He should have known better.
As soon as he caught the eye of the most gorgeous man in the room – hell, the most gorgeous man in any room – right there, in the mirror over the bar, staring at him with his soft pink lips slightly parted, the look of loss and longing in his eyes should have tipped Dean off. Should have sent him running for the hills.
He should have known better.
But the fact is, he's been spending a lot of time at this bar, or dozens just like it, since Sammy left for college, and the loneliness just gets to him sometimes. He's already tipsy, well into his third double with a beer chaser, so he just raises his glass in a mock salute at the stranger and knocks back the rest of the whiskey in one hard swallow. Then he sets the glass down carefully on the lacquered counter and feels proud of himself for not letting it slam too hard.
When he looks up, the guy's right there next to him, tall and powerful and wound tight like a mountain lion ready to spring.
"Hey," the man says, like he knows him. Up close, Dean can see he's thirty-ish, at least ten years older than Dean, built like a tank with legs that just don't stop, even covered up in sloppy jeans that hang off his slim hips.
"Hey yourself," Dean smirks, going for cocky because he can see the guy's primed. It's in the way he stands, hands hanging loose at his sides, hands that could wrap around Dean's throat in a single grip, he's pretty sure. "You gonna just stand there staring, or are you gonna buy me a drink?"
As soon as the words are out there, the proposition clear, Dean wants to take it back. The man's cheeks flush deep pink, he ducks his head so his dark hair falls across one chiseled cheek, and he shifts his feet. He suddenly looks less predatory, more like an embarrassed little boy who's just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Something in Dean swoops low and hard, some deep-seated response he doesn't understand because it's almost paternal.
"Yeah. No. I mean, sure," the man stammers, looking up to signal the bartender, and Dean can't help smirking as he takes a swig of his beer.
The guy seems pretty smitten. It's not the first time Dean's had this effect on a mark, but it's not often he gets one this good-looking.
This is gonna be a piece o' cake, he tells himself.
"So, what's your name?" Dean drawls as the bartender starts to refill his glass. Dean shakes his head, tips the beer bottle at her instead. Not getting sloppy-drunk now. Need to stay alert, play this right.
"Huh? Oh." The man hesitates, then squares his shoulders, looks Dean in the eye. "Sam. It's Sam. My name, I mean."
Dean cocks an eyebrow.
"You don't say," he nods. "Huh. Got a brother named Sam. Pain in the ass. Are you gonna be a pain in my ass, Sam?"
He says it in the same smirking, teasing tone, knowing how cheesy he sounds but unable to avoid poking fun at the situation, at Sam's obvious infatuation. The man's interest is way too obvious.
"What? No!" Sam huffs out a breath, flushing a darker red, his cheeks dimpling adorably as he makes a face and shakes his head. "No, that's not why I'm here. I mean, that's not what this is about."
"That so?" Dean takes the beer the bartender puts in front of him, takes a long swallow, giving Sam a good view of his profile as he does it. "So, what's this about, huh? You jonesin' for a little old-fashioned game of pin-the-tail? Cuz I ain't your donkey, pal."
Sam's expression is priceless. Dean wants to bottle it and keep it with him for the rest of his life.
"No. No, you're not," Sam stammers as he struggles to get some of his equilibrium back. He grabs his beer, takes a long swallow, and Dean can't help watching because the guy really is that gorgeous. "All right. You know what? Let's just get out of here. You got a place we can go?"
Dean raises an eyebrow, appraising. Sam doesn't look wealthy. Doesn't look like he can afford Dean's usual rate.
"Most times, the alley out back works just fine," he answers, recovering his cocky self-assurance.
Sam makes an even better face than the last one. Dean could definitely get used to this.
The bartender arrives to replenish their drinks, glances between them.
"You need me to start a tab, Dean?" she asks.
Sam stares at her, all helpless and incredulous and so beautiful it makes Dean's heart race.
"Nah, we're good," Dean answers, pulling a twenty from his wallet and placing it on the bar. "We're just leaving."
The bartender shoots him a glance that says, "I bet you are," as Dean slides almost gracefully off his stool.
He stumbles a little at the last minute, even though he's got both feet on the ground, and Sam catches him, of course, like it's part of the script. He brushes Sam off with a glare and leads the way across the bar and out the back door, only a little unsteady.
In the alley, Dean gets what he was asking for. Sam pushes him up against the wall, crowds in close, presses his hard, muscled thigh between Dean's legs.
"No kissing," Dean murmurs as Sam's gaze flicks to his mouth. He tries to push his hand down between them to palm Sam's dick, but Sam beats him to it, makes him gasp as Sam squeezes none too gently.
"How much for the night?" Sam pants, and Dean looks up in surprise. "With kissing."
"You can't afford it."
Sam takes Dean's face in his giant hand, turning his head as he leans in. He noses along the underside of Dean's jaw, all the way to his ear, pressing his lips there as he messages Dean's dick through his jeans.
"A hundred bucks says I can," he purrs, and Dean shivers, dick impossibly hard. "What d'ya say?"
"Fuck." Dean's eyes slide closed as Sam tips his head back, licks and kisses along his neck.
"That's the idea," Sam agrees as he sucks Dean's earlobe into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth. "But not here."
They walk the two blocks to the motel, Dean so liquor-loose and aroused he finds it hard to walk. Sam presses up next to him, possessive and sure, and Dean can sense how much he wants to put his arm around Dean, pull him in tight against his overheated body.
But this is Texas, deep in cattle country, and they don't need to draw that kind of attention.
Besides, Dean's a grown man, damn it. He's not about to let this overgrown country boy show off how much bigger he is, how Dean could fit so snugly right under Sam's boulder of a shoulder.
Heh, Dean chuckles to himself at his rhyme.
"You think this is funny?" Sam's hot breath burns against Dean's temple as he leans in, tucking his giant body around Dean's possessively. Dean's dick throbs almost painfully in response.
Sam sure knows how to push his buttons. Like he knows Dean.
"Maybe," Dean stammers, hating how breathless he sounds, how off-balance he feels. "A little."
Sam grabs Dean's arm, just above the elbow; his grip is like iron, and when Dean glances up at his face, Sam's jaw is set just as rigidly.
"Hey!" Dean protests as Sam almost drags him the last few feet to the door of the motel room, and Dean knows he should be worried that Sam should know exactly which room he's in, but he's feeling a little too tipsy, a little too reckless, and a lot horny, so he lets it go.
"Key," Sam demands, and Dean finds himself obeying, shoving his free hand into his jacket pocket. He shakes himself free from Sam's grip as he fits the key in the lock, doesn't mind as much as he probably should when Sam crowds up behind him, chest pressed hot against Dean's back.
His hunter's training is whispering a warning at the back of Dean's lizard brain, reminding him that this is not a good idea, bringing this stranger into his room, this guy he's just met who's already demonstrated how powerful and physically imposing he is. This is dangerous. If Dean's little brother or dad were here, this would never be happening.
But they're not, and Dean's feeling decidedly reckless, deliberately tempting fate now, and he knows it.
Never a good idea. Especially for a Winchester.
When the door opens, Sam pushes in behind him, huge hands still gripping his biceps, and shoves Dean up against the back of the door. As he starts to go to town on Dean's neck again, hand hot and greedy on his dick, Dean manages to gasp out his terms.
"Deal," Sam hisses against his ear, breath hot and damp.
"Show me the money," Dean pants embarrassingly as Sam messages his dick, grinding his gigantic body against Dean's.
Sam runs his tongue along the shell of Dean's ear, sucks on his earlobe before pulling back to stare into Dean's face. He's flushed and panting and his hair is wild and it suddenly hits Dean how badly he wants this, that if Sam walks away right now he will leave Dean with more than just a classic case of blue-balls.
Sam steps back then, chest heaving, lips parted, considering Dean with an inscrutable glare that's got Dean's blood pumping even faster.
Dean suddenly wants to kiss him more than he can remember ever wanting anything.
Sam shakes his head a little, dragging his gaze away from Dean like it physically hurts him to stop looking. He shrugs his jacket off, tosses it on one of the unused beds, and reaches into his back pocket.
Dean tenses, aware that this dangerous stranger could have anything planned, and they're alone now, without witnesses. Dean's a trained hunter, and he's already got ideas about how he could take this mountain-of-a-man down if he had to, but he's lost a lot of weight over the past few months since Sammy left for school, and he's drunker than Sam, his reflexes impaired. He'll need to move quickly if he –
Sam's got his wallet in his hands and he's holding it out to Dean, open so that Dean can see how many bills are stuffed inside.
The guy's loaded. Okay.
Dean quickly reassesses and decides he's dealing with a thief. Or at least a hustler who's almost as good as Dean. Huh.
"Are we good?" Sam snaps, sharp and impatient. He's working a scam here, somehow, Dean thinks nonsensically, and he's eager to get back to whatever it is he's hustling. Dean's just a means to an end.
Only that doesn't feel quite right either. It's more like Dean himself is the reason Sam's here, the point of his mission, and the hustling is just a pretext.
"Yeah," Dean breathes, relieved because Sam so obviously isn't here to kill him. "Yeah, we're good."
"Good," Sam nods, huffing out a breath, like he's relieved, too.
Sam's beautiful in the dim streetlight coming in from the window, sharp cheekbones and nose, strong jaw and brow. And all that dark, lustrous hair, the powerful arms and chest so obvious even under all those clothes...
"So you wanna...?" Dean gives a little nod toward the beds, raising his eyebrows suggestively.
"Yeah," Sam sighs. "God, Dean, you're so..." He stops himself, and Dean gets a glimpse of sharp white teeth as Sam sucks his bottom lip between them. Dean's pretty sure he knows what Sam was about to say, though, and it gives him confidence.
"I think you need to take off that shirt," Dean suggests, suddenly dying to see if Sam is as stunning under his clothes as Dean thinks he is, suddenly not so sure who's the seducer and who's being seduced here.
"Yeah, okay," Sam agrees, dragging his eyes away from Dean's face with obvious reluctance as he begins to unbutton his plaid flannel shirt with long, slender fingers. He's got a black tee-shirt on underneath, his strong shoulders and pecs perfectly defined by the form-fitting cotton.
"Now you," Sam insists, devilish little grin making his cheeks crease deeply as he catches Dean staring at his chest.
Dimples. Jesus. The man has serious dimples.
"Okay." Dean clears his throat. I got this, he tells himself as he begins a smirking striptease. He shrugs his jacket off first, dropping it on the bed next to Sam's, then slowly unbuttons his shirt, revealing his own white tee-shirt underneath. He pauses when he's done, looking up at Sam expectantly.
"Take it off," Sam demands, nodding at Dean's tee-shirt, and Dean complies without hesitation.
The look in Sam's eyes when he gazes at Dean's bare chest isn't exactly what Dean was going for when he started to strip. He looks devastated. Almost horrified. Sad. And was that a wince?
"You're so thin!" Sam gasps as Dean starts to feel decidedly self-conscious, starts to reach for his shirt to cover up again.
"No, wait – I didn't mean – " Sam stammers as he puts a hand out. "I mean, you're gorgeous. Really amazing. I just didn't realize how much thinner you are under the clothes. You seem so young, that's all."
"I'm twenty-two," Dean huffs out truthfully. He draws himself up to his full height, swinging his arms loosely at his sides. "Tough as nails and awesome in a fist-fight. Pretty flexible, too." He winks, and is rewarded by another dark-rose-colored blush on Sam's lovely cheeks.
"I'm sure you are," Sam ducks his head and grins adorably.
"Hey, quid pro quo," Dean quips, gesturing at Sam's tee-shirt. "Let's see what you got. Make me jealous."
He watches as Sam's expression changes again. He could watch Sam's face all night.
Sam's just as ripped as Dean expected. His body under the tee-shirt is kinda ridiculous, it's so sculpted. Like a Greek god comes to mind without an ounce of effort.
Dean realizes his eyebrows are stuck clear up near his hairline when Sam smirks at him, closes the distance between them with a couple of steps, and cups Dean's face in his huge hands. For another full minute, Sam just gazes at him, long thumb sliding across Dean's lower lip as Sam's eyes soften, glisten with a film of tears.
"God, Dean, you're so young," Sam murmurs, and Dean supposes he's right; the weight loss has given him a softer, younger appearance. He can easily pass for seventeen these days, he's pretty sure. It's an advantage in the world's oldest profession.
The moment before Sam's lips touch his, Dean's eyes flutter closed and his lips part in anticipation. When Sam captures Dean's upper lip between his own, Dean's immediately unmoored. It's too intimate, overwhelms him and makes him feel vulnerable and soft, just as he knew it would. Sam kisses him gently at first, as if he's afraid Dean might bolt, or as if Dean's some fragile flower. Sam kisses him like he cares, and it's not like a pity thing, which would make Dean immediately defensive. It's like Sam understands. Like Sam knows him, and accepts him just the way he is, warts and all.
But of course that's just crazy. This is a gig, and Dean knows the drill; Sam's just a guy, and guys like Sam like to feel little again, or they like to feel like they're large and in charge. Dean's not sure which kind of guy Sam is yet – maybe a little of both, he decides as Sam's tongue works its way into Dean's mouth, tasting and exploring and making Dean's head spin.
His hands find the warm smooth skin of Sam's hips and he rubs his thumbs along the sharp jut of his hipbones, loving the feel of Sam's skin under his fingers, wanting more. Sam shivers at his touch, kisses deeper, moaning into Dean's mouth. When he pulls back, panting a little, his eyes are glazed over and he looks a little strung out.
And a lot gorgeous. Slick lips and flushed cheeks and hair falling forward over those exquisite cheekbones...
"On the bed. Now," Sam orders, and Dean scrambles to comply, like the good little soldier he is. He toes off his shoes, reaches down to pull his socks off, falls backwards on the bed as he loses his balance on the second sock.
Sam stands at the foot of the bed, between Dean's sprawled legs, and slides his belt off.
Dean tenses, but Sam only lets the belt slide to the floor and starts unbuttoning his jeans, watching Dean's face as he pulls his impressive hard-on out and strokes it.
This, Dean knows. This is familiar territory.
Dean sits up, sliding in so he can get his lips around Sam's enormous dick, already contemplating how in the hell he's gonna get that thing into his mouth, much less down his throat...
But Sam steps back, out of reach, shaking his head.
"Want you to fuck me, Dean," he says, voice ragged with lust, still stroking himself. "Can you do that?"
"Hell yeah, big boy," Dean smirks, more relieved than he'll let on. "Come on. Let's get the rest of your clothes off. Get you stretched out nice and loose for me."
It's kind of heart-breaking how easily Sam complies. He sits on the bed where Dean was a moment before and Dean gets down on his knees to help Sam get his boots and socks off. Then Dean pushes him backwards till he's lying on the bed, spread out like the feast of smooth skin Dean's been starving for all evening. Sam scoots up to push his jeans and boxers down over his hips and ass, then Dean pulls them all the way off, exposing the long, tan legs that could probably wrap around Dean's body two or three times.
Now it's Dean's turn to stand at the foot of the bed, gazing down at the gorgeous body spread out and waiting for him.
Dean strips out of his jeans and boxers almost gracefully, kicks them out of the way as Sam leans up on his elbows so he can watch.
"Jesus, Dean, you need to eat more," Sam gasps when Dean's body is completely exposed.
It should make Dean uncomfortable, should make him self-conscious, being called out this way for his recent weight-loss. He knows it makes him look scrawny, more boyish. Younger, as Sam already said.
But it's the concern in Sam's voice that gets to him. Sam doesn't know Dean used to be bulkier. How could he? Where's he getting the idea that Dean used to have more muscle on him? It's like he knows Dean hasn't really been himself these past few months since Sammy left. It's like Sam's worried about him.
Which isn't okay, because this is business. It's not personal. Complicating a business transaction with all this emotional baggage is just stupid.
And dangerous. If Dean doesn't watch himself, he's gonna end up crying on Sam's shoulder or some shit.
"Tell you what. You can buy me breakfast when we're done here, if it makes you feel better," Dean snarks and he knows he's being a jerk because Sam looks stricken, like he's just been slapped.
"I'm sorry," he mutters. "I didn't mean – It's none of my business."
"You're not wrong there," Dean agrees, but lets it go when Sam lifts his eyes and they're full of tears, for God's sake, like Dean being too thin and wasting away from grief is all Sam's fault.
Which it isn't, obviously. Not by a long shot.
"Listen, man, I can see something about this is triggering for you," Dean tries to put on his game face, like the consummate professional that he is. "So if you just wanna stop for now..."
Dean knows he's going out on a limb. He's trying not to think about how disappointed he'll be if Sam decides to quit, decides he can't do this after all.
"No!" Sam protests, sitting all the way up on the bed so he can reach his long arms out to Dean. "I'm sorry. It's not you. I mean, it's not about you – Just, come 'ere."
Dean lets out the breath he was holding and smirks, keeping his eyes locked with Sam's as he climbs onto the bed, and Sam lies down again, watching him with a mixture of lust and awe. He climbs up Sam's long body till he can look down into Sam's face, smoothing Sam's long hair back, trying not to relish the feel of the silky strands between his fingers as he does it. This close, and from this angle, Sam's face is achingly beautiful, memorable, startling. Dean traces the moles on Sam's cheek and jaw with his thumb, unconsciously mapping the constellation there as memories flood just under the surface of Dean's consciousness, memories of another face, much younger, deeply beloved.
"Please, Dean," Sam almost whimpers, and Dean smiles, letting his thumb slide along Sam's lower lip reverently, mesmerized by his own memories.
"Sure, Sammy," he purrs. "Whatever you want." Always.
Sam moans wantonly as Dean kisses him, arching his body up, kissing back like a drowning man who's sucking in his first breath of air. He stretches his neck for Dean's lips and touch as Dean's lips travel across his cheek, along his jaw, following the map of moles, tasting each one in turn. Dean takes his time, knows instinctively how to push Sam's buttons, plays his body like it was made for him. For Dean.
Dean kisses and caresses down Sam's body till the older man is a quivering wreck, body strung tight like a bow, cock dripping precome on his own belly. Turning Sam on, eliciting the most perfect little sighs and gasps, giving Sam what he needs is all Dean thinks about. He's all but hypnotized by the need to give Sam everything he can, by the desire to make Sam feel loved, if only for tonight.
Dean doesn't try to question why he's doing this, or why it feels so right, or why Sam's body feels both strange and familiar at the same time. All he knows is, it's the right thing to do. He ignores the little voice that reminds him he shouldn't as he licks up the precome on Sam's belly, then fists his giant dick and licks under the soft skin of his cockhead.
"Come on, sweetheart," he purrs as he settles between Sam's legs and gives his dick a few experimental strokes. "Give it up for me. Wanna watch you come."
"Oh God," Sam thrusts his hips up, big hand cupping the back of Dean's head as Dean licks his tongue up Sam's dick, pumping it with his hand at the same time. He's got his other hand curled around Sam's balls, so he feels the moment they tighten and Sam's entire body goes rigid. "Dean, I'm gonna – " Sam chokes out a strangled warning but it's too late.
Without even thinking about it, Dean closes his lips around the head of Sam's cock as he comes, hot bitter fluid exploding in his mouth. Dean swallows it down without hesitating, little voice in his head be damned, bigger voice drowning it out with a sigh of satisfaction. Like mother's milk, the bigger voice declares. Nectar of the gods.
"Oh God," Sam gasps as Dean watches his face, pushing his tongue into the slit of Sam's cock as if he could milk another drop or two that way. Sam's features even out as he relaxes, his eyes and mouth dropping open as he looks down at Dean. "Did you just – "
"Oh yeah," Dean smirks as he lifts his head, licks his lips.
Sam frowns. "Dean, seriously, you can't just do that. It's not safe."
Dean shrugs. "You're clean."
"You don't know that," Sam huffs, then flings one arm across his eyes dramatically. "Oh my God, please tell me you don't do this all the time."
"I don't," Dean agrees. "You're the first. The only guy I ever do this with."
Sam lifts his arm away from his eyes, looks down his body at Dean, who places a gentle kiss on Sam's softening dick as he keeps his eyes locked on Sam's. In his post-orgasmic haze, Sam looks younger, softer, and Dean's memories meld and blend.
Sam considers for a moment, then lets out a long breath.
"When did you figure it out?" he asks.
Dean shrugs. "Probably when I first saw you, in the bar," he admits. "But ask me when I was sure, and it was probably sometime between the time you kissed me and when I got a good look at your face. You may be older, but your body doesn't lie. You've got the same beauty marks, the same smile, the same little habit of biting your lip when you're nervous. You even taste the same."
Sam grimaces, shifts a little under Dean's hands as he shakes his head. "I kept expecting you to call me out," he admits. "Figured you were playing a game at first, maybe. Then when you seemed serious about the whole hooker thing..."
Dean smirks. "You liked it," he dips his head, presses his lips against Sam's hipbone.
"Dean, tell me you never really did that," Sam says, serious now, eyes dark and full of concern. "Tell me you don't do it."
Dean lowers his eyes, pretends to be distracted by Sam's inner thigh, pressing his face into the crease of his groin so he can breathe in the familiar pungent smell of Sam's sweat.
"Dean." The word sounds halfway between a reprimand and a whimper.
Dean sinks his teeth into the skin over Sam's femoral artery, sucks hard, and it works. Sam gasps and his cock twitches ineffectually. Dean smiles against the warm, damp skin. He pushes his fingers down behind Sam's balls and finds his hole, sliding over it, up and down Sam's crack, using his sweat to ease the friction.
Sam sighs and spreads his legs wider, letting Dean push one leg back to give him better access.
"Please tell me you weren't planning to do this without protection," Sam grumbles, still miserable after Dean's non-admission.
Dean lifts his head, looks up Sam's long body.
"Sammy, listen to me," he says quietly. "You're it for me, always have been, always will be. Whatever I had to do when we were kids, because Dad left us alone a lot and lots of places wouldn't let me in to hustle pool and stealing was too risky in a small town – Whatever I had to do, it was just a hustle. Just a job. I knew what I was doing. I knew how to keep safe, and I never got hurt. Never."
"Dean – " Sam whines, and Dean can see the tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes.
"I'm gonna want to ask you a few questions when we're done here, Sam," Dean interrupts, sliding the fingers of one hand back behind Sam's balls. With the other hand, he reaches for the lube in his jacket pocket. "But right now, I need my brother. I'm guessing you do too, or you wouldn't be here."
"Yeah, I do," Sam whispers, the last word coming out on a choked sob.
"Okay then, future boy," Dean murmurs, kneeling up between Sam's legs as he flips the cap off the lube and starts spreading it over his fingers. "Let's see if you still like it the way you used to."
Sam's answering moan and twitching cock are all the go-ahead Dean needs. He watches Sam's face as he works his hole open, leaning down to lay kisses along his heaving chest, licking each nipple into a perfect peak before latching on with his mouth and sucking, long and hard. Sam's pecs are so well developed it's almost like having a breast in his mouth, if it wasn't for the hair and the hardness of the muscle. Nothing soft about this Sam, Dean notes as he makes inevitable comparisons with the eighteen-year-old he misses like an amputated limb.
When Sam's loose and ready, Dean slips a pillow under his ass to improve the angle, puts one hand behind Sam's knee while he lines up his dick with the other, pushes slow and steady into Sam's body while he watches Sam's face for signs of discomfort. It's always amazing, watching Sam's body just accept him this way, as if Sam was made for him.
This older version of Dean's little brother is just as hot and tight inside as the Sammy Dean knows, and he moans and writhes on Dean's dick just as pretty. Maybe even more so, after what Dean imagines to be years of experience. Sam adjusts himself around the fullness, finds the spot he needs to give him those shooting sparks up his spine, and Dean needs to hear and see that again because it's definitely the hottest thing ever. Sam's huge hands clench and unclench in the sheets, then behind his own knees as he pulls himself open even wider. Dean watches the huge muscles in Sam's arms as he does it, has to bend down and mouth at the prominent vein in his right arm, the tender skin on the inside of his elbow. Sam throws his head back and keens, neck muscles bulging and sweaty; Dean leans down to lap at the hollow in his throat, where the sweat pools and tastes like the essence of Sam that Dean's been missing more than he thought possible.
"Fuck, Sammy," Dean swears as he thrusts, harder and faster as Sam pants and writhes under him. "Fuckin' gorgeous like this. Fuckin' beautiful for me, little brother."
Sam shudders and gasps at the praise, bucking up into Dean's thrusts. He pulls his knees back as far as he can, bending himself nearly in half as Dean pounds into him, neck muscles straining as he clenches his jaw and seizes up, tension making his big muscles shake.
"Dean! Fuck!" Sam grits out through clenched teeth as he comes again, seconds before Dean spills inside him, never taking his eyes off the sight of this gorgeous man giving it up for him. For Dean. Dean never wants to forget that. Wants to hold it inside him, wants it to sustain him through all the barren years to come. Till whenever he gets his Sammy back.
"Sam," Dean gasps, shivering and incoherent as his orgasm wrecks him, going on and on, making him nearly black out for a moment as he drifts on a dark bed of pins-and-needles.
When he comes to, he's lying on Sam's warm chest, having apparently collapsed there, and Sam is stroking his back, running his fingers through Dean's hair, and it feels nice. There's a little sticky mess between them, but nothing like the monster-load Dean swallowed the first time Sam came. He's impressed by Sam's stamina and recovery time; not bad for an old guy. Dean hopes he'll be up for a little more before the night is through.
"So, am I dead?"
Dean mutters the question into Sam's chest, but Sam hears it anyway. He can feel Sam smile a little, hears him suck in a breath, warm and alive under Dean's cheek. Dean hears Sam's heart beating in his big chest; he presses his ear there and it steadies him.
"No, Dean, you're not dead. This isn't heaven." Sam's voice rumbles in his chest, his tone fond and exasperated at the same time.
Dean lifts his head, scoots up a little so he's looking down into Sam's face.
"No, I mean, in your time," he clarifies. "That's why you're here, isn't it? Because I'm dead where you are."
Dean can't imagine a scenario in which he would willingly leave Sam, so it's the only thing that makes sense to him.
A fleeting look of pain crosses Sam's face, then he shakes his head, tiny smile tugging the corners of his mouth again.
"No," he says, stroking Dean's cheek with his long fingers. "No, you're not dead. We're just a little off-balance right now. Things are complicated."
"So you thought you'd take a little road-trip into the past, that it? Find a simpler, easier version of your big brother? One you could handle?"
"No," Sam shakes his head sharply. "No. I – I came here because I wanted to apologize. I wanted you to know that I know now what a mistake it was, leaving you when I went off to college. I made you suffer, and I regret that now."
Sam takes a deep breath, and Dean watches his expressive face, wonders how he could ever watch anything else.
"Looks to me like it took you a few years to figure that out," Dean suggests.
"Yeah," Sam agrees. "It did. I thought I wanted a normal life. I thought I could get out. But I never meant to hurt you. I missed you like I'd chopped off my own arm, only way more painful."
"Yeah, I feel you there," Dean nods. "So how'd you do it? Where's your DeLorean?" He feels impossibly young and out of his element with this man whose life must be really weird if it's more complicated than Dean's life has been so far. Especially if it's got crazy shit like time travel in it.
Sam frowns. "I'm not sure I should explain it to you," he hesitates, like he's nervous about refusing Dean anything right now. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to know how things are gonna turn out. You know, in the future."
Dean frowns, starts to protest, but Sam's fingers curl around the back of his neck and he slots their mouths together before Dean can say another word. The kiss is slow and deep; Sam kisses Dean like he knows him better than Dean knows himself. Sam kisses like he understands Dean's need to understand this situation, his need to try to get the crazy under control. Sam kisses like he wants Dean to let it go for now, to be in the moment with him, to let Sam have this.
Dean's never been very good at refusing Sam when he wants something.
They go another round with Sam on top, easing himself down on Dean's dick, holding his weight with his powerful arms braced on either side of Dean's head to keep from crushing him. Sam knows how to banish Dean's self-consciousness about being smaller and slighter; Sam makes Dean feel loved and cherished with his eyes and his mouth and his hands, makes him feel like the big brother who's taking care of his little brother even when the little brother is the size of a small mountain. Sam knows how to make Dean feel like he's succeeded at being the man he wishes he could be.
Sam makes Dean feel like a winner even though Dean's life feels like a failure he can't recover from, like he's driven his little brother away and it's no wonder Sammy left him. Dean figures Sammy's better off without him, yet here he is, older and wiser and still in love, still wanting and needing Dean, even from years and years in the future.
They collapse on the other bed, leaving the wet spot behind. Sam cleans Dean off with a washcloth and his tongue, then curls around Dean in the bed, spooning him the way Dean used to spoon his much younger and smaller little brother. Sam lays gentle kisses on the back of Dean's neck, on the marks he left there, soothing the skin with his lips and tongue as Dean lies languid and fucked-out in Sam's arms, barely able to keep his eyes open.
"You staying?" he manages to ask. He feels Sam huff out a sigh that's almost a laugh, lips turning up in a smile against his skin.
"Nah, I gotta get back," he murmurs, and Dean nods. Figures.
They lie still for another moment, but Dean can't quite pass out yet, doesn't want this to end, fears the empty bed he'll wake up in too much.
"How long before he comes back?" Dean can't help asking. He needs to know.
Sam sighs out a long breath on the back of his neck, tucks his chin over Dean's shoulder and tugs him closer against his chest.
"Awhile," he murmurs finally. "He's an idiot. Stubborn, stupid kid. Loves you, though. Always."
Dean nods, feels the tears smarting at the corners of his eyes. "I don't know how to do this," he admits, feeling the sob welling up from his chest before he can stop it. "Living life without you in it feels wrong. Doesn't seem real."
"I know," Sam hugs him, kissing his shoulder. "I remember."
"You gonna come back?"
As soon as the question's out there, slipping past his swollen lips unbidden, welling out of his chest on a fresh wave of tears, Dean wishes he could take it back. Wishes he wasn't so weak. No wonder Sammy left. Dean's just a blubbering mess.
"Yeah." Sam surprises him, swipes his big hand across Dean's cheek, turning his face up so Dean can look up at him. "Yeah, I'll come back. On one condition, though."
Dean blinks up at him, ignores his attempts to wipe away Dean's tears with his thumbs, tries not to seem too eager.
Sam's lips curl up in a small, fond smile, like he's memorizing the way Dean looks right now, wants to store it away inside himself the way Dean does when he looks at Sam.
Then he turns serious. Stern.
"From now on, I'm your only customer, okay? No more hustling. Pool, cards, credit card scams, okay, but no hooking. You need money, I'm your man. You got me?"
"Jesus, Sam, who died and made you boss?" Dean snarks, grinning stupidly because really, he hasn't done any hooking since before he was old enough to pass for twenty-one, and it's not a big loss. Certainly not something he'd lie to Sam about so he could keep doing it. It was never that big a deal to begin with.
"Promise me, Dean," Sam looks so serious and grim all of a sudden it makes Dean want to fuck him again, just to loosen him up
"I could be persuaded, sugar-daddy," Dean hedges. "If you wanna put those big hands to good use." He wiggles onto his back beside Sam and raises his hands up over his head, spreading his legs provocatively.
Sam's eyes widen and his face softens into a look of heated incredulity. "You want me to hold you down?"
Dean licks his lips and bucks shallowly. "You could try," he invites. "You're huge, Sam. I wanna know – Just humor me, damn it."
"Oh my God, you're such a little sub," Sam shakes his head, stretching his long body next to Dean's, sliding one leg between Dean's and reaching up to grasp his wrists. He holds them easily in his giant hands, just like Dean knew he could, and it feels good. It feels awesome, having Sam's weight and his hands holding him down. It's a kind of helplessness that lets Dean feel like that little four-year-old who was so loved and cared for and protected, before everything went all to hell. It's comforting, and he knows instinctively that Sam's the only one who can make him feel this way.
Sam likes it too, he can tell by the way Sam devours his mouth, then kisses hungrily down his neck and chest, holding his wrists the whole time. Sam nestles between his legs and Dean wraps his legs around Sam's hips, bucking up so they can rut together, dicks trapped between their stomachs.
When Sam kneels up, Dean spreads his legs wider, feels the cool air of the room on his ass-crack and his hole, wonders if Sam will try to take his cherry.
The idea makes him shivery with want, dizzy with need; he closes his eyes and tips his head back, exposing his neck, concentrating on controlling his impending orgasm at just the thought of this big man holding him down and fucking him.
It takes a couple of minutes to realize Sam's not quite with the program. He's still holding Dean's wrists over his head, still mouthing at his throat and jaw, still rutting against his stomach. But it's a slow, sensual grind, not the athletic pounding he was hoping for. Sam's still pressed tight against him, not rocking back on his knees so he can inspect his hole. Not letting go of his wrists but ordering him to keep them over his head while he goes down on him.
"Sam..." Dean ruts up a little more desperately, straining in his attempts to make Sam understand what he needs, what he wants.
Sam lifts his head, gazes down at Dean until Dean opens his eyes, stops rutting altogether.
"What?" he demands, breathless with frustration.
"We didn't do this until later," Sam says, shaking his head. "It was – it was pretty colossal."
"Yeah? So?" Dean's impatience is colossal, goddamn it. His need to be fucked in the ass by his grown-up-almost-old-enough-to-be-his-fat
Sam lets Dean's wrists go, sits back on his haunches. "When we finally got together again, you – you giving it up to me like that, it was – " Sam shakes his head, dips his chin to his chest to hide the flush in his cheeks. "It was everything, man. It made all the difference. I can't – I can't take that away from us. It's just not right, Dean."
Dean stares for a full minute as Sam sits there, all shy and vaguely ashamed and biting on his bottom lip out of some weird time-travel guilt about cheating on himself, and Dean tries not to think about how adorable it is, watching Mountain Man look like a little boy. He tries to conjure some blue-balled indignation, thinks he ought to start yelling at the guy for being a prude or something.
But he doesn't. He doesn't chastise Sam because it's Sam, and if he says Dean's first time as a bottom was meaningful to Sam and he's willing to wait, or make Dean wait, well, okay. Whatever. Whatever Sam wants. This Sam, his Sam, any Sam. If he has to save whatever virginity he has left for the younger Sam, he can do that.
"Okay, so we wait," Dean nods, trying for wise older brother because Sam seems to expect it. "And I don't think I wanna ask how long because you already told me it'll be awhile, and it's not that big a deal anyway. I mean," he hastens to correct himself when Sam looks up, looks hurt and like he definitely doesn't agree, "it's okay, Sam. I hear you. I just – I'd just like to see you, once in awhile, if it's okay. Just until I get you back for real. Younger you, I mean."
The relief on Sam's face is like sunshine after a storm, and it makes Dean smile with relief as well, floods his chest with happiness and almost makes up for his aborted attempt to get fucked.
"Of course, Dean," Sam sighs. "I can't be here all the time, but I'll definitely drop by at least once a month or so, more often if you need me." He leans down again, big body covering Dean's like a warm blanket, or a heavy sky in summer, close and humid. "You have to promise me you'll start eating again. Taking care of yourself."
"Don't have to promise anything," Dean shrugs. "If you're around, it's all good."
"Yeah," Sam agrees. "As long as I'm around."
He closes the gap between their mouths, kisses Dean deep and long, like a promise. Dean reaches up and tangles his fingers in Sam's hair, shifts his weight till Sam rolls over, lets Dean spread his legs so that Dean can push himself into Sam's loose, fucked-out hole. Sam gives a long moan as Dean moors himself deep inside, fucks him hard and deep, rolling his hips wave-like against Sam's wide-spread thighs.
When he comes it's like breaching a barrier reef and coasting into calm waters, familiar and warm, a harbor in the treacherous seas of their lives. Sam gathers him close, wipes him down and breathes into his neck as he falls asleep, comfort and home to each other no matter which timestream.
In the morning, Sam's gone.
Dean rolls over and reaches for his phone, punching the first number on his speed dial, gets Sam's voice mail after the first couple of rings.
"Hey, Sammy, it's me." He pauses, takes a deep breath, lets it out before he finishes the message. "I – I miss ya, man. Call me."
He ends the call, puts the phone back on the nightstand, and turns his face into the pillow next to his head, filling his lungs with the smell of home.