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Dean really thought he'd be the one to miss it.
It wasn't like packing up the salt and iron had been easy on him, far from it. It had taken him months to stop scanning the papers for work, to stop connecting the dots between “coincidences.” But after a while he'd mostly left it to the new generation. He still checked in with Charlie once in a while, sent her some “stories of interest for your screenplay,” code for work he thought she should know about. Kevin stopped by from time to time, bragging about his war-wounds like no one before him had ever killed a ghoul.
Sure, Dean missed it sometimes, but it really hadn't been that hard a decision. Dean was forty fucking years old, and after that last thing with his back retiring had been so clear a choice it practically announced itself with a flashing neon sign. He and Sam had talked, and then talked about a million more times after that because Sam was Sam. Apparently even Dean's long-rehearsed and often-stifled declaration that he wanted Sam, just Sam, like that, for the long haul wasn't enough to flip off Sam's Dr. Phil switch. So they talked and fucking talked until Sam was convinced that this was really what Dean wanted, a normal life with Sam, pie, fence and all.
Sam had always been the one crying his big girl-tears for a normal life, running off to it just to come back to Dean. At first Sam had been suspicious of every step Dean took, waiting for the other shoe to drop and acting perpetually surprised when Dean went to Home Depot and came home with shit from Home Depot, not some half-dead vampire victim or a lead on a wendigo two towns over.
But, to no one's surprise more than his own, Dean had settled into suburban life-partnership like an old pair of Wranglers. Dean had always thought Sam was an idiot for wanting a normal life. Dean had never realized that having a normal life could be fucking awesome.
He liked their little town, and the modest house they'd managed to buy with some mild fraud and old-school charm. Iowa was small-towny enough to make Dean feel at home, but liberal enough that they could just be two dudes living together without everyone getting all up in their business or threatening to lynch them when they got too close in public. That part still felt weird to Dean, who couldn't quite think of himself as a gay guy. He was just a Sam-guy, not that it mattered. As much as he flirted with the cute girls who came into the auto shop, Dean's heart was happily balled and chained to Sam and his spectacular, god-given gift of an ass.
And it wasn't like Dean was lacking for sex. It was fucking amazing the amount of sex they could have when they weren't limping home half-dead on a weekly basis. They'd always managed, working around some memorable broken limbs and lacerations, but holy fuck Dean had had no idea the shit they could get up to with an entire weekend free of apocalypses and demon masterplans and angel bullshit.
Like this weekend, which finds Dean and Sam at their regular booth at the Outback. Dean sighs and looks lovingly at the massive Foster's beading sweat in his hand, looking a little more lovingly at Sam, who's spearing his salad so he gets one of everything on his fork just like he has since he was a kid. Dean smiles charmingly at the waitress, Kiley tonight, and thanks her as she gives him his soup. It looks like the illicit love child of a stick of butter, a pint of heavy cream and a promiscuous onion, with fucking bacon sprinkled on top. It's the second-sexiest thing leaning on Dean's table right now, and while Dean stopped praying when he was 12, he still thanks something he can't quite name on nights like this.
While they might look like the poster-boys for gay marriage, a happy and handsome couple who went to the Outback Steakhouse every Friday and watched football with the neighbors on Sunday, what they got up to behind closed doors would make most of their neighbors faint.
Dean knows that the fact that Sam's his brother renders anything they do kinky and fucked-up (and if he was being honest, that part of it still thrilled him). He's sure there are fraternal fuck-buddies out there who just do in the butt, kiss and go to sleep. And sure, many, many nights in the Smith-Winchester household ended with just that, but more often that not there were some bites and bruises to go along with that kiss.
They both needed it, that thrill, that roughness that pushed them both past their limits and into a place that was vulnerable and safe at the same time, where they could hold onto that dangerous need they had for each other. Sam had always been a kinky little thing, even when he was a teenager, but it had taken on a whole new side after they'd signed the mortgage papers and picked out the curtains.
Dean had known that he'd miss the thrill of hunting. What he hadn't anticipated was how much Sam would miss it.
For all his apple-pie longing, Sam had struggled to settle into their new life. Dean might have accepted hunting with open arms, but it was a duty, a job he'd had to do because no one else could. He missed saving people, feeling like he was making the world a better place. But he didn't miss running for his life, or the constant vigilance required when something big and nasty was breathing down your neck. As they bought furniture and looked for work, it became apparent that Sam missed that part more than anything. Sam had fussed and fidgeted while Dean gleefully purchased patio furniture and the biggest grill Lowe's could special-order.
There'd been some fights, of course, with a few memorable broken plates and holes in the plaster. It had taken Dean a while to figure out why Sam was being so goddamn difficult all the time, but they'd worked it out. For once Dean's method of fucking instead of talking worked just fine.
Dean had learned to see the signs, to interpret the multitude of bitchfaces that Sam cycled through every day. Dean's first lesson in life had been how to take care of Sam, and he still had the touch.
Today is one of those days. Dean had noticed it in Costco yesterday, when Sam's twitchy displeasure had pierced through Dean's elation at buying so much food all at once. And it's still there today, as Sam chews his food absently and doesn't even crack a joke when Dean adds crabcakes to his steak and lobster Bloomin' Bonaroo Barbie Bonanaza or whatever the fuck it's called.
“You doin' anything tomorrow?” Dean asks around a mouthful of steak and various seafoods.
“Uh, wanted to get the AC filter taken care of, but that's it really.” Sam shrugs and goes back to tensely cutting up his chicken.
“Good.” Dean just smiles and goes back to his meat, making sure his fries soak up the melted butter-steak-juice-crab-cake threesome pooling in the bottom of his plate. They skip dessert, ignoring Kiley's flirtatious efforts to get them to try something sweet. Dean needs to get Sam home.
“We gonna catch a movie?” Sam counts out money for the check as Dean leans back in the booth, sliding down and stretching his legs out.
“No.” Dean lifts his foot and glances quickly around, making sure no one's staring at them before he looks Sam right in the eye and slowly presses the toe of his boot against Sam's crotch. “We're gonna go home.” Dean flexes his foot to press a little harder. “And I'm gonna relax and read a book.”
Sam's face is flushed, eyes darting down to the table before he looks back at Dean through his bangs. Dean mentally congratulates himself on talking Sam into bangs again and straightens up, sliding out of the booth. He bends at the waist and kisses Sam on the cheek, noticing Kiley grinning at them like they're the cutest thing she's ever seen. “Haven't read Cat's Cradle in a while,” Dean whispers into Sam's ear, feeling his own cock twitch as he says their little code.
Dean turns before he has a chance to see Sam's reaction, but he's familiar with it by now. There'll be a hot blush across his cheeks, the little dilation of his pupils and flaring of his nostrils, followed by a half-smile with his lower lip caught under his left canine. Sam follows him out and slides into the passenger seat, hands in his lap, already more relaxed.
It's a 20-minute drive home, but Dean makes the opposite turn as they exit the parking lot to buy them a little time and take the back roads. Sam doesn't say anything, just sits still and waits for Dean.
He doesn't have to wait long. As soon as they hit an empty stretch of road, Dean runs a hand through Sam's hair, pulling him closer. He lets Sam rest his head on Dean's shoulder for a minute, scratching his neck and trailing his fingers down Sam's arm.
When Sam feels relaxed, breath coming in steady and warm against Dean's neck, Dean runs his hand back into Sam's hair, grabbing a good hank of it and pushing Sam's head down until it's clear what he wants. Sam hums appreciatively and nuzzles his head into Dean's chest as he opens Dean's fly. Dean scoots his hips up to help as Sam pushes his jeans down a little bit, because the last thing either of them needs is some zip-nip to ruin perfectly good road head.
And it's more than perfect, really, it's the best. Dean had never asked if Sam had fucked around with other guys when they were apart, and he honestly didn't want to know. But part of him was curious if Sam had practiced this or if he was just a fucking natural. Anyone who'd seen the kid eat an apple could have guessed that he'd suck a good dick but holy fuck, those snakes that unhinged their jaws to swallow things whole could have learned a thing or two from Sam. God really loved Dean that much.
Sam knows to do it quick, skipping the fancy tongue-tricks to hollow his cheeks and roll his tongue as he slides his mouth down. Dean groans as he feels Sam's nose press into the crook of his thigh, spit soaking out of his mouth into Dean's boxer briefs. Dean loves the noises Sam makes, the wet, choking sounds that could only come from someone totally lost in the moment. He even gags, which is so fucking hot and makes Dean feel oddly sentimental. Sam hasn't possessed a gag reflex since he was 15, but he knows Dean likes the feeling so he flexes his throat and fakes it for him. Sam's just considerate like that.
Dean could let Sam do this all night, just sit back in his baby and marvel at the way Sam's throat clenches around the head of his dick, how Sam's tongue never stops moving and yet always keeps steady pressure on that sensitive spot on the underside of it. But that's not what Sam needs, not yet, so Dean doesn't even try to hold himself back. He's gripping the steering wheel with one hand and forcing Sam's head down with the other in a perfectly respectable ten minutes, smiling as Sam makes that sound that he only makes when he's swallowing.
He keeps Sam down there until they get home, letting his cock go soft in Sam's mouth. He pulls into the garage and waits, looking down expectantly until Sam tucks him back in.
Sam follows him to the door and waits while Dean undoes the lock. Dean flips the inside light on and shuts the garage light off, turning around to stand in the threshold and look down at Sam.
“Take your clothes off.”
Sam swallows thickly and slowly pulls his denim jacket off, hanging it on a peg by the door. Dean leans against the door frame and crosses his arms over his chest. No one can see into the garage with the lights off, but Sam still shuffles his feet like he's embarrassed. It's adorable.
“And fold them.”
Sam looks up at him, his eyes flashing dark in the dim light flowing in from the house. Dean holds his gaze and shifts, standing up a little taller and setting his mouth in a hard line. He doesn't relax until Sam starts unbuttoning his shirt, eyes cast down to the floor as he kicks his Pumas off.
This isn't about a sexy striptease or even really about sex. Sam's not just taking off his clothes, he's taking Sam off. He folds his shirts neatly, stacking them on the steps before he shucks his pants off and adds them to the pile. He places his socks neatly on the top and picks the whole bundle up, looking at Dean and waiting. Sam's face already looks different, his mouth softer and his eyes opened wider. Perfect.
“Good.” Dean nods approvingly, motioning for Sam to follow him inside and put his clothes away.
Dean leaves Sam kneeling naked by the couch in the living room and goes around the house, turning lights on, hanging up his jacket, grabbing a book and his glasses from their bedside table. Dean had hemmed and hawed about getting reading glasses, because when the fuck did he get so old, but he'd finally relented when Sam had bought him a pair, slipped them on Dean's face, and spent the entire night showing Dean his “hot for teacher” enthusiasm about Dean in glasses.
Dean perches them on his nose as he tosses his book onto the couch, looking Sam up and down before he steps in close. “I'm gonna get a drink,” Dean drawls, running his hand into Sam's hair to press his face against Dean's thigh. “Better have someplace to put it when I get back.” Dean tugs sharply on Sam's hair until Sam's face is tilted up towards him, eyes narrowed down to slits and his mouth falling open. Dean kisses him on the forehead before releasing him, heading into the kitchen without a backwards glance.
Pouring himself a generous two fingers and a pinky (or as Dean likes to call it, a shocker) of Johnnie Black, Dean leans back against the counter and swirls his whiskey over the ice, giving Sam some time to settle himself. It also gives the glass time to get cold, which is just an added bonus.
“Hmmm...” Dean ambles into the living room with his drink, clinking the ice cubes together as he stops and surveys Sam. “That'll do.”
Sam is on his hands and knees, smooth expanse of his back held flat. His head is arched up and facing forwards, eyes closed as he breathes in and out. He's close enough to the couch for Dean to reach out and plant his drink on the small of Sam's back when he sits down. It's a nice view.
Dean settles onto the couch, adjusting his glasses and leaving his whiskey to sweat on Sam for a while. Dean opens his book and stretches his legs out, making himself comfortable. He won't really read much, not like this, but the pretense is important. He scans a page, looks over at Sam, sips his drink, and repeats as Sam holds himself still.
It doesn't sound like it would be hard, staying on your hands and knees for a while and holding a small glass on your back. But Sam knows he's not allowed to lower his head, making it so much harder to keep his back flat. And if he sways his back to relieve the pressure on his neck, he'll spill Dean's drink, and Sam knows that there are always consequences for failing.
Sam has to use his stomach muscles after a while, fighting against the exhaustion radiating down from his neck and meeting up with the tension in his back. His knees start to hurt after a while, not in any permanently damaging way, Dean made sure of that, but enough to add another layer of stress to Sam's body. His wrists go sore and his shoulders start to burn, jumpy little movements running along his back as he tries to find some supporting muscles that aren't burning with effort.
Dean watches him carefully, observing each erosion of Sam's staying power. It's not always predictable how long Sam will last like this, the only real restraint on him being his will to please Dean. Some days Sam needs praise, and he'll stay there until he's shaking like a leaf with tears streaming silently down his face, until Dean drains the last of his drink and pulls Sam onto his lap to tell him how good he's been. Some days, Sam just needs to be punished.
Today is one of those days.
Dean leans his head back against the overstuffed arm of the couch, swirling his drink and looking at Sam. His arms are shaking, and his lip is bitten hard enough in between his teeth to leave a bruise. Not that Dean won't add a few more on top just for good measure.
Taking a final sip of his whiskey, Dean sets the glass back on Sam's back and watches him closely. He's almost never wrong about when Sam's gonna break, and tonight is no exception. Dean counts to three before he hears Sam groan, reaching his hand out to catch the tumbler as it rolls off Sam's back.
Sam bends forward with his arms out in front of him, cat-stretching his back and taking muffled, panting breaths against the floor. Dean calmly sets his book aside and places the glass on the actual coffee table.
“Oh, Sam.” Dean says softly, walking around until his feet are just by Sam's outstretched arms. “I'm disappointed.” Dean crouches down, sighing as he wraps his fingers around Sam's hair. He gives Sam a few gentle scratches across his scalp before he stands up, with as little warning as possible, pulling Sam up by the hair. Sam yelps in pain and scrambles to get his numb, aching legs under him as Dean hauls him up.
Sam has tears in his eyes as Dean pulls him in for a kiss, beading up shiny and pretty on his eyelashes. “I'm sorry,” Sam whispers, squeezing his eyes shut and forcing a fat tear down his cheek. “I tried.”
“Shh, I know you did,” Dean whispers back, stroking his hand through Sam's hair and wiping the tear off Sam's cheek with his thumb. “I know you tried, Sammy.” Dean kisses him again, cupping Sam's cheek in his hand. “But you didn't try hard enough, did you?”
Dean might not hunt any more, but a lifetime of training hadn't entirely left him. Dean could still strike fast when he wanted to, and the backhand smack to the face he gives Sam echoes off the walls before Sam even has time to breathe. Sam keeps his face turned to the side, mouth open in surprise and pain and deep, dark arousal. If Dean were the sort inclined to feel bad about smacking his brother-boyfriend in the face, Sam's rock-hard erection would assuage any doubt he had left.
Sam hisses as Dean roughly grabs his jaw and turns him back to face Dean. “You're gonna take what I give you, right, Sammy?” Dean asks thickly, licking his lips and squeezing a little harder. Sam just nods his head and whines, “Mmm-hmm,” a new set of tears forming in the corners of his eyes.
“Good, good,” Dean kisses against his lips, stroking his fingers along Sam's jaw. Sam arches his face into it, sighing softly as Dean traces behind the hollow of his ear. “You want my hand, or you want my belt?” Dean's pretty sure he knows the answer already, and he's not surprised when Sam breathlessly asks for his hand.
“That's right, come here.” Dean leads Sam to the couch by his ear, pulling him down until he's bent over Dean's knee. It probably sounds a lot sexier than it is, because Sam is the size of an oversized herd animal and getting him properly settled reminds Dean of one of those ridiculous SyFy channel movies. Wrestling the Moosetopus is a pretty accurate description of Dean's pushing and prodding to straighten the acreage of Sam's limbs into something he can work with.
Sam gets in line quickly, though, laying over Dean's lap until his cock is trapped between his belly and Dean's thighs. He spreads his legs when Dean swats a hand in between his thighs, giving Dean better access to the really good, soft parts. Sam digs his fingers into the microfiber cover of their couch, which Dean picked out because he liked the soft, mossy green color, not because it looks so good contrasted against Sam's tan skin.
Dean runs his hand along Sam's backside, feeling his skin warm up under his touch. Sam shivers as Dean ghosts his fingers along the crack of Sam's ass, a fact Dean files away for later.
The first few smacks are light, just enough to get Sam's blood flowing. Dean can feel Sam's cock thickening up against his leg, pressing against him with each swat of Dean's hand. When Sam's ass is a pretty shade of pink, Dean brings his hand back and really lets Sam have it. Each crack of his hand makes Sam moan and squirm against him, until Dean brings his other forearm down to brace over Sam's back.
He doesn't stop, though, just pressing Sam down as he puts his back into it and brings his cupped palm down over and over, watching Sam's ass go from pink to blush to a deep cherry-red. Dean makes sure to get the insides of Sam's thighs, too, smacking them back open when Sam reflexively snaps them shut. Sam goes from moaning at each blow to letting loose one continuous, sobbing groan. Dean can feel the wet spot soaking through his jeans where Sam's dick is leaking out precome all over him.
Dean lands a few solid blows before he pauses, sliding his hand over the fire-hot skin of Sam's ass. “Doing good, Sammy,” Dean croons at him. “Almost done, just need you to do something for me, ok?” Dean runs his hand up Sam's thigh, sliding two of his fingers to trail up the crack of Sam's ass and circle around his hole.
“I'm gonna do this,” Dean pulls his hand back and presses three of his fingers together tightly, folding his pinky finger under his thumb, “until you come.” Sam turns to look back at him just as Dean flicks his hand to smack his fingers right against Sam's hole. He's glad Sam's looking, so Sam can see the smile on Dean's face and Dean can see Sam's eyes roll back into his head. Dean's pretty sure this won't take long.
Dean doesn't know if Sam's struggling to keep himself from coming too quickly or struggling to push through the pain as Dean smacks Sam's tight little hole a deep, mottled red, but it's so fucking hot Dean doesn't care either way. Sam squirms and moans and ruts against him like an animal, turning his face to the side so Dean has a perfect view of the tear-tracks drying on his cheeks. He's close, eyes all foxy and unfocused, and just watching him is making Dean regret keeping his own pants on.
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean brings his hand down quickly, rapid one-two-three swipes against Sam's hole as Sam writhes against him. “Let it go, it's ok.” Dean keeps up his pace, steady thwk-thwk-thwk sound filling the air as he releases his hold on Sam's back and knots his fingers into Sam's hair, tugging sharply until Sam cries out and tenses up, wet warmth seeping into Dean's lap. Works every time.
Dean lets him collapse into a heap, stroking his fingers up and down the dip of Sam's spine and resting his palm against the radiant heat of Sam's rosy backside. Sam's hiccuping breaths subside into something calmer after a while, until he sighs contentedly and wriggles down to rest his head in Dean's lap.
After Dean leans down for a long kiss and a steady stream of, “Good boy, Sammy, did so good for me,” Dean stretches out and pulls Sam to lay on top of his legs. Sam's bright red ass looks downright festive against their green couch, which Dean gladly remembers is machine-washable as he spies the wet spot underneath Sam.
Dean's got a wet spot of his own forming, so he takes his pants off to free his cock and lets Sam go to work, carding his hands through Sam's hair. Dean wonders if domestic life is this fun for everyone or if he finally got all that good karma that he'd supposedly earned.
Sam tries to pull off after he's swallowed, but once Dean checks to make sure Sam doesn't have to go to the bathroom or feel like anything's injured, he puts Sam's mouth right back where it was and grabs his book. Dean pushes his glasses up his nose and sighs as he folds back the dog-eared page, absently curling a strand of Sam's hair around his finger like a stray thread.
Sam made a good table, but he made an even better blanket. It was going to be a cozy weekend.