Miami was awesome. Miami in spring break season was fucking awesome, every bar full of smoking-hot girls in short-shorts and bikini tops, not looking for anything but a hell of a good time. Not that Sam appreciated any of that.
"Check her out: blonde at twelve o'clock," Dean said; second verse, same as the first, and he already knew how this was going to go, but goddammit, he was going to keep trying, and maybe one of these days Sam would finally wise up and say—
"Okay." Sam threw back the rest of his tequila shooter.
"Okay?" Dean said, hit the brakes and downshifted hard. "Hey, man, all right, go for it—" and Sam was up and stepping to the bar. Dean sat back against the wall to watch and stretched his legs out along the seat. The girl was sitting straight across from their booth, at the end of the bar. She tilted her head up as Sam leaned over her shoulder and caught the bartender's eye, and she smiled when he smiled down. Dean shook his head, grinning as he tilted up his beer. Sammy on the prowl.
Two beers later Sam was standing between her legs and kissing her, shot glasses abandoned on the bar, his hands cupping her face. She had her priorities even straighter though, her hands all over the seat of his jeans, squeezing, and then her hand disappeared somewhere between them. Sam jerked a little and then he pulled a sweet, sweet move, just hefted her up by the thighs and slid down onto the barstool under her, settled her back down across his hips, and oh, yeah, baby, she loved that. Dean could see her go from sixty to a hundred miles per hour just like that, her ankles locking together behind Sam's back, and her hips doing this twisty move.
Sam's shoulders were rising and falling, bunched up under his t-shirt. He had his hands spread out on her bare sides where her shirt was riding up. She flipped her skirt out so it covered them a little, and then reached under, and oh, man, she was going for it? Right there? Damn.
She was tearing a condom packet open with her teeth, good girl. She put her hands under her skirt again, and okay, that woke Sam right up. He reached up and pushed her hair back off her shoulders out of the way and went for her shirt buttons, getting it open all the way down to the knot just over her belly button. She had a bikini on under, sexy little dark orange thing made of scraps and string holding up curvy tanned breasts that Sam could palm in one hand apiece. His thumbs rubbed across her nipples until she shuddered and arched harder into his hands.
Sam was staring up at her with this kind of stunned expression, eyes wide, mouth open. Dean could see it when she slid on, the way Sam's eyes slid half-shut, the way his head sort of arched back. She was shivering, teeth sliding in her candy-apple lipgloss, and her hips started doing a little rock and roll beat right there. Sam slid a hand under the skirt and started working her, yeah, so right, and it hit her hard and fast: she had her hands stretched out resting on Sam's shoulders, and they clenched up into fists and she tossed her head and pushed down against him, urgently.
"Yeah, baby, that's it," Dean said under his breath, and tipped back his third beer, keeping it low so it didn't block his view. Sam was going for it, steadying her with his big hands on her hips, his own rocking up into her, giving her just the right kind of ride. Dean shifted his weight, put one leg down on the floor. Jesus, Sam was really putting it to her. It was one thing to see Sam in action, spar with him, know how strong he was; this was different somehow, seeing him use his strength like this. Dean had done the top-down mambo a few times himself, and it was fucking hard to do it that way more than a minute or two, carrying the girl's weight along with yours, lifting her with every stroke.
He swallowed and was at the end of the bottle. "You want another?" the waitress said. "Yeah, make it two," Dean said, not looking away. Sam was still going, and his face had changed again, sort of satisfied and a little wicked maybe, grin tugging at the side of his face. He had a right to it, because damn, the girl was going off a second time, making little hiccupy whimpering noises loud enough Dean could hear them, like she couldn't help it, one hand pressed over her mouth and the other clutching at Sam's neck, twisting into his t-shirt.
Sam shut his eyes and gave it one last stroke and held, his mouth screwed up tight, looking almost like he was in pain, and then he just relaxed and fell back open, tension running straight out of him, wet lips parting, shoulders easing down. He was smiling that completely dorky way he did sometimes when he was really happy, kind of a druggy look, the sides of his mouth all curves piled up on top of each other, and Dean was so fucking happy to see it he wanted to just go over and grab Sam in his arms and pound his back.
Instead he sat back and opened up his cameraphone, waiting for it, waiting for it, and oh yeah, there it was, the minute Sam realized he had no fucking clue what to do with the condom and got that cute deer-in-headlights look. The girl was going to be no help, she was kind of melted over his shoulder and dreamy-eyed. Sam finally managed to snag a cocktail napkin and sneak it under, shoulders squirming as he tried to work the condom off without dumping her onto the floor. Dean managed to get five awesome shots of Sam doing what looked like a completely demented chairdance. Oh, man, it was beautiful. Her skirt even slipped a couple of times and flashed his dick to the whole bar while he was trying to stuff it back in his pants, still big and flushed.
He got the phone under cover while Sam did the untangling thing with the girl, both of them kind of laughing and grinning in a wow, we really did that kind of way, scribbling numbers down for each other even though they weren't going to use them. Then he came back to the table and collapsed across the other side of the booth, head leaning back against the wall. Dean slid the second beer over to him, and Sam downed about half of it in one swallow, just pouring it down his throat.
"Happy now?" Sam said, wiping his mouth. "Was it good for you too?"
"Oh, yeah," Dean said, smug, and patted the lump of the cellphone in his pocket.
Sam regressed right back into dork mode the next day. Dean hauled him out to the sketchiest club he could find, dark and pot-smoky and full of old broken-down couches and lava lamps and make-out sessions, people moving dreamily on the big open dance floor. There was one brief shining moment when Dean had some real hope for him: Sam steered them straight over to a couch up against the wall, in a dark corner with a great view of the redhead and the blonde on the next couch over who were making out together.
Then Sam sat down, opened the laptop and said, "Great, I can steal wireless from next door," and Dean let his head flop back against the back of the couch.
"Come on, man," Dean said. "We spent all day looking for work, time to let off some steam." He banged his knee against Sam's. "I know you've got it in you."
Sam managed to roll his eyes without actually looking up at all, already downloading police files. "You don't ever quit, do you? I think I'm onto something here, just let me work."
Predictable. Sad, but predictable. But that was okay. Dean waited until Sam went to the bathroom and pulled the laptop over, popping the memory card on his cameraphone.
He had the laptop back in place with the lid down before Sam got back. "Hey," Sam said as he sat down, "I think I've got it, we need to look up—" and then he opened the laptop and his eyes bugged out.
"I don't fucking believe you!" Sam yelled at him over the music, looking both ways and frantically trying to block the screen from view with his body while he changed the desktop picture. Dean laughed his ass off so hard he nearly choked on his beer.
"Aw, come on, Sam, you should be happy," he said. "It's a good shot, makes your dick look bigger than a cocktail sausage."
"You're a sick fuck, you know that?" Sam said, hunched over the screen.
Dean let him spend ten minutes hunting through the folders, clicking and dragging pictures to the trash, and then he said, "Hey. Hey, Sammy." He nudged Sam's knee again, and dangled the cellphone between them. "You know, I've still got all the copies on the phone..."
Sam slowly and methodically shut the laptop up again, put it back in his bag and shoved it away underneath the couch, then he lunged back and grabbed for the phone. Like Dean was going to get taken that easy. He rolled over the couch arm onto his feet, backing away towards the dance floor. "Come on, Sammy, ask nicely—"
"I'm going to kick your ass to Mexico," Sam said, shoving the table out of the way, and jumped for him.
"Just watch out for the innocent bystanders," Dean said, and dived into the crowd grinning.
He managed to dodge Sam for a good fifteen minutes on the crammed dance floor. "Sorry, ladies," he said, with a wink, as he eeled between two seriously hot chicks, and hey, one of them grabbed his ass. He looked back and made a note to remember her for later. Like this wasn't fun, not that Sam would ever fess up to it.
He shouldn't have let himself get distracted, though, because he turned away and smacked right into Sam, pissed-off and looming. "Well, shit," Dean said, and tried to make a break for it, but Sam went right with him this time and caught him by the waistband, reeling him in.
"Where's the goddamn phone?" Sam said, trying to get at his pockets.
"Man, you need to lighten up," Dean said, squirming loose just as Sam got the phone out of his jeans. He grabbed for it. "You know, I've already got backups."
"Yeah? Then I guess you don't want this back," Sam said, just holding it straight up over his head.
"That's cheap, man," Dean said, and hooked his leg around Sam's knee. That maybe wasn't the best plan, since Sam's fall got broken by him, but hey, he got his hand back on the phone, and anyway they needed a good scrap after sitting around on their ass for a week. Sam wrapped an arm around his waist and nearly took them both down to the floor, and it was on, tight, close-quarter fighting moves, blocks and hand work, maneuvering their feet, while the phone kept changing hands.
Fifteen minutes and Dean was sweating like a pig. "Hey, five minute cooldown?" he said, wiping his forehead off against Sam's shoulder quick while the arm-lock lasted, which it wouldn't for more than another thirty seconds.
"Yeah, fine," Sam said, panting, and they worked their way off the dance floor and got a couple of cold beers to drink, wary eyes on each other.
"Seriously, Dean," Sam said, putting down his empty, "those are the only copies left, right?"
Dean shrugged and took off his overshirt and tied it around his waist, double-knotting the sleeves so it wouldn't come off. "Texted them to everyone in my phone book."
"You're so lying," Sam said.
"Read the call history and weep," Dean said. Sam pulled the phone out of his pocket to check, he grabbed for it, and they were off to the races again.
"You're such an asshole," Sam panted, at the next break, as they collapsed back onto the couch. "If you really sent those photos around, I'm going to beat you to death."
"Actually, I didn't send them around to everybody," Dean said.
"Yeah?" Sam said suspiciously.
"Just to that free porn website you like so much," Dean said. "Your fifteen minutes of internet fame coming right up, man."
"Okay, that's fucking it," Sam said, and shoved him down flat on the couch, pinning his shoulders to the arm. Dean yelped, trying to rescue his beer before it spilled all over him, and Sam grabbed his legs and heaved them onto the couch and got on top of him.
"Hey, you've got the phone right now," Dean said, trying to get his arms free enough to shove Sam back. Sam was using all his weight, had him pinned down to the couch pretty good just using one arm.
"Yeah, I do, and guess what?" Sam said, flipping open the cellphone. He kept Dean locked up and punched buttons until it started recording video, then he set it up on the table, aimed right where it counted. "Payback's a bitch." Sam smiled without showing his teeth and started working on Dean's belt. "Just think, we can be a double feature."
"Whoa, hey there, Sammy," Dean said. Sam was kind of disturbingly good at getting his jeans open one-handed. "Come on, man, getting kind of weird here, don't you think?"
"No way, man," Sam said, "You don't get to pull the weird card after you perved out on me," and okay, yeah, Dean had to admit it wasn't fair, so he quit that line of attack and planted his leg and heaved, which worked great, if by great he meant not at fucking all. Sam just smirked down at him. "Yeah, how's that working out for you? Shorty," he added.
Screw fair. "Dude, at least you were doing it with a girl," Dean said.
"Right, and it was her you got off on," Sam said, rolling his eyes, right as he got his hand into Dean's pants, and they both froze, staring at each other. And yeah, okay, but goddammit, Sam wasn't supposed to say that, and he also wasn't supposed to have his hand on Dean's dick, and Dean sure as fucking hell wasn't supposed to be getting hard.
"Awkward," Dean muttered, trying really hard not to twitch his hips up. Sam's hand was huge. Really huge. And warm. And down his pants, which counted for a lot in the scheme of things.
"You're hot for me?" Sam said, outraged.
"Like this is my fault?" Dean hissed back, because Sam wasn't exactly yanking his hand away either, and huh, maybe outraged wasn't the right word, because looking a little closer, Sam's expression was actually closer to interested. And Dean could've just been imagining that, but he wasn't imagining Sam stroking his thumb up over the head of his cock. "Get off me!"
"Did it turn you on, watching me?" Sam said, and his voice had dropped ten stories straight down, like it did when he was pissed off.
Dean's cock said hell yes and pushed up into Sam's hand. "Dude, that's seriously not cool," Dean said, and oh yeah, that sounded convincing.
"You're the one who's begging for it," Sam said. "Did you like watching me do her, Dean? Did you like watching me fuck her?" His breath was coming faster, his mouth open, and he bent his head down close to Dean's ear and said, "Are you gonna spread for me like she did?" and Dean said, "Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy," his voice cracking, straining up against the wall of Sam's body.
"Get these—" Sam muttered low and feverish, grabbing Dean's waistband in his hand and trying to shove the jeans down past his hips.
"We're out in the fucking open," Dean said, but Sam was on top of him, crowding him against the back of the couch, blocking him from sight.
"Turn over," Sam said, and Dean's cock was jerking.
"No," Dean said. "No. Come on, Sam." Sam was popping his own fly, getting his cock out. "Oh, fuck," Dean said, and he twisted to get away, except Sam just let him have the room and used it to shove him over onto his stomach, and maybe that was what Dean had been going for all along. His cock settled against the soft cotton sheet draped over the old couch. His jeans were bunched up down around his thighs, his flannel shirt over his bare ass and covering his sides. Sam was curling up into him, heavy and blanketing.
"You are," Sam said against his neck, in his ear, hot, his hand fumbling in Dean's crumpled back pocket, fishing out the condom in its lubricated pack. "You're going to, I'm going to—"
"Come on," Dean said, muffled, into the couch. "Do it, come on." He had his head buried in the crook of his elbow, and he shoved his hand down underneath him and got hold of his own dick. Sam was pushing into him, fuck, ow, and also yes, because Sam had him pinned down and there was nowhere the fuck to go except onto Sam's cock, sinking into him whether he wanted it or not.
Dean spread his legs far as he could and flattened himself against the couch on instinct, like he was still trying to get away or just slow it down, panting wetly against his own arm, pushing his cock through the tight grip of his hand. The buttons on Sam's jeans were pressing into his ass, cold hard round circles. Sam was making small grunting noises, hips jerking forward a little at a time to get inside. Dean's leg spilled off the edge of the couch, his boot skidding a little on the ground while he tried to get enough purchase to brace himself, Sam's knee tucked into the hollow of his.
"Dean, oh, fuck," Sam said, pressed his face against the back of Dean's neck, shoved and pushed and screwed himself the rest of the way in, so fucking strong, and Dean lost it all over the goddamn couch, his hand and his stomach and his shirt. Sam moaned against his neck and slid his hand down through the slick and started fucking him.
Dean blocked himself against the arm of the couch; he was loosening up for it with every stroke, and Sam was panting over him in little whines, and Dean got it that Sam was holding off so he could fuck him for longer, gasping things against him, "Going to nail you, fuck, Dean, want to, please, take it, take it," begging. Dean put his hand out blind and got Sam's hand off his hip and twined their fingers together, fisting into the couch together, and Sam went deep again and pumped into him on a long, gulping breath.
"Jesus," Dean said, and folded his arms and put his head down on them. Maybe he'd get up some time in the next five years. Sam melted down over him, limp sweet weight, cock wet and sticky and fat popping out of him, Sam making helpless noises as the head brushed Dean's thighs, too blown to move away. "Working out a few issues there, Sammy?"
"Shut up, you loved it," Sam mumbled, and bit him on the shoulder through his t-shirt. Dean's cock twitched. "Pillow-biter."
"Fuck you, cocksucker," Dean said. Sam snickered and licked the side of his neck. Dean swatted at him, but he couldn't reach all that well, so it was a pretty pathetic attempt. "Seriously, you owe me at least ten blowjobs for this."
Sam kind of shivered and said, "Okay," low and deep again, and Dean swallowed hard, because yeah, in the car, with the engine running, Zeppelin IV on the radio; that was going to be awesome.
He nudged up at Sam. "Come on, let me up, this couch is gross now."
"Yeah," Sam said, and didn't move.
Dean muttered and pushed up enough to drag his pants back up, at least, and lay down again and shut his eyes. He was almost asleep when Sam jerked, his head going up; Dean opened his eyes and nearly threw Sam off onto the floor. A waitress was dropping a couple of shots at their table, clear with a cream layer on top. She smirked at them and tilted her head towards the next table over. "They say thanks for the show."
Dean stared over at the lesbians, who blew kisses back from their couch and held up their cameraphones, grinning. "Shit."
Sam was staring too. "They couldn't have gotten that much, right? It's pretty dark in here."
They looked at each other and then looked down at Dean's cell phone, still sitting on the coffee table recording away. Dean picked it up and rewound.
"Huh," Dean said after a minute. He snapped the phone shut and downed the shot: butterscotch and irish cream. He caught the waitress going back towards the bar. "Hey, what are these things?"
"Buttery nipples," the waitress said.
"Awesome," Dean said. What the hell. "Let's get another couple of rounds." He looked at Sam and tipped his head towards the lesbians. "Hey, you think they'd—"
Sam smacked him on the side of the head.
= End =
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