Back Country Roadmap
Sam started dating again after the war was over. Nothing heavy, not at first; he just got more interested in which bars they went to, or dragged Dean to coffee shops instead, and then he'd find a girl. A girl reading the newspaper, or studying, a girl who was busy and not cruising for a hookup. He'd make eye contact, smile; get up and go talk to her for a while, and if it turned into a date, the next morning he'd say, "Hey, mind if we stick around a few days?" and he'd be gone for three, four nights in a row.
Looking for something, and maybe he hadn't found it yet, but Dean figured it was just a matter of time. The third time around, Dean watched him walk out the door with a tall, curvy, brown-haired girl with glasses, carrying her bookbag, and then he downed the rest of his own goddamn four-dollar-a-cup coffee and went back to the motel, because he didn't much feel like hustling or even trying for a hookup of his own.
He polished off the tail-end of the bottle of Johnnie Walker they had in the room, watching some pay-per-view porn and sort of half-heartedly jerking off, because he wasn't going to goddamn sulk or anything. They'd beat the nastiest, meanest, ugliest sons-of-bitches on the block, they might've even saved the world, and if Sam wanted to settle down in some white picket life, he'd earned it.
Dean fell asleep propped up against the headboard with the TV on and had a full Technicolor-Cinemascope-Stereophonic dream of fucking Sam in the ass, Sam pushed flat down on the bed with his face in the pillows, naked and moaning, "yes, please, more," while Dean held him down and said, "you like that, baby? that good enough for you?"
He woke up with his hand already down in his pants and finished the job in five good pulls, then he tipped his head back against the headboard and turned off the goddamn porn. He didn't exactly need a back country roadmap to figure out where all that had come from. "Dean, you're a twisted bastard," he said out loud, half-congratulatory, and went to shower it off.
He didn't start out thinking of it as anything other than some extra-fucked-up jerk-off material. Then the next day in the car, Sam was texting the girl he'd left behind in Whatever, Oregon, his tongue poking out of his mouth a little as he typed with his thumbs, and Dean thought, well, why the fuck not, because it looked like he didn't have anything to lose by trying.
It was a crazy, fucked-up, reckless thought, just the kind he liked, with a side order of selfish that made him feel guilty and defiant at the same time, because hell, if Sam had earned his happy ending, Dean had earned his too, and it didn't involve driving off into the sunset alone. Anyways, if Sam wanted to ditch him, least Dean could do was give him one hell of a reason.
It took thirty seconds to decide, and then Dean almost went for it right then and there, but when he slowed down to pull onto the shoulder, a jerk in a Saab cut around and passed him on the right. He might've let it go, but the other guy flipped him off in the rear view mirror, and that meant it was on.
It took about fifteen minutes to convince the yuppie asshole he didn't want to fuck around with a real car. Sam made snide comments about road-rage the whole time, and he was pretty pissed off by the time Mr. Saab slunk away into a rest stop, so Dean figured that probably wasn't the best time to make a move. Anyway, the moment was gone. "Come on, Sammy, he was asking for it," he said instead, put We Are The Champions on the stereo, and started thinking strategy.
First thing was to play a little defense. Dean lifted Sam's cell phone at the diner that afternoon on his way to the bathroom and dropped it in the toilet. Sam didn't notice it was missing for an hour, and then he bitched for another two when Dean wouldn't go back for it. "I've got contacts on that thing, Dean!"
"Yeah, I bet you do; what was her name, Maryann?" Dean said.
"Huh? Marion, and I'm talking about hunters! People we might need to do our job."
"Dude, it's a truck stop. Thing's long gone by now, and it's going to be expensive enough to replace without adding a hundred twenty miles of gas on top."
Sam was still sulking that night though, so Dean left him in front of the TV and went out and hustled enough pool to buy him the latest and greatest gadget. A chick at the electronics counter in the local Wal-Mart swore him to secrecy and sold him a phone out of the back that wasn't hitting the shelves until next week, which Dean figured had to be pretty cool, seeing how there were about five thousand of them in the storage room.
He walked back into the motel and found Sam halfway through a pizza and a sixpack and some softcore, tossed the box over to him soon as Sam quit fumbling crazily at the remote. "Dude, you got mushrooms," Dean said reproachfully.
Sam didn't answer; Dean looked up and found Sam switching off between staring at the box like it was the holy grail, and staring at Dean like he'd grown a new head. "Where did you get an iPhone?" Sam said.
"Secrets of the trade, young jedi," Dean said.
Sam looked back down at the box. "You got me an iPhone."
"Well, they told me every thirteen-year-old girl wanted one," Dean said, before he remembered he was trying to get in Sam's pants now, but Sam didn't even seem to notice. He just said, "Thanks," in kind of a dazed way, and then thirty seconds later it was packing material and shrink wrap all over the room. Dean shook his head and picked the mushrooms off the rest of the pizza.
Dean figured he needed to ease Sam into the idea, so he downloaded a bunch of gay porn while Sam was in the shower. "Dude, quit leaving files on the desktop, I hate that," Sam said, dragging all the icons into the trash without even snooping in any of them, dammit.
"Hey, those could've been important," Dean said.
"I don't think you need 'Cocksucking 101' for handling vampires, Dean," Sam said.
The next motel had some gay pay-per-view, but it was some leather bear-and-twink crap with four of the fugliest guys Dean had ever seen in his life, and Sam just got pissed off, because he figured Dean had put it on to annoy him. Dean couldn't argue with that; he couldn't see anyone getting off on this. On the bright side, at least he had to look pretty awesome by comparison.
He ducked into a dressing room at the next Wal-Mart while Sam was in back picking up ammo, and checked himself out in the full-length, naked with his jeans slouched down over his boots, comparing to the shots in Playgirl just to be sure; and yeah, he was way hotter than most of those guys. Okay, maybe he wasn't hung like John Holmes, but no shortchange in that department either. He thought about it and grabbed his cameraphone out of his jacket pocket and took a bunch of photos.
Sam stared at the Playgirl on the conveyor belt. "Dude, they're offering a grand for amateur shots," Dean said.
"You're not sending your naked photos in to Playgirl, Dean!" Sam threw it back on the rack.
"Hey, defending my honor?" Dean said, smirking. That had to be a good sign.
"Defending our asses from the fucking FBI, jerk," Sam hissed, and shoved past him with a fake smile for the teller, to go with the fake credit card. Aw, well.
"Hey, you think Hendrickson reads Playgirl?" Dean said, strolling after Sam into the parking lot. "Yeah, I bet he does."
Sam was pretty hot too, Dean decided. Not as hot as his big brother, obviously, but he had that wholesome, puppy-dog thing going, made you want to mess him up, get him all hot and bothered. That was half the fun of pranking him, actually, and soon as Dean had made that connection, whoa, baby. He hadn't really thought about it that way: teasing Sam until he was all flushed and worked up and kind of mad, bitching non-stop the way he did, even with Dean's hand sliding nice and lazy over his cock, thumbing the head, until Sam got to that place where he was so turned around he couldn't make words work anymore, and his sentences fell apart, and oh yeah, jesus, Dean came all over the shower wall, and nearly staggered. Damn. His knees were wobbly.
"Dude, what are you doing in there?" Sam said, banging in to take a leak.
"Jerking off," Dean said, blissfully.
"Dean!" Sam yelled. "I don't wanna know that, okay?"
"Hey, you asked, Sammy," Dean said. "Man, that was good."
"I hate you," Sam said, and stomped back out without flushing.
"Dude, that's gross!" Dean yelled after him.
The operation was going pretty smooth; Dean had cockblocked Sam twice so far this week, and Sam hadn't even noticed. It was falling-off-a-log easy, all he had to do was stand behind Sam's chair for about five minutes letting his hand rest on it, thumb or a knuckle brushing up against Sam's back. Chicks quit meeting Sam's eyes, or else they got that kind of friendly you-go-girl look on. Dean always smiled back big at those ones.
And okay, maybe they weren't having sex in the real world yet, but man, Dean was having some quality time in the shower. That night, after rousting a vengeful spirit and brown-eyed-girl number three, all in one day, Dean pulled out a primo one to celebrate: Sam spread out over the hood of the car, out in the sun, begging Dean for it really loud and low-down, saying, "Goddammit Dean, fuck me already," and then he had to go on adding, "unless you want me to put you down here instead."
Dean hit the brakes, Sam and the car went bye-bye, and he was back in the shower with his dick in his hand. "Fuck," he muttered. Yeah, no question, Sam was going to want a turn now and then with the whole ass-fucking thing. He was a girl, but he wasn't that much of a girl, even if Dean wasn't ever going to admit as much. But, so what the hell was Dean supposed to do, let his baby brother give it to him up the ass? No fucking way.
Cocksucking, okay, he could go as far as that, long as they were on the bed, maybe a little sixty-nine action going on. But Sam already had an attitude problem, ever since he'd had that little throwdown with the crossroads demon bitch; now he kept disobeying orders and pulling bullshit stunts, throwing himself in harm's way, like Dean couldn't goddamn well take care of himself. Dean sure as hell wasn't giving him any more encouragement. Sam would probably want to cuddle him after, too.
He flipped the shower cold to finish it and got out, still pissed off. Just to make it more awesome, Sam was sprawled out on the bed half-asleep when he came out of the bathroom—lying there on his stomach in his t-shirt and his jeans with his head on his arms, all pink and sleepy-eyed through his stupid hair when he looked up.
"I'm going to get a drink," Dean said, yanking on his jeans.
"Okay." Sam sat up and reached for his jacket.
"I don't need you on my ass all the time," Dean snapped. Sam blinked at him, his mouth a little open, looked from the bathroom door and back to him, confused, and then while Dean was staring back at him cold and hard and not even thinking a little about apologizing, suddenly this sort of slow beatific glow just spread over his face, and Sam said, "Hey, man, it's cool. I mean, you know, at your age, sometimes the stuff just doesn't work the same way—"
Oh, the little goddamn bitch. Dean dropped his shirt and jumped him. "Yeah? You want to see how my stuff's working?" he panted, Sam yelping with laughter under him, even pinned with his face smashed up against the comforter. Dean shoved his hand over Sam's mouth. Sam bit him on the palm and squirmed, wriggling, got Dean's jaw with his shoulder. Dean bit him on the back of the neck, his nose up in Sam's hair, kind of sweaty, a little smoky from the Irish bar earlier, and he rubbed his dick up against Sam's ass.
"Dude!" Sam squeaked under him, like a mouse or something.
"You asked for it, bitch," Dean said triumphantly. "You got anything else to say about my stuff?"
"Get your stuff away from my stuff!" Sam said.
"Aw, don't you love me anymore, baby?" Dean said. "Say uncle."
"Oh, you're asking for it now, jerk," Sam said, and put his head down, doing that squeezy thing with his eyes and his shoulders bunching up.
"That's frigging cheating!" Dean yelled, and then he was being dragged off like a rag doll by invisible hands, held down flat on his belly, and before they let up, Sam pounced on him and pinned his wrists.
"Yeah, here's a thought, Dean, how about you say uncle," Sam said, purring it right in his ear, and he got his hips up against Dean's ass and gave them a good solid thrust like he meant it.
"Get off me, you sorry cheating bastard," Dean said half-heartedly. His dick was doing a little endzone victory dance in his jeans, twitching up and down. Okay, forget about the attitude issues, he'd figure some way to handle it; maybe he'd tie Sam up and ride him or something. "Fuck," he muttered, admiring his own sick mind.
"Doesn't sound like uncle to me," Sam said, settling in deeper, draped all over Dean's back now, his arms curved right along his and holding them down against the mattress. "But hey, if you're having such a good time, don't let me stop you."
"Least mine's working," Dean said. "I'm not noticing much going on down here, Sammy." He jerked his hips back against Sam's. "Trouble in the engine block, or should my feelings be hurt?"
"Uh, hurt 'cause I don't have a hard-on for you?" Sam said, voice rising.
"Dude, I'm hot," Dean said, starting to get a little anxious. Sam wasn't getting it up, and you could lie a lot of ways, but not with your dick, and what the hell was he going to do if Sam really wasn't into him? No accounting for tastes, and yeah, Sam had some pretty weird ones to start with.
"You're my brother!" Sam said.
"What's the matter, too kinky for you?" Dean said, and rubbed his ass across Sam's—okay, all right, there it was.
Sam leaped off him like a demon shot with holy water. "That's so not cool, Dean!" he yelled, and flew into the bathroom with a slam. Dean rolled over on his back and punched his fist in the air, victorious.
A week later, they were sitting on the bed together watching some movie, bag of microwave popcorn and bottle of Jack between Dean's legs. He had one of them thrown over Sam's thigh, so he kept brushing up against Sam's goods any time they shifted, it was going great, and then Sam said really low and serious, "Dean, you've—you've got to stop this, man."
Dean froze, something cold knotting in his belly. "Stop what?"
"The whole freaking—the gay sex prank!" Sam said. "You've been doing this a month now, trying to get to me, and I, just, quit it! I'm not going to—I'm not going there with you, all right? I can't—" He stopped and looked away, swallowing, and went to shove Dean's leg off.
Dean caught Sam's hand, held it there, against his own thigh, feeling Sam's fingers hard and hot against him. "If it's not a prank," he said, swallowing hard himself.
Sam laughed, shortly. "Right, so, you really want to do me?" He squeezed deliberately, ran his thumb along the seam. Dean flushed it felt like all the way up to his scalp, and Sam stared at him, and then Dean was flat on his back and Sam was going for his belt and his buttons and his fly.
"Whoa, whoa, watch the goods," Dean said, tilting his pelvis away quick while Sam yanked at his zipper and started wrestling the jeans down over Dean's hips.
Sam shoved him flat again and threw himself down and just went at Dean's cock with his mouth, the way he went after a girl when he wanted to kiss her right, all sloppy and everywhere at the same time and sucking and lots of tongue, and holy fucking shit, awesome, and Dean couldn't even hardly move with his jeans bunched up just out of the way somewhere around his thighs. "Yeah, Sammy, yeah, just like that," Dean panted.
"Shut up," Sam said, mumbling around Dean's cock. "Shut up, 'm gonna beat the crap out'f you aft'r this, messin' w'me, freaking months—"
"Dude, I wasn't messing with you," Dean said. "Sam. Sammy—" He got a hand in Sam's hair, made him look up, even though it meant his dick slid out of heaven and slapped against his belly. "I wasn't—it's, I want—" Sam was just giving him big puzzled eyes, his mouth all red and wet and distracting as all hell. Dean swallowed. "You and me," he said, hating the way his voice had gone all small right when he wanted it to sound like the goddamn word of God. "I want, you and me."
"Yeah?" Sam said, his voice rising, making it almost a question; he got a little pink along his cheeks. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, okay."
Dean relaxed and lay back, put his arm behind his head. "Okay, awesome," he said. "Back to the blowjob."
Sam said, "Uh huh," and he was crawling up the bed, getting all soft-eyed.
"Dude," Dean said, pained. "Don't girl out on me here."
"Shut up, asshole," Sam said happily, nuzzling at his neck. Dean wriggled, tried to roll them over, but Sam squashed him down and managed to eel his arms around him, a full-on snuggle, and Dean didn't have much choice about getting kissed.
He was breathless and tight-chested when Sam let him up. "All right, can we get on with you sucking my dick now?" he grumbled, vaguely.
Sam bit Dean's ear. "You know, I'm not sure I'm in the mood anymore."
"Aw, come on!" Dean said, outraged.
= End =
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