It all began with the free porn in the motel room. The free crappy porn, so bad that Dean wanted some cash back on the room rate just for having it put in front of his eyeballs: six of seven channels in a row full of girls with breasts like nuclear missiles, distended and inhumanly perky, and eyes so dead while they mouthed their handful of lines that he gave serious thought to whether the porn industry might be raising zombies to do this shit with. It was fucking sick, and when he thought that the front desk guy had made it sound like a selling point—
Okay, so it'd really started with him, the smirky asshole clerking the front desk with his thinning hair slicked back flat, and the no vacancy sign that was on the fritz. "We've got a few rooms left, but we're having some technical difficulties with the cable scrambling," the guy said, leaning over the desk with a sideways, wink-wink-nudge-nudge leer. "But you boys won't mind that, right?" Emphasis on you boys, running an eye through the glass door over the miles of Sam, leaning back on his elbows against the hood with his legs stretched out bracing him, one propped up on the bumper.
Normally, Dean objected to weasels like this guy eyeing Sam like the blue plate special, but after the night he'd had so far, a little free porn sounded pretty awesome, especially if it was the loud moaning kind that made Sam freak out with embarrassment and bitch about how gross it was.
Except Jesus, the stuff really was gross. Dean liked porn, liked breasts as much as the next guy—"The next ten guys," Sam said—big ones, small ones, all of them were just fine with him, and if Sam hadn't been a smug little cockblocking bastard—you know what, that was where it started, back in the goddamn bar, where Dean had been, no lie, five minutes from getting his hands on a real, sweet pair, nipples waving hello at him under a tight little sweater that felt like cashmere where his hand was resting on the small of her back, soft as sin. Fresh off a nice easy salt-and-burn, and he'd been on a roll, the lines coming easy. He'd just been murmuring to her that maybe she'd like to take a little walk outside, see how clear the stars were looking tonight, and she was going for it, no matter what the fuck Sam said after.
"Yeah, right," Sam said, "in your dreams," which was exactly where it had had to stay, thanks to Sam and his amazing gift of bad timing. Three hours checking his goddamn email in the internet cafe next door while Dean hustled their gas money for the next couple of weeks, and he came back to the bar just in time to fuck everything up. Seriously, what the fuck, Sam couldn't see he was making a play? They were in a bar, where Sam could get his own damn beer; he didn't need to grab Dean's bottle like it was his God-given right, much less start whining about when they were going to go get a room in front of Ms. Cashmere.
"You can quit goddamn laughing, anytime, bitch," Dean said.
"Hey man, I'm sorry," Sam said, not sounding even a little bit sorry. "What can I say, I was tired."
"When do I ever get in your way? Oh yeah, that's right, never," Dean said.
"Oh, excuse me, Wendy Claussen—"
"That was in high school, it doesn't freaking count anymore!" Dean yelled. "You were freaking fourteen, dude, you were never going to make it with a senior cheerleader anyway, no matter how much homework you did for her."
Anyway, that was why Dean made sure to get hold of the remote as soon as they got into the room, and he almost left the freakish zombie breast porn on, because Sam was making those horrible pained gagging noises from his bed, and it served Sam right for messing with his game. But it was just too disgusting, even Dean couldn't take it, and that was how they ended up landing on the seventh porn channel just in time to see some guy getting honest-to-god deep throated. It wasn't some tricked-out camera work either, just one long loving continuous close-up shot of a mouth sliding all the way down on this guy with his porn-star dick. And man, it was hot. Even Sam said, "Huh," sort of absently, and stopped pretending he was paying attention to the book he was reading.
It stayed close up like that for a while, the mouth sliding back up to show off the dick, hard and red and shiny with spit. Dean slid his hand into his jeans, zipper running down, and Sam didn't even bitch about it. He had the book covering his lap, it was one of those big-ass spell tomes he kept picking up in used book stores, and he was shifting his weight.
On the screen, the tongue worked its way around the head, making these little sexy licks with just the tip, then the mouth slid back down again for an instant replay. It ran a good three, maybe four minutes like that before Sam said suddenly, "Dude, are you watching gay porn?"
"What?" Dean said, just as it finally went to a wide shot of the mouth, which belonged to a tall blond guy with his own porn-star set of equipment, and Dean jerked his hand out of his pants and knocked the remote onto the floor while Sam laughed his damn head off. "Shut up, you were watching it too," Dean said, groping around under the bed trying to find it.
"No way, man, you're the one with the remote," Sam said, and when Dean finally got the goddamn evil lying porn shut off, Sam was sitting up with the book open again, jeans zipped up, and his were baggy enough that if he still had a hard-on, Dean couldn't tell.
He glared at Sam and turned his back to zip himself up over his dick, except Sam couldn't leave well enough alone, which was how it really happened. "You know, Dean, there's nothing wrong with having those feelings," Sam said. "It's okay, I still love you—"
At that point, Dean pretty much had to jump him and prove they were in this together. And it turned out they were in this together, and then Sam was lying under him all wide-eyed, his mouth wet, his dick hard, his legs sprawled out to either side of Dean's hips. "Well, fuck," Dean said; Sam's dick twitched under his hand, and they were off and running.
Pretty soon he had Sam's dick in his mouth and was trying to work out how the hell you did this, no thanks to Sam, who kept saying shit like, "Man, you suck at this," yeah, real funny, and bullshit too, since Sam was moaning like crazy at the same time. He kept trying to fuck Dean's mouth until Dean had to twist around and lie down over Sam's hips to hold him. That was when Dean figured out that going at it upside down worked a hell of a lot better, and Sam came in his mouth, which definitely took them over the line.
But really Dean was counting it from fifteen minutes earlier, after Sam had grabbed his shoulders and kissed him, off-center and sloppy and desperate—"Whatever, Dean, your hand was already on my dick," and yeah, sure, but kissing took it out of the territory of helping-each-other-out, no-big-deal—"Whatever, Dean!"
Fine, if he wanted to make a fuss, then it started here, with Sam's legs wrapped around his waist and keeping him in deep, two of them working together like an eight-cylinder engine on premium, because it turned out that all the whiny bitch could be fucked right out of Sam's ass, which meant that this was absolutely going to be happening on a regular basis from now on, and Sam could just quit hitting him in the shoulder. Seriously, it was just pathetic how he was flailing away all feebly like that, especially since he was still with the moaning.
"I hate you," Sam said, coming.
"Yeah, I can tell," Dean said, and later when had Sam fallen asleep, hand just resting over Dean's hip, last inch of his long fingers curled over, Dean reached out and brushed his knuckles over Sam's cheek, softly, and it didn't really matter how it all started, because he was goddamn well never going to stop.
= End =
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