue swirls around their mouths. It's erotic, feeling it from the outside as well as the inside. He moves his hand lower just so that he can feel it from beneath Sam's chin as well. It's almost as though this is the first kiss he's ever had, because he's never noticed these things before, never felt the muscles at play, never put this much thought into what each movement of lip and tongue feels like.

Sam nips his lower lip and Dean gasps, sensation feeling pornographic despite its strictly above-the-neckline location. Sam smiles and Dean's lips kiss teeth. "Love your lips," Sam says between kisses.

"Dick sucking lips," agrees Dean, he's heard it too many times not to think of them that way.

Sam shakes his head. "Sam kissing lips."

Their kissing stops as Dean has a minor laughing fit at the cheesy line. "You're so lame," he wheezes.

It doesn't seem that Sam minds being called lame, because his tongue is moving over Dean's neck in long flat strokes. "It's almost healed," says Sam after discovering the ridge of the wound he'd made.

"Fast healer. Oh!" Sam's biting now, below the wound, above his collarbone. It catches him off-guard, warms his body. It's not a hard bite, could definitely be harder, but it catches the nerve endings more than a simple touch. Dean likes it. "More."

Sam nibbles little bites along the front of his neck and when he gets to the opposite side, he bites Dean above his collarbone there.

"What else do you like?" asks Sam once his lips are again against his.

Dean answers honestly. "I don't know."

They kiss and it's starting to feel normal, pleasantly expected, at least until Sam's hands are on his face holding him gently, playing with the lobes of his ears, and Dean feels himself melt a little beneath the caresses. He isn't sure when he became such a girl, but it's hard to worry about when Sam tongue is doing circles in his mouth and holding him like he's made of sugar. It's a high, this feeling, this having someone care, and yeah, he's still a little afraid but mostly he just feels warm.

They kiss forever.

The thing is that no matter how long they kiss, Sam isn't making a move to do anything else, and Dean's starting to be not okay with that. He wants more, just isn't sure how to ask for it, and isn't even sure what he wants Sam to do. His hands fiddle with the buttons at the bottom of Sam's shirt, extras in case the others get loose, but they're only occasionally bumping the skin beneath. "Sammy," he whispers.

Sam's thumb nudges his already tender bottom lip, arousal in his eyes and attention bright. "Yeah?"

"Do something. Tell me to do something." He wants this to go further, but isn't used to guiding it anywhere but with his partner's orgasm. If what they're aiming for is something mutual, then he has no frickin' idea how to proceed.

The shaking of Sam's head brushes his hair across his face, tickles his nose. "Dean, just do what feels right."

"Kissing feels right."

"We could do that all night," suggests Sam, hopeful voice making Dean feel guilty for being such a chick.

"A little late to worry about losing my virginity, Sammy." He eats Sam's anticipated smile when it appears, gobbles it with lips and the pressure of his mouth.

The jokes blend so well with the sex; he's never had the chance before to see that, never known his partner well enough to try. He wants to maintain this playfulness forever, wants to laugh with the person that he makes moan. Seizing a spontaneous urge, he pushes back on Sam's chest and raises himself up, flipping the younger boy onto his back. Sam lets out an "Ack!" as Dean turns the tables, maneuvering his own thighs outside Sam's and hovering over the handsome dimpled face beneath him. He laughs. "King of the mountain."

Sam laughs too. "Does this mean that I have to start calling you Master?"

Dean is instantly incredibly uncomfortable with the role-reversal. "Don't do that, the sub thing. Just be you, okay kiddo?"

Sam nods. "I will if you will. And, if you kiss me again."

That's a compromise that Dean is totally willing to make. He swoops down, enjoys the way Sam's out of breath but still pressed up against him like he could potentially breathe the air from Dean's lungs. He enjoys the feel of Sam's hands rubbing at his shoulders, pulling him in close, and the slight sting of nails that he can feel even through his shirt. All the years of reluctant kissing that he's done and now he doesn't even want to stop so that he can take his shirt off, wants to keep tasting any lingering beer in the space between teeth and cheek, but the desire to have those large hands against his bare skin sounds worth the brief intermission. He pulls his lips from Sam's and yanks his shirt up. Through the veil of cotton fabric, he sees Sam moving towards his nipple.

Strange how his temperature goes up, not down, with his shirt off, because of the sensation of Sam licking at his nipple, the cold air and spit making it stand upright. It almost tickles. Then Sam's sucking the nipple into his mouth, letting his teeth brush over it, and Dean rises up into him. Sam looks up at him happily.

"You got nice teeth, Sammy."

One of Sam's hands pinches on the nipple not in his mouth. "You're brave," whispers Sam. His tongue travels to join his fingers on the other nipple, wetting it, making it harden further.

"Why? How hard you planning on biting me?"

Sammy's diving into his neck, motion the same as a few nights ago but intent completely different, loving and kind, and speed slow and patient. Sam sucks, but gently, and Dean wonders if he'll have more bruising; the marks around the knife wound had looked less like hickeys and more like the time his leg had found a bear trap in Wyoming.

"Okay, no Vampire Sam tonight," says Dean, shrugging his head close to his shoulders to bump Sam's mouth off.

Sam smiles. "Hadn't crossed my mind."

"Yeah, sure. How would you like it if I left a big old hickey on your neck?"

Sam growls. "I'd fucking love it."

Dean does a double take, studies Sam's lusty honest eyes, and says, "You serious?"

As an answer, Sam leans his head back. His Adam's apple presses forward, thinning the skin of his neck. Okay, now that's kind of cool. He lowers his mouth to the human Pez dispenser beneath him, taking a quick lick first, scouting the area. Sam whines and his hips wiggle a bit, creating friction between their crotches. "Damn, Sammy, calm your tits."

A snort of disapproval comes from Sam's nose, probably as much due to wording as anything else, but it still pleases Dean. Christ, he hadn't even realized that he could also annoy Sammy while fucking him. Best of both worlds is an understatement.

He drags out picking the spot, enjoying Sam's impatience before finally placing his open mouth. He suckles softly, licks at the red mark, slides his teeth on the flesh. Sam's getting all wriggly beneath him and it's kind of neat, driving Sam all crazy like this. He wipes the saliva off with the back of his hand. "There you go, now everyone will know that you're a slut."

"For you," says Sam, hand reaching out to pull Dean in for a kiss. "Besides, yours is bigger."

"That's cause I'm a bigger slut," jokes Dean.

Sam shakes his head. "You're a good hunter," says Sam, pauses and adds, "And a good man."

He lets the skepticism ride his face like a fat chick, but whether he believes the words or not, they feel good, like Sam's hands, but on the inside. Instead of arguing, he works the other side of Sam's neck. That side also makes Sam's hips grind up, bumping into the space behind his balls, pushing them up, and jeans are not his friends at the moment; they constrict essential blood flow areas, not to mention they're keeping him from feeling Sam's cock as it was meant to be felt.

"Hold on a sec," Dean says. While he climbs off the bed and removes his jeans, Sam does the same, but in more of a snake shedding his skin way. Sam's dick bounces upward and Dean swears the damn thing looks relieved. It's got a purple hue to it and it's wet like Sammy gets when Dean's got his tongue on his balls. As far as dicks go, Sam's got one of the nicest he's ever seen.

His jeans shed, Dean climbs onto the bed, licks the precome off the round head of Sam's cock. It jerks happily under his tongue. "Dean," calls Sam, getting his attention. "Do what you want okay? Not what you think I want."

Dean laughs. "Oh trust me, kid, I was. If my lips were made for sucking cock, then your cock was definitely made to be sucked."

Sam pinks with proud embarrassment. Still, he opens his arms, and gestures for Dean, "Please kiss me again?"

"Such a needy bitch," teases Dean. He doesn't mean it, definitely wants to return to warm welcoming mouth. He does give a goodbye lick, or maybe it's a 'be back in a second' lick, before he maneuvers himself above Sam.

Their cocks align when he lowers himself onto Sam's thinner, but still strong frame. He stifles the groan this leads Sam to make with his lips, and as they kiss, he shifts a bit, rubbing himself along Sam's pelvis. The friction and the heat are incredible. Dean just feels so aware of everything, of how the hairs on their legs lock together like Velcro and how every time he bites Sam's lip, he feels fingers tighten on his back or his shoulders. He grinds harder on Sam, makes him whimper, makes himself groan.

It's never felt like this, mostly because he's never felt in control during sex, never wanted to be in control, but also because he knows Sam, knows that the only time Sam sits still is when he's listening to someone speak and that the rest of the time he's fiddling with his damn hair or shaking his foot. He knows that Sam doesn't tell Chal that he loves her only because she doesn't say it to him. He also knows that Sam prefers blowjobs in the morning rather than night and that when he comes, he's much more likely to call Dean's name than God's. There are lots of things he knows about Sam and that's new.

"Sammy," he whispers, because he wants to and Sam looks at him with such deep affection that it feels like he's losing bits of himself, like they're being assimilated into whatever this bond is between them.

When Sam moves out from under him, Dean thinks he's done something wrong. For moments he panics, wondering how he can get things back to how they were, but Sam's just reaching for the bottle of lube on the small nightstand between the beds. With his long arms, the brat actually makes it, even with the distance, manages to reach it while still keeping his dick against Dean's hip. He pops the cap and kisses Dean while pouring some onto his hand.

Then the wet hand is between them, gathering up both cocks, and rubbing, everything slick and alert and wonderful. "Fuck," says Dean. He rests his forehead against Sam's and just feels. He has to hoist himself up a bit to allow Sam's hand room for movement, isn't pressed as tightly as he wants to be, but what Sam's doing feels fan-fucking-tastic. Sam must think so too, because he's making noises, those lovely whimpers that he makes when he's balls deep inside Dean's mouth or ass, like he can't handle the sensations. Dean has never been so hard before, not even when he's alone. His cock feels like iron against Sam's. A shudder starts from the tips of his toes up the length of his spine. "Fuck, Sammy, your hand." God bless the kid's giant mitts, because he's stroking them both like a pro and Dean feels held and safe there even while he feels the building of an orgasm, that angry wave of nerve eruption looming on the horizon. He doesn't want to try to come because he doesn't want to jinx it, doesn't want his dick to crap out and go limp under the pressure. He feels a drop of sweat transfer from his forehead to Sam's.

Dean's hips buck up into Sam's already quick hand, creating twice as much pressure on his cock, twice as many sensations. He's fucking against both cock and hand. He licks the sweat from Sam's forehead. Sam gasps. The universe condenses to area of their genitals, everything outside of shaft and head and balls, hips and thighs doesn't exist. Dean trembles, afraid to hope that he's actually going to come and feeling overwhelmingly close. He dangles on the edge. He can smell Sam's girly ass shampoo, feel the heat from his red cheeks, taste the sweat that he'd lapped up.

"Dean!" Sam cries out, fist pumping furiously. The increased speed and force provide enough momentum, but that's not all the motivation Sam supplies for Dean's orgasm. There's also the arching body beneath him, the feel of warm hot liquid shooting between them as Sam comes like a porn star, the nails of Sam's unoccupied hand digging, gripping with all their might into the round flesh of Dean's ass, and finally, there are the words. Dean almost thinks he could come just from the words alone, worlds unreachable to him that Sam brings in close, hands to him on a platter. "Love you!" gasps Sam, words almost not words because there is only so much air in Sam's lungs.

Tears spring to his eyes, part sting of the intensity with which the orgasm hits and part emotions, raw and bare. Dean yells as he comes, no words, just a yell, and Sam's hand works determinedly, squeezing the last drop from him as he does. His hips jerk up and down, the motion of fucking, but in a spasmodic way and he's come so hard that his ass is cramping.

Slowly, Sam eases off on the strokes until he's just holding Dean's cock, and Dean stops humping at the hand, instead lying on it, pressing it painfully between them. They pant and breathe, him against Sam's chin. Sam covers the top of his head in kisses. Whispering between each one, tiny little love you's. There's no reason for it, well, other than his brain-dead state, but Dean starts to chuckle. Sam pushes at his chest. "You're heavy."

"And sexy," jokes Dean.

"Not while you're crushing my junk, Dude. Get off."

He allows Sammy to bully him into rolling over. There, on his back, the giggles return.

"Coming makes you dumb," comments Sam.

"You're dumb."

Sam laughs. "Great comeback."

Dean closes his eyes, exhales deeply and says, "I know you are but what am I," then proceeds to drift off, not to sleep but definitely to a lower level of consciousness. In the orgasm-induced haze, he notices that Sam goes to shower and returns, but somehow misses the time in between.