Rating: NC-17, brief Sam/Jess, Sam/Dean
Warnings: occasional het. Possible spoilers for the pilot.
Count: 2375 words
Notes: I have no idea where this came from. But, y'know, sometimes that's ok.
Usual disclaimers apply. Not mine, I'm poor, please don't sue.
See, he had this thing. About bars and smoky air and being drunk on cheap beer. It was all Jess' fault, anyway. For their four-month anniversary they had sneaked into a bar with fake ids and a twenty to the bartender. They found a booth at the back, table sticky and ringed, peanuts so stale Sam thought they might actually be growing. He'd laughed when Jess "dropped her wallet" and went under the table to retrieve it, only to gasp in quick surprise when he felt her fingers at his fly and her tongue on his dick. He grasped white-knuckled at the torn vinyl seat and tried not to catch anyone's eye.
The bartender laughed when they were back the next night. He only took a ten. Sam slid into their booth – and it already was theirs – next to Jess. Sam drank his Bud one-handed, fingers of the other twisting and kneading and fucking her all the way until last call. When they left, Jess was red-faced and limp, Sam was panting, and the bartender gave them a thumbs-up.
The next weekend, Jess said she had something to show him in the women's bathroom. It turned out to be her ass, high and open as she leaned over a toilet in one of the stalls. He dropped his pants and pounded into her until she screamed. He'd inscribed Sam + Jess 4-ever on the wall like a teenager and when they left the bathroom, the bartender sadly informed them they weren't welcome back. Too much noise. But it was too late. Sam was hooked.
Jess rented a hotel room – the honeymoon suite – for their third anniversary, complete with heart-shaped bed and two-person bathtub. But it wasn't the same. They ended up down in the lobby bar, getting each other off to the sound of a bad lounge act.
So it was this thing with him, Sam couldn't help it. And Dean kept pulling him into bars. Every chance he got. I could go for a beer. There's a pool table and we need cash. Can't a man just sit back at the end of the day for once? And Sam was about ready to explode. Oh, it was fine for Dean to flirt with the waitresses, the bartenders, hell, everyone in the joint. But they all looked too much or not enough like Jess and jacking off in the shower day after day just wasn't working anymore. He was, after all, only twenty-two, and he had his needs.
And here they were, in another bar, somewhere in fucking Minnesota. And it was snowing. Not that that really mattered, but he hated snow and it felt like a personal goddamned insult. Sam can't get off and Dean wants to go to a bar, of all places, and it's snowing.
Sam was in a bad mood and he didn't care who knew it.
"You're looking at me like I ate your puppy, dude. Either stop it or tell me what the fuck's the matter. You're killing my buzz." Dean smiled and winked at the waitress and made the universal bring me cheese fries, loaded sign. "And I am in way too good of a mood to let that happen. Have more beer."
"I don't want more beer, Dean. Can't we just go find a place to stay? I'm tired. I want to go to bed."
"Bullshit, Sam. You sleep two hours a night, if that. But you're suddenly tired every time we hit a watering hole? Right."
Sam took a drink and noticed, not for the first time, the way Dean smirked when he was annoyed. Except now, in a bar in the snow in Minnesota with five beers already in him? It was kinda hot. And that was not a good thought.
"Yo. Ground Control to Major Tom. Anybody in there?"
And now Dean was looking at him harder, half-concerned and half-annoyed. And oh, shit. That was kinda hot, too. Sam tried to clear his head, his dick and the beer really starting to interfere with the whole process. "Right. Fine. Ok. More beer. I can go for that."
Dean made a face that clearly said ok, whatever man, and told the waitress that they needed at least two more pitchers. She giggled and said something that Sam totally missed because he was too busy thinking about the unfairness of life. Turned on. In a bar. In a cowboy bar. Jess in the boots and hat and not much else, jesus. Stuck in the fucking snow in Minnesota. And Dean was more than likely going to kick him out of whatever godforsaken motel room they ended up in so he could get it on with the waitress once the bar closed.
Sam finished his beer and thought seriously about getting Dean into AA. Not that his brother was an alcoholic, but if they avoided bars, Sam's life would be significantly less hard. Difficult. It would be difficult. Hard was not a word he wanted to deal with. Not with Dean staring at him like – shit, he'd missed another something.
"I said, do you want to play pool? I mean, I'll kick your ass, but it'll be good for you."
An ass-kicking didn't sound too appealing, but Sam's brain cruelly flashed back to Jess' experiments with rimming at a pilot's bar, and jesus christ. Can a man not get a break? Ever? Standing up was going to be a problem for at least ten minutes.
"Maybe later. Right now I need more beer." Which wasn't exactly true, but what was a little lie between brothers?
Dean rolled his eyes. "And finally you get with the program. It's only taken, what, six months? Seven? Ahh, the beer." He gave the waitress a pat as she sashayed away.
And really? Exactly what Sam needed now was a reminder of just how long it had been. Thank god for Dean, Captain Fucking Obvious. And he was – as one of Sam's professors had once called it – making eyes at the waitress. And come to think of it? Dr. Murray had always been kind of hot. And Sam decided if he didn't get off in the next twenty minutes he was probably going to die. His dick was going to explode and take the rest of him with it.
They drank in silence for a little while. Finished off another pitcher. Each. Dean flirted with the waitress and Sam's brain took him on a particularly unhelpful stroll down Memory Lane. Bowling alleys and airports and every dive bar in a hundred-mile radius of campus. They'd even had sex at her sorority's winter formal – hell, people were drinking and otherwise occupied and there was a perfect little alcove behind a potted palm.
He was just about to reach that point, the one where he'd burst into a spray of blood and come and body parts, when Dean grinned at him. That smug, infuriating, sexy grin. He pulled a black tie out of his pocket.
"Hey, dude. You see this? It's gonna be on the doorknob tonight. Amber's totally into me." He did his stupid little I'm going to get some dance and smirked. "Make yourself scarce, will you? Go for a drive, or something."
Sam assumed Amber was the waitress. Didn't care. Didn't care about much of anything besides Actually. Having. Sex. Right. Now.
He was out of his chair and had the back of Dean's collar in hand before he could stop to think. Not that he was interested in thinking, anyway. Located the blinking neon "Dudes" sign and dragged his brother in.
"Sam, what the -- " and that was as far as Dean got before Sam pushed him up against the wall and shoved his tongue down Dean's throat. He tasted like beer and bacon and not at all like Jess and that was just fine. Sam fisted his hands in Dean's shirt and kept him pinned to the wall and stole all his breath away. A real, living mouth, warm and wet and starting to move against his. And it was really not helping his little problem.
Still holding the front of Dean's shirt, Sam pulled him away from the wall and propelled him into the only stall. Pivoted him around and slammed his back up against the door. A voice from the increasingly small reasonable part of him coolly noted that, while Dean was a giver, this might be asking a little too much. That it might be a good idea to do something nice for him.
Sam kissed him again, sliding one hand along Dean's chest to his belt and fumbling the buckle apart. Tearing at the button, the zip on his jeans. Dean was half-hard and his hands hovered somewhere near Sam's shoulders, though whether it was to push him away or pull him closer, he didn't know or care. He dropped to his knees, tugging Dean's clothes down with him. Stared at Dean's dick for just a second – yeah, he was totally going to do this. Shifted his gaze upward, meeting his brother's eyes with a look intended to quell any and all doubts or resistance.
"No way are you going to fuck the waitress tonight." He took Dean's dick into his mouth, vicious and possessive and laughed around it when Dean arched and swore. Sucked it deeper, and laughed again – apparently all those Jell-o shots were useful for something, because goddamn if he had no gag reflex left. He pulled up and off and glared back up at his brother. "Are we clear on that?"
Dean didn't even hesitate. He clamped on hand on the back of Sam's head and one hand on his shoulder and yanked Sam's mouth back down to his dick. That was all Sam needed. He attacked, teeth and tongue and lips dragging across veins and ridges and smooth soft/hard skin, hands pushing bruises into the skin of Dean's hips and thighs. Sam's own dick ached, he knew what each jerk and scrape and suck felt like and it was quite possibly going to kill him. Dean's fingernails found exposed neck and dug in rhythmically, a sharp counterpoint to the bucking of his hips, the pulses shuddering down Sam's spine to his crotch, the twitch of the dick in his mouth.
And then Dean was coming. Sam wasn't prepared and choked, on salt and heat that stuck to his tongue, but Dean pulled him closer, wouldn't let him breathe, till he had swallowed it all.
Dean smirked down at Sam. "Ok. You've convinced me. I'm not fucking the waitress." He reached down for his pants, laughter in his eyes.
Sam fought the perfectly rational urge to hit him. Somebody was going die in that stall, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be him. He grinned wickedly, a promise in the smile that still tasted like Dean. "Fuck you, dude."
His brother was infuriatingly contented and Sam's whole body thrummed like a harp string and there was no reasonable voice to argue with anymore. He grabbed at Dean's arms and rocked to his feet.
"Turn around." When Dean didn't comply fast enough, Sam spun him around, shouldered his face against the cool metal door. "You're not leaving till I'm done with you."
One arm across Dean's back and holding him in place and Sam's other hand worked frantically on his own belt and pants and boxers and finally Sam's dick was free. He winced when he took it in hand – the damn thing actually hurt – and lined up against Dean's ass.
Dean inhaled sharply as Sam's dick nudged into him. "Sam! Dude, it ain't like pulling off a band-aid! You gotta go a little slow."
"Shut up, Dean. I'm doing this, not you!" Sam really didn't know how much more he could take, but he slowed down anyway. His brother would never let him hear the end of it if Sam hurt him.
He pushed into hot and damp and so fucking tight and felt Dean shudder and hiss around him as Sam rasped past his prostate. Sam groaned, he couldn't help himself, this was very possibly the closest to heaven he'd ever been. He withdrew and stroked again, through the little ring of muscle and pushing further in with Dean wiggling on top of him. A muttered oh jesus but he wasn't sure which of them said it and Sam moved again, earnest and slow.
"Christ, Sam! Just fuck me already!" Dean growled and shot Sam a look of irritation and need and that was all it took.
Sam rolled his hips wildly. Couldn't find a rhythm and didn't need one, everything around him ratcheting down to sharp sensation of Dean's ass around his dick and the scent of sex in the air. They thrust against each other and Dean was swearing and Sam couldn't breathe and it all just felt like Fourth of July fireworks. Like his dick was going to explode and take the rest of him with it and maybe that'd be just fine by Sam.
He fell into Dean and fell apart, long strings of words and promises and low, guttural rumbles shredded his throat and sank into the skin of Dean's neck. Sam still couldn't breathe and was pretty sure it didn't matter because he could die a happy man right then and there.
The sudden new silence was broken by a cough from outside their stall. "If you boys are finished, I think it's about time for you to be leaving before we have to call the cops." The bartender. Just perfect. Sam blushed and dropped his head, trying to clear it up. He pulled out and leaned against the side wall, trying to figure out if he had any dignity left and how they could leave with that intact.
Dean turned to Sam, face lit by his best shit-eating grin. "No problem, sir. We were just heading home anyway. We've got a long night ahead of us." And then the fucker winked.
Sam decided that it wasn't just his thing for bars. And he was pretty ok with that.