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The stitches on Sam's shoulder are holding, though they're an annoying stinging distraction whenever he reaches for his beer on the nightstand, or tries to get a new one. Dean's got the slowly-warming twelve-pack planted between them on the bed and Sam could probably drag it closer if he wanted, but it seems like a lot of effort, just now. They're holed up in a wildly sketchy motel on the outskirts of Spartanburg and it's been a long enough day that he doesn't so much care if he gets blood spots on their scratchy sheets, especially with how the rude old woman at the desk had frowned through renting him the king-size room. Even so—
"Dude, stop pulling your stitches," Dean says, giving him a quick backhand to the belly. Sam sinks back to the awkwardly stacked pillows with a huff, and Dean grabs a fresh beer for him, twisting off the cap before he hands it over. "That's fine work I did, don't be messing it up."
"Don't sell yourself short over there," Sam says, rolling his eyes, but he tries to settle more comfortably anyway. The mattress is an old one and he doesn't even want to imagine what other stains it might have under the covers, but maybe he shouldn't add to them. Anyway, Dean always bitches if he has to re-do stitches, bitches more about Sam bleeding on him, and he might as well avoid that headache, too. He takes a swig of the beer and sighs at the television. Shark Week reruns, because Dean insisted after they got to take out a bunyip inexplicably lurking in Georgia and both got soaked to shit in the lake, and Dean's got a perverse sense of humor, sometimes. They're both stripped down to their underwear, after peeling out of their wet clothes and rinsing off the mud and blood and lakewater grime, and Dean's got the heater on but it's still kind of cold in here. Sam keeps letting the chilly beer bottle glance against his bare belly and then has to hiss and pull it away, resting it against the blanket instead. Dean's not even paying attention to the TV, just screwing around on his laptop on his side of the bed, though when Sam went to change the channel during an extra-goofy great white attack reenactment he got another smack and an are you kidding? this is the best part!, so he keeps suffering through it. Maybe he'll go for a fourth beer.
Proof that Dean's not paying attention: "Wow," he says, under his breath, and Sam glances over to see him—
"Are you kidding," Sam says, on a sigh.
Dean's hand flashes up to close the lid on the laptop, ancient reflex, before he grimaces and lets Sam see it. It's not like it's the first time he's caught Dean looking at porn, although they usually aren't actively in bed together. "I was just looking something up," Dean says, sort of defensive.
The site he's on is full of just—ass, semi-artistic pictures one right after the other. "I can't even imagine what the question was," Sam says. He shifts on the pillow, ignoring another sting from his shoulder blade, while Dean scrolls down, clearly fascinated. The pictures are focused enough that it's hard to tell if they're looking at women or men, all high full muscle waxed perfectly smooth. Pretty, either way, and Sam licks his lips.
"Perv," Dean says, and then grins when Sam gives him a look. "Okay, yeah, fair." He scrolls down more, and there's a picture all bent-over, a wet shine in the shadowed valley and a hand pulling the cheek open so they can see, and—wow is right.
"This is better than your usual," Sam says. It really is, enough that there's a swirl of warmth down in the pit of his belly. He swigs down the last dregs of his beer and puts the bottle on the nightstand, mutes the TV while he's at it. When he turns back Dean's on a picture all in black-and-white, the model arched and legs spread so that there's no obstruction to the hairless hole, just a glimpse of sack down below, and Sam bites his lip. The man's wearing polish, nails perfectly manicured and painted dark as he wraps his fingers around the back of his thighs, and—it's just a really, really good look.
"I was looking something up," Dean says again, almost stubborn, but when Sam glances up his ears have gone all pink.
The laptop's covering him up, but that flush is a telltale sign that Sam's known since he knew what his dick was for, and he starts to thicken up, just like that. "What was it?" Sam says, eyes now glued to Dean's profile. "Prettiest asses on the internet?"
Dean rolls his eyes and slides the laptop over to the nightstand on his side of the bed, swings off the mattress onto his feet. "You know that's not it, they don't have a picture of me on there," he says, popping up his eyebrows before he heads into the bathroom, and—well. He's not exactly wrong.
The bathroom door's still ajar between them and Sam can hear him taking a piss, echoey and loud on the grimy tile, and while he has the opportunity he leans over the wide expanse of the bed, his stitches pulling painfully at the stretch, and fetches the laptop, dragging it back over to his side. God, those are some nice pictures. It's not a porn site Sam recognizes. Certainly not one of Dean's usual—he goes for the cheesy stuff, videos of bouncy tits and big-dicked guys and lots of spray tan. He scrolls up, and now that he's getting a closer look he can tell that all of the models are guys. Just subtle tells, in the way their hips are built, the shape of muscles in their backs. None of them, still, as gorgeous as Dean, though there's no way Sam's going to mention that. He's smug enough as it is. Still, he wants to know how Dean got here, especially if he's going to try to be coy about it—and it's just a few clicks, through the browser history to a clumsy search, and he smiles when he reads the question.
The running water in the bathroom stops and Dean comes out, wiping his hands on the hips of his boxers, and he frowns when he sees Sam's holding his laptop. Sam raises his eyebrows at him, and reads aloud: "What's a 'bussy'?"
"Don’t start," Dean says, hands on his hips. "It's not like I know what the kids are saying these days."
He's still sort of flushed, pink high on his cheeks and ears, and Sam lifts his chin, beckoning him over. He comes, of course, even if he rolls his eyes. He knees up on the bed, bare thighs flexing prettily, and Sam slides a hand up one leg, gently tickling the fine, sparse hair. "Did you get your answer?" Sam says, his thumb slipping up under the leg of Dean's boxers.
Dean blinks at him, still knelt up high, and then shakes his head after a second. "Got distracted," he says, voice gravelly, and yeah, Sam can see the bulge of his dick, not quite soft.
Sam pushes the case of beer out of the way with his foot, down to the bottom of the bed, and lifts the laptop up, and when he tugs at Dean's hip with his other hand Dean shifts over easily, swinging his thigh over Sam's to sit heavy in his lap, his hands rough but warm on Sam's stomach. Sam puts the laptop on the bed next to them and opens a new tab, types an address in one-handed. "What, are we doing show and tell?" Dean says, eyebrows high, and Sam shushes him.
It's not like it's Sam's go-to kink. That's just—Dean, more or less, and he's had a lot of years to come to terms with how weird that is. He's run across this, though, in jerk off sessions through the years, and even if it's not his favorite it works for him. "Bussy's a dumb word for it," Sam says. He rests his free hand on Dean's smooth side, slides his thumb along the soft skin under his waistband. He hits enter and then watches Dean's face while the site loads, and—
"What the hell," Dean says, almost under his breath. He's sort of frowning but he's not looking away, and something in Sam's stomach lurches hot when he sets his teeth in his bottom lip.
The site's all sugary-pink, sparkles and bubblegum. Skinny pretty boys in pigtails and little dresses, dicks swelling up through their panties. "Boy pussy," Sam says, finally, and slides his hand up the leg of Dean's boxers to get a firm hold on the plush curve of his ass.
Dean blinks, his hips pushing back automatically against Sam's hand. He shifts his weight, his knees denting the mattress on either side of Sam's hips. "That—seriously?"
Sam taps the pad, clicks randomly and gets a scroll of preview pictures, more prettily made up boys smiling for the camera. He can't believe Dean hasn't run into this kind of thing before surfing for porn, but then Dean's always been sort of vanilla. It was a shock, when they finally started sleeping together. Sam had to pry and wheedle and finally get him drunk to pry the fantasies out of him and they were all the tamest stuff—picking each other up like we're strangers and remember how you had that soccer uniform and what if we backseated it, like high school? They were hot, because Dean was the one asking for them, and Sam happily obliged but he's never really pushed them further. What they've got, it's good. Even so—this, Dean flushing dark red as another boy hides his little dick and opens his mouth wide for the camera, this is—something.
"Got the name memorized, huh?" Dean says. He darts a glance at Sam, looks back at the laptop's bright screen. "You come here often?"
Sam smiles, kneads the handful of Dean's ass he's still holding onto. "Sometimes," he says. Dean's dick is chubbing up, in his boxers, obvious and pressing out the thin fabric where he curves left. His shoulders are broad, always have been, and even if his chest and stomach are a little soft, the curve of muscle in his arms and thighs isn't. There's no way Sam would ever, ever mistake him for a girl. He sits up more, lifting off the pillow, and presses a kiss against Dean's collarbone where there's that little spatter of dark freckles. "It's kind of hot, right?"
Dean's hand goes to the back of Sam's head, his fingers sinking into his hair, holding on while Sam leaves a soft line of kisses leading to the hollow of his throat. "Uh, I guess," he manages, but he's still hard and getting harder, pressing into the lowest part of Sam's stomach, and Sam licks over his collarbone and then sets his teeth in it, applying just the lightest pressure. "So, it's—crossdressing?"
"Not just that." Sam turns his head, squeezes Dean's ass while he taps again at the laptop and goes to a different part of the site, and it's asking for money now but there are more pictures, boys with completely smooth fronts in their skirts, boys leaning over with a plug pressed deep inside, keeping them open, giving heavy-lidded looks over their shoulders. "The whole thing's more like—being pretty, and available. Knowing that you're going to get fucked and that's all you want, all you're good for."
He pulls back, so he can see Dean's face. He's still red, but there's something sort of uncertain around the tilt of his mouth, and Sam frowns and puts his hands on Dean's hips, squeezing a little to get his attention. "Hey," Sam says, and Dean looks at him, his eyes dark. He rubs his thumbs in little circles over the softness of Dean's belly, just above his waistband, soothing just in case. "Too weird?"
Dean bites the corner of his lip, then dips his head, and Sam gives him the kiss he's obviously looking for. He's got two days of stubble and it's a familiar comforting scratch against Sam's skin, his arm strong when he curls it around Sam's neck and holds on. Sam keeps the kiss gentle, just small licks and presses with their noses brushing comfortably together, and Dean murmurs Sam against his lips, and then in between the close moving of their mouths he mumbles, disjointed, "I wore panties once."
Sam sucks in a breath so sharp he almost chokes. When he pulls back enough that his eyes won't cross Dean's still blushing, his eyes closed tight, and Sam grabs his hips hard and says, "Tell me," and Dean stumbles out a story: some girl, when they were still kids, sweet-talking and dangerous, full of ideas, and she made him do it. Sam's stomach clenches hot like a fist. That's how Dean says it: "She made me," head ducked and voice quiet, like it's something dreadfully embarrassing and terribly dirty. God, just the image, just the idea of it, goofy vanilla Dean doing what he was told, liking it, but keeping it a secret even from Sam for a decade and more. Sam shoves the laptop further away and flips them, gets Dean on his back and leans over him, blocking him from the lamplight, his thighs spreading around Sam's hips, and he kisses him hard, then, filling Dean's mouth with his tongue and scraping his teeth over his lips, and Dean just gasps into him and takes it.
"Were you pretty?" Sam demands, once he can bear to pull away. Dean blinks up at him, almost dazed, and Sam shoves back on his knees, grabs Dean's boxers and tugs. "Come on, get these off," he says, and Dean lifts up his hips and Sam yanks them down over the generous swell of Dean's ass, his mouth getting wet when Dean's dick swings heavy and slaps against his thigh, gorgeous pink in the gingery-dark of his pubic hair. That's not for now, though—he puts himself right back between Dean's legs, grinds his hips down into the cradle Dean makes for him, and gets a hand on Dean's jaw, makes him look Sam in the face. "Tell me, tell me what it was like."
"They were—they were pink," Dean says, voice cracked and deep, "and kind of silky, and she said I was—pretty as a girl."
Sam groans, imagining—Dean at nineteen, so beautiful Sam would rub himself raw in the shower every morning over his mouth and his body and his perfect skin, wrapped up in pink—yeah, he bets Dean was pretty, and he keeps his grip on Dean's jaw and starts a slow rhythm with his hips, pushing his still-covered dick up against Dean's, and he says, low and almost nasty up close to Dean's mouth, "That's because you were a girl, weren't you—pretty as a picture, I bet. Had anyone fucked you yet, back then?"
Dean shakes his head, no, and Sam smiles at him. "No, course not, because that was me, wasn't it. I was the first dick in this pussy, huh," he says, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut and gasps, but his thighs drag up against Sam's hips, too, he gets his hands on Sam's sides and digs his nails in like Sam's already fucking him and—oh, god, why aren't they already fucking—
"Sammy," Dean says, dazed and breathy when Sam has to fumble over the side of the bed, ripping through his duffel to get the sticky tube of lube, and then he says it again deeper when Sam shoves his boxer-briefs off his hips, his dick swinging out heavy and throbbing already.
Sam gets his hands on Dean's meaty gorgeous thighs, pushes them out wide so the tendons strain and says, "Let me see your pussy, baby, give it to me," and Dean mutters oh my god but he grabs behind his knees, helps pull himself open, and Sam kisses him for it, licks in easy to his gasping mouth as he gets his fingers all sloppy-messy with lube and smears wet all over the crack of Dean's ass, pushing in with no preamble, no asking for permission. Dean grunts, deep in his chest, and Sam starts fingering him open right away with his mouth running crazily, saying the nastiest sweetest things he can think of against Dean's lips, into the furiously blushing shell of his ear, like there's a good girl and yeah, opening up that cunt all soft for me and are you going to be good for me, sweetheart, are you going to let me in, let me get inside you and Dean moans out loud, his body scorching and his hips flattened out into Sam grinding his fingers into his sweet spot, and Sam finally can't wait another second and he slicks his dick perfunctorily with the hand that had been inside Dean and then feeds himself in, the tight heat of Dean a shock in the base of the belly, watching Dean's face to see the startled wide spread of his eyes and lips before he moans out loud, breath hot in Sam's face, a long wild groan as Sam sinks in right to the hilt, no stopping, no waiting for him to adjust.
"Perfect," Sam says, and Dean drops his grip on his legs to wrap them around Sam's waist, one hand clawed into the pillow and the other wound into Sam's hair, keeping him close while he stares up, watery edge to his pretty, pretty eyes. Sam kisses the inside of his forearm, keeps his eyes locked on Dean's while he grinds into all that threatening wet, barely pulling out, hips churning, and then he leans in with his elbow planted hard next to Dean's head, tracing Dean's bottom lip with his thumb, and he mumbles out all low and close: you're doing so good, baby, your pussy's perfect, so wet for me, huh, god, does that feel good? You like that? You want me to fuck you like this all the time? Dean groans out like he's been punched and Sam starts to fuck him for real, hips and nuts slapping nastily loud against Dean's ass. He puts his head down and sees Dean's dick just drooling wet all over his stomach, so much there's a trickle sliding down his side, and Sam drags his fingers through it and then wraps his hand around Dean's dick and says into his ear, "You've got such a pretty clit," and Dean gasps, "Fuck, what the fuck, Sammy, jesus christ—" with his voice shivery, his nails raking over Sam's shoulder, his hips flinching up up up into Sam's thrusts, and god, he's winding up, Sam can feel him clenching, ready to blow, and he hauls in his control and nails him as hard as he can where it counts and he breathes out, come on, baby, be a good little wife and give it up for me, and Dean makes a choked noise in his throat and comes like that, his heels digging into Sam's thigh, his ass, his breath coming so fast it sounds like he's hyperventilating. Jesus, he's the hottest thing Sam's ever—Sam puts his head down to Dean's shoulder and plants his hands on the bed and hammers home, lets go, and even though Dean's shaky and shuddering he keeps his thighs wide and his hips up, his hands slipping on Sam's sweating back, and he puts his lips against Sam's hair and makes a soft punched noise when Sam unloads into him, slides up to hold the back of Sam's head while Sam breathes out hard and pulses, hips working out the last of it, feeling like his spine turned to liquid and he's just pouring it all out into Dean's waiting, willing body.
"Fuck," Sam says, rolling his forehead against Dean's shoulder, and picks up his head to find Dean red-faced, his lips dark and dented with teeth-marks, his eyelashes wet as he blinks up at Sam. Jesus. Sam's dick flexes, pulsing again deep inside, and he knows Dean must feel it from the way his eyelids flicker, and Sam says, "God, Dean, you're so—" and he drags himself up on weak arms and cups Dean's face in both palms and kisses him, his hips still gently rocking. Dean lets him, mostly breathing open-mouthed against Sam until he sets his teeth in Sam's lip and tugs, and then pulls back into a little smooch like an apology. Sam's ass clenches at the tiny hurt, crushing his half-soft dick further into Dean, and god, he could—he could almost go again, right now.
"Don't even think about it," Dean says, against his lips.
Sam huffs, and gives Dean's cheek a quick kiss before he shifts back, sliding himself slowly out into the cold awful air. The head glances sensitively against Dean's soft thighs, everything a wet mess of lube and come, and Sam shivers for a second but it's nothing to the shudder that rocks all the way through Dean.
"Okay?" Sam says. Reality's trickling back in and he lifts up on his elbow, sliding a soothing hand down Dean's ribs. That was—fast, rough, rougher than Sam usually goes.
Dean nods, eyes closed, but doesn't say anything for a second—no goofy post-sex jokes, no complaining. Sam frowns and slides his hand down to Dean's hip, squeezing gently, and Dean finally opens his eyes and looks up at Sam. His blush hasn't gone down at all. "I'm good," he says, voice like gravel.
He's a really, really bad liar. Sam shifts to one side, taking his weight half-off, but he keeps his hand on Dean's hip, one thigh between Dean's, so he has to tilt into Sam's side. God—the laptop's still on the far side of the bed, miraculously, though thankfully the screen's gone dark and the sissy website isn't glittering pinkly at them both. Sam squeezes Dean's shoulder, the thickness of his bicep. "You know I don't—" He clears his throat. God, now he can feel himself blushing. They're in their thirties, who knew that was still even an option. "You know I don't think of you like a woman for real, right?"
Dean snorts, and glances down at his spent soft dick before he looks back up at Sam. "I didn't think you were blind, Sammy," he says, but there's the tiniest bit of strain still tucked under his voice.
Sam licks his lips, thinking. "And you know if you wanted to try something," he says, feeling his way through it, "I'm totally game." Dean just stares at him, their faces a few inches apart, and Sam touches his chin, prickling over the stubble. "If you liked that, say. Or if you wanted to do more."
Dean blinks and his eyes drop, but after a second he nods, jerkily. "Cool," he says, "good to know," and he's playing it off but his hand curls over Sam's side, he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, and oh, man. Sam takes a deep breath. Maybe another pair of panties. Maybe—maybe getting Dean into a skirt, no panties at all, because he likes to do those dorky roleplay scenarios. Sam coming home to the bunker with groceries from the list Dean made and finding Dean in the kitchen, dressed up, maybe wet already because he was waiting, and he has to close his eyes and remember that he's not fifteen anymore, he can't go again that fast. Jesus, who knew.
He leans in and kisses Dean one more time, pressing his mouth open and licking in, soft, before he pulls back and rolls off the bed. They're both smeared all over with come and Sam used so much lube that it's smeared all over his crotch, and he can imagine how nasty Dean must be feeling. "I was gonna get a washcloth," he says, grimacing, "but maybe we should just take another shower."
"Only if you're gonna carry me in there," Dean says, and then, "Oh, goddamn it," with his voice suddenly sharp.
"What?" Sam says, arrested on his trip around the big bed.
"You pulled your goddamn stitches, is what," Dean says.
"What?" he says, again, turning his head pointlessly and tilting his shoulder forward, and—ow, shit, he did, he thought that trickle down his back was just sweat but apparently not. He slides his other hand up his back and it comes away smeared red. Damn it.
"This is why we don't do athletic activity with big holes in our skin," Dean says, dragging himself into a sitting position.
Sam doesn't miss the flinch when his weight gets onto his ass. "I didn't hear you complaining," he says, lightly, and Dean rolls his eyes but pinks a little, too. "I'll get the sutures again, hang on," Sam says, and then stops in his tracks. The box of beer is on the floor, at least one bottle broken and a puddle soaked into the carpet, presumably from being kicked off the end of the bed in all the excitement.
"What?" Dean says, in his turn, and then peers over the end of the mattress. He snorts a laugh and flops down onto his back. "I'm totally blaming that on you."
Sam steps over the puddle, shaking his head. "You're the one who bought glass bottles," he argues back, but it's weak. He grabs a washcloth, running it under the sink until the water gets warm.
"You're the one who's a frickin' monster in the sack, Pornyboy," Dean says, through the open door.
Sam grins a little, can't help it, twisting around in the bathroom mirror to see the cut bleeding sluggishly down his back. His hair's a wreck, sweat damp all over him, and now he gets another set of stitches, and Dean's probably going to make him clean up the glass, too. Beer and come and blood, all over.
"We're going to have to leave a hundred bucks for the poor maid," Dean says, echoing his thoughts.
Sam smiles, and squeezes the washcloth so it won't drip everywhere. When he comes out into the room Dean's sprawled back on the bed, one knee drawn up, shining in the lamplight, watching him. "Worth it," Sam says, shrugging.
Dean huffs, folding his arms behind his head. "It really was," he says, with a sigh, and then grins.