Summary: Without that pesky soul, Sam's got nothing standing in the way of satisfying his curiosity. Except maybe Dean, but he can handle Dean.

Author's Note: This is gonna be the last for a while in this verse – not another six years, I promise, but I want to go back and fill in that large gap called Seasons 3-5 before I continue forward. I used this verse to kick the holy crap out of my writer's block. I was terrified going into it that the new work wouldn't meet up with the old and that it would be a cluster-fuck, but everyone has been so incredibly supportive. I can't begin to thank you enough. I've got rough ideas of what I want to do with every season, as well as a few pre-series works, it's just going to take time. If anyone wants to see anything specific, let me know and I'll see if I can rattle a few ideas out of it. Meanwhile, I'll be posting crack!fic tied to The Funnies, which will attempt to be mildly amusing. Check it out if you're feeling brave.

Hang On For the Ride

Sam had no soul.

When Castiel had told him, Dean had nearly been sick right there, on the dirty, stained carpet in the room they were holed up in, because he'd known something was wrong. He'd known it, but every time he started really thinking about it, Sam would start touching him and kissing him until Dean couldn't think any more, he just held on for the ride and damn, if it wasn't a nice fucking ride. If a soulless Sam had nothing else, he was an extremely enthusiastic lover.

After they'd killed the Djinn, they hadn't made it five minutes outside of the Roadhouse and Dean didn't think he'd be able to get it up for a week after the painfully tense conversation he'd had with Abel that left the other man in charge of the Roadhouse for the time being. Sam had been driving a different car, because as much as Dean wanted them to drive out of there together in the Impala, Sam had gotten there in a gas conservative plastic piece of shit, and despite Dean's complaints and weaseling and snide remarks, he'd refused to leave it behind.

When Sam pulled over behind a familiar thick of trees, Dean wasn't sure what the hell he'd wanted. He sure as hell couldn't want sex after having to sit in the corner and listen to Dean and Abel hash out the details of their breakup. At least, that's what Dean thought, until he got out of the Impala, only to be shoved back on it, onto the hood and a now soulless Sam was also really good at removing Dean's clothes while maintaining a tongue in Dean's mouth so he couldn't argue.

Dean didn't know his brother was soulless at the time, of course, which left a lot of 'how the hell did he get so good at this all of a sudden' questions rolling around in his head, but they were completely eclipsed by Sam's large hand wrapping around his cock and stroking, because it had been so long and it felt so familiar and right and everything he never thought he'd have again that he just couldn't think past it.

Which, in hindsight, was probably what the son of a bitch was going for, but even in hindsight, Dean couldn't really be pissed about it, because the blowjob that followed was nothing short of fucking epic. He'd come so hard, he'd seen white flashes behind his eyelids.

Then there was the family. I mean, Jesus, he was raised a Hunter, but apparently, Mary had never let any of the family know who she'd married, so none of them knew the name Winchester was linked to their family and they simply ran in different circles. Not every Hunter went to the Roadhouse, not every Hunter had connections to every other Hunter through any one place or person. So, it was possible, but the idea that he had other family besides Sam and his was-dead grandfather who was apparently now back from the dead, too – and Dean was going to be doing some checking up on everyone who had ever died just to make sure no one else decided to pop in – it was a lot to take in and lot for him to process.

He blamed that mostly for him being able to ignore Sam's odd behavior for as long as he did. That and the sex.

So, it took a while and when the shit finally drop kicked Dean's ass to the floor, he couldn't even say he was surprised. Sick to his stomach and thinking about hitting what was left of his brother in the face a few more times – especially when he slipped the ropes, because Dean would have liked to test that 'you can't hold me' theory Sam was preaching – but not as surprised as he should have been.

The biggest problem with Soulless Sam that he could tell, and there were a lot of them, wasn't that he shot his mouth off without thinking about how it was going to make people feel, or that he didn't even consider taking the path that would lead to less blood shed, it wasn't even that he'd wanted to agree to working with Crowley, it was that he was still Sam. But he wasn't. But he was.

He still looked like Sam, smelled like Sam, felt like Sam. He still smiled like Sam and tried to touch Dean like Sam, although now that Dean knew the son of a bitch had no soul, he wasn't going there, not even remotely. Not even when Sam came out of the shower in nothing but a towel, with his chiseled pecs still slick with water, the tattoo dark against his tanned skin and high up, next to his collar bone. Not even when the towel was too small and too thin to cover more than the top of those well defined thighs and the sharp contour of his hip bones came from around the sides and angled down to his half erect and barely covered…

No. No, especially, not then, damnit. Of course, that didn't mean he couldn't look. That's what they said, right? Look, but don't touch and Dean was pretty sure he could manage that. Although, not entirely. But mostly. Maybe.

There were few honest emotions Sam had felt since coming back from the Cage. He felt frustration when things didn't go his way. Recently he'd begun feeling confusion, because Dean kept trying to explain things to him that clearly didn't make sense. Like why he shouldn't talk like that to old ladies who were clearly bat shit crazy, or why they should go out of their way to avoid that one more death, even if it put them at a higher risk of getting hurt, and like not having sex.

Why couldn't they have sex? It was just sex. It was his body and Dean's body naked and rutting against each other and it was going to feel amazing. Of all the things Sam could still feel, pleasure was his favorite. He got that pleasure technically wasn't a feeling, but it led to want, and that was a feeling.

He wanted Dean.

He wanted him more now that Dean had decided he wasn't having any of it, because Sam had been on the road mostly alone for nearly a year. The Campbell's had been there when he needed them, or when they needed him, but that was it as far as he was concerned. The girls he'd slept with had been an amusing distraction, but they wanted more and more and more and even when he paid for it, they still hung around too long and asked too many questions.

He remembered when Dean whored around and he certainly didn't stand around chatting to customers after. Granted, Sam didn't think any of those customers were nearly as attractive as he was and they weren't angling to make him feel as good as Sam tried to make the girls he bought feel, but that was because Sam liked a responsive partner and you got responsive with pleasure and Sam was as good at giving pleasure as he was at taking it – unfortunately, pleasure seemed to lead to an odd sort of attachment that he had yet to figure out.

Dean, though? Dean didn't ask questions after sex. He hardly even talked after sex and Sam didn't think it was a display of machismo, or whatever, but Dean mostly got hungry after sex, or wanted to get back to work on the case, or sometimes he wanted to lay there and watch television for a while, but talking after sex just wasn't Dean's thing, which is what Sam may have missed most about Dean.

He hadn't really thought he'd missed anything about his brother, really, not until he'd had him in front of him. Or maybe 'missed him' wasn't entirely right, he hadn't missed him in the sense you missed a person, Sam wasn't sure that was even possible. He'd missed Dean like you'd miss a pair of favorite jeans. They fit right, felt right and Dean fit just right against him. Sam didn't even have to think about where to put his hands to get Dean to react, he just knew and Dean responded to everything he did and it had been kind of spectacular having someone there 24/7 that he could just put a hand on and get that pleasure he wanted.

It was addicting. Dean was addicting. Hm, maybe that was another. If addiction counted as a feeling, which Sam wasn't so sure of, but he'd have to look into that later, when he wasn't busy having sex with Dean. If he ever got to the point where he was busy having sex with Dean again.

Not just having sex with Dean, either, because there was something very specific Sam had in mind. Something he'd always kind of wanted to try, but that pesky soul of his had gotten in the way. He couldn't remember exactly what the guilt of those fantasies had felt like, but he remembered waking up sick to his stomach, his head pounding and a feeling like he was dirty or wrong just because of a dream that he'd had no control over. A dream of Dean naked and under him, begging and writhing in the sheets with Sam pressing into him and just thinking about it was making him hard. Just the idea of finally having that after so many years of wondering and without a conscience to get in his way made him a little light headed.

Of course, now Dean was talking about getting Sam's soul and shoving it back where it belonged and Sam wasn't entirely sure he was okay with that, but he figured it didn't hurt to play along for now. It wasn't like they really had even half a clue as to how to go about that, anyway, and once they did, he'd deal with it. Right now, though, there was nothing holding him back from taking everything he wanted, everything he knew Dean would enjoy, because while the men Dean had let use him on the side of so many roads may not have been trying, Sam wasn't just going to try, he was going to use everything he knew about Dean's body and the things Dean had done to him and give it all right back. When he was done, Dean was going to be a limp puddle of spent and if he did it really well, Dean might let him do it again.

The trick with Dean, though, was not letting him think too much. Sam had spent those few months before they figured out about his soul, learning how to shut Dean up efficiently and it generally started with mouths and hands, but to do that, Sam needed to get close enough to Dean before the thinking started.

Running his hands through his hair, he rang out the last of the water and turned off the tap, grabbing for one of the cheap, motel towels hanging over the toilet. He wrapped it around his waist and stepped out, looking at himself in the mirror for a moment before turning to face the room and found Dean staring at him. Not just staring, either, because the way Dean's eyes were moving up and down and back up again before Dean coughed into his hand and managed a choked, "Put some pants on," was something a little more than staring.

And really, wasn't now as good a time as any? He couldn't remember Dean affectively going two weeks without sex before getting a little stir crazy for it and it had been nearly a month since Dean had touched him in a way that wasn't entirely platonic.

Stepping further into the room, he tilted his head curiously at Dean, who was sitting on the bed, knees up, arms draped over them with a remote held limply in one hand, determinedly keeping his eyes fixed on the grainy little television across the room. The past four weeks, Dean had refused to be even partially naked in the same room as Sam and tonight was no exception. He was wearing a beat-up pair of jeans, the knees half frayed out and a white t-shirt that hugged the muscles of his arms.

It did nothing to dissuade Sam, though, because he knew all the lines and contours of Dean's body by sense memory. He could remember what Dean's body felt like on his finger tips and his tongue and no amount of clothing was going to make Sam forget what Dean looked like naked. Dean knew that and Sam knew the same was true for him. Dean didn't need to see under the towel to know what was there. He didn't need to touch it to know what it would feel like wrapped in his hand or pressed against the back of this throat, but Sam was going to make sure and remind him, just in case.

Dean had always insisted on double beds – posterity's sake, Sam supposed, although he wasn't going to pretend to understand that anymore. Just about everyone they had that was left alive already knew and if they didn't, what did it matter? The Hunters had more important things to worry about than who Sam and Dean Winchester were sleeping with. They had the beasts of purgatory breathing down their collective necks and multiplying by the droves and Sam got the distinct feeling that if he were to walk up to one of them and say, "Hi, Sam Winchester, I enjoy having my brother's cock up my ass." He'd be met with little more than a hand shake and a "Good for you," because who the fuck cared?

Except for Dean, of course, and if Sam was going to get anything out of Dean, Sam was apparently supposed to care too. It all had the makings for a fabulous headache later.

Dropping his towel by the bed that was supposed to be his alone, he tried not to look smug when Dean's eyes flitted over. Tried and failed, really, and what was the point of that either? They both knew Dean wanted it. They both knew Sam wanted it. It was just that Dean needed a little reminding.

When Sam didn't move to cover himself, Dean's face started to flush and he shifted a little, trying not to look obvious adjusting his erection in the tight denim. "Dude, what did I say about pants?"

Sam shrugged and Dean turned to look at him, his eyes starting to move down, before focusing on his face. "Seriously, Sam. Pants."

Stepping around the bed, Sam smiled. "Why?"

"Why?!" Dean shifted again and Sam could see the outline of the bulge he was trying to hide. "Because, Sam, it's what people do. You don't walk around naked in a hotel room with another dude."

"Unless you want to have sex with him." That cut Dean off rather affectively, at least for the few seconds it took him to fish around for a response.

"No, Sam, we… we talked about this. No sex. Not until you get your soul back."

Sam tipped his head and smiled softly, coming around the side of the bed. "Really? Don't you think you're being just the slightest bit ridiculous about this?"

"What?" Dean shifted away from Sam, who had moved around the bed and was standing next to him, naked, cock more than little interested and hanging just about eye level with Dean. "No, I am not… put that away!"

"Why?"

Dean apparently decided sitting wasn't the best position to be in, since it made it impossible to ignore Sam's swollen cock only inches from his face. He shifted onto his knees instead, but didn't move to get off the bed. Even without a soul, he couldn't recognize Sam as a threat, which was perfect, because Sam needed his trust if this was going to work.

"If you ask why one more time, I am gonna punch that smug grin off your face, Sam." The remote was still in Dean's hand, clenched tightly and aimed at Sam like he was going to press the off button and make Sam stop.

Sam kept smiling, watching Dean's expression until the moment Dean's gaze inadvertently shifted down, just a peak, really, and it would have been innocent enough as far as those things went, except the second he was distracted, Sam grabbed Dean by the back of head and leaned down, pulling him up into a kiss.

It wasn't fair and Sam knew it. He knew exactly what kissing his brother did to Dean. Sam was the only person Dean had ever fully trusted and it didn't matter what Sam did – it didn't matter when Meg possessed him and took her time making Dean hurt, or when Sam said yes and Lucifer got a little handsy to prove a point, or that a soulless Sam had left Dean high and dry for a year – because Dean didn't know how not to trust Sam.

Every fiber of Dean was imprinted with Sam on it and Abel may have gotten in there for a while, but Sam knew the same thing Dean had realized the moment he'd seen Sam again. Abel had been a substitute – a poor one. Abel was cute and sweet and lovely, really, but he wasn't Sam and Dean was practically made for Sam. Had made himself that way through years of closing off everyone else and holding everything at a distance until Sam had filled every void there was ever going to be. Then he'd let others in, because there was nowhere for them to go that Sam wasn't already.

And Sam should have felt guilty, memories told him that. Memories of himself holding back, because if Dean said no, that was it, even if he didn't outright say it with words, even if only his eyes, or there was some intangible hesitation, the reason didn't matter, but this Sam knew better.

He knew the moment he put his mouth on Dean's, all those petulant little arguments about how important Sam's soul was to them being intimate would wash away. He knew Dean was hard and aching on the inside. He could see it in the way Dean couldn't take his eyes off Sam that he wanted it and if they both wanted it, what was the point in not doing it?

Dean's hands grabbed at Sam's chest, looking for a shirt or something to grab onto, to pull him closer and ended up slipping on his slick chest, moving up instead, to cup him behind his neck like Sam knew he would, fingers tugging at Sam's hair. Sam grinned into the kiss that was turning hot and hard, Sam biting at Dean's lower lip, making it swell and pushing his tongue into Dean's mouth to taste him. After a month without, it tasted so fucking good. If Dean would just shut up and put out more often, Sam wouldn't have to look for anyone else, because this was perfect. He was so perfect.

Dean broke the kiss long enough to pull his t-shirt over his head and Sam licked his lip, noticing the crinkled white wrapper with the cherries on it lying on the table by the window. "You taste like cherry pie."

"Shut up." Then Dean was pulling him onto the bed, twisting them so he was on top, still in his jeans, which wasn't even remotely okay at this point and Sam worked his fingers into the buttons, yanking open the zipper before getting his hands in them, just at the waist, sliding back to the top of Dean's ass.

He kept them there for a moment, thumb brushing non-threateningly against the top of Dean's crack, not giving anything away, not yet, because clothes off was the first thing he needed to accomplish and he wasn't quite there yet. Pushing his hands down, he took Dean's jeans with them and Dean moved and angled his legs to let it happen, his mouth still devouring Sam's greedily, like he was starved for it. Sam knew how he felt. Fucking finally with Dean on him and with the pants gone and them both naked, Sam's hands on Dean's ass and it was going to be so good, he just had to keep Dean from thinking about it.

He was doing a pretty good job, too. Between kissing Dean and working one hand into his brother's hair and feeling Dean's hands working over his shoulder, arm, his chest, his nipples – he actually lost focus himself for a second, but his hand didn't. The hand still cupping Dean's ass remembered where this was supposed to be going and slipped in between, brushing past Dean's hole. It was supposed to be non-threatening, a promise, really, to make it feel good, to be gentle.

Supposed to be, but apparently wasn't, because Dean immediately grabbing Sam by the wrist and growled into his mouth in warning. "Rules."

Sam yanked he wrist out of Dean's hand, putting it right back where it had been and tightened his grip on the back of Dean's head. "Right, because it's always midnight and no one is ever watching."

When Dean stuttered, Sam took the opportunity to roll him over, to get himself on top. His hand wasn't on Dean's ass anymore, it was on his hip and then his cock, squeezing and sliding up the length and Dean moaned, dropping his head back against the bed. "Fuck, Sam."

Sliding off the edge of the bed, Sam dropped his head down, breathing hot on the head of Dean's cock for a moment before opening his mouth and letting the head slip past his lips, against his tongue. The deep groan that tore itself from Dean's throat as Sam dropped his head down, taking his brother into the back of his throat, was as intoxicating as Dean's fingers in his hair, not pushing down, but tugging, desperate for relief after a month of self imposed celibacy.

"Oh, God, yeah, Sam!"

He hummed around the length of it in his mouth, feeling approval in the tightening of the hand in his hair, the twitch of Dean's legs against his shoulders. It was a heady mix of control and passion that he didn't often get with Dean, because Dean liked to be in control and until now, Sam had been perfectly content to let him have it.

Taking the cock back into his throat, he softly brushed two fingers against Dean's entrance, testing the waters and there was a moment of tension in Dean's legs before he let it go, relaxing for a moment before lifting one leg onto the bed in an offer, or acceptance, or maybe just desperation to get that much closer to Sam.

Working his tongue around the shaft, Sam felt around just under the bed with his free hand until he found Dean's bag and silently thanked whatever deity – Cas or Crowley or God or whoever was watching over them this time – that Dean had put it there, because as sure as Sam was that this was going to happen, he wasn't exactly hiding lube in strategic places around the room and if he had to stop sucking Dean off to go get it, his brother would most definitely start having second thoughts. Good old Dean, though, always had lube in his bag and he always had his bag where he could grab it at a moment's notice.

With one hand still on Dean's ass, fingers holding the cheeks apart for better access, the other thumbed open the bottle and tipped lube onto the first few fingers, probably more than he needed, but better too much than not enough and he couldn't exactly stop what he was doing to make sure he didn't waste any.

This time when he pressed his fingers against Dean's entrance, slick and cool, there was a much more notable tension and Sam took the opportunity to drop down, burying his nose in Dean's pubes and used the heady rush of Dean's body going lax and his voice coming deep desperate with, "God, Sam. Sammy. Shit, Sam," to push in. Just one finger, but Dean was tight. Too tight, really, because regardless of whether Sam was deep throating him halfway to heaven, Dean was still uncomfortable with anything going in his ass. It was instinct, like trusting Sam.

Didn't matter, though, because Sam knew how to fix that. Dean had taught him how to fix that.

Maintaining a steady up and down rhythm with his mouth - slow languorous, with his tongue sweeping the sensitive bundle of nerves at the head of the cock, just enough to keep Dean from thinking, but not enough to make him cum, not yet – Sam worked the second finger in next to the first, the lube making it achingly easy, despite. He rocked the fingers with the same slow rhythm of his mouth until the tight clench loosened enough to make it more comfortable, then hooked them up just slightly, just enough to get the right angle and…

"Oh, fuck!"

All the tension bled out of Dean's legs, leaving them liquid pliant all at once at the sudden pleasure that had stroked through him at the brush of Sam's fingers on his prostate and Sam smiled despite himself. Sitting up, he leaned over and caught Dean's mouth again, still pressing the fingers in Dean, still feeling the lose shudders when he brushed past that spot.

Through the litany of curses falling from Dean's mouth, Sam mumbled, "Dean, want to fuck you."

Dean didn't say yes, but he didn't say no. He did let go of the sheets and grabbed Sam by the back of the head again, pulling him down into a hungry desperate kiss and Sam took that as a yes, because he couldn't take it any other way.

It was a little harder slicking himself up with Dean doing his best to devour Sam's mouth and it was really distracting, because a few moment later, he pulled his fingers out and pushed harder against Dean's mouth, just hard enough to almost hurt, muffling any last minute protests Dean might have as he set his cock against Dean's ass and pushed.

The soft whimpers flowing into his mouth were nearly enough in and of themselves to make him come, let alone the tight clamp of Dean around him and it was so fucking good, he couldn't even begin to understand why he hadn't done it before. He stopped just inside and took his time, the barest in and out tug that pushed him steadily further in, giving Dean time to adjust to the intrusion and when he was finally there, balls pressed against Dean's ass, he stopped completely, pulling out of the kiss to press his forehead against Dean's.

"It's okay?"

It had to be okay, because Sam wasn't even sure he could stop at this point. Dean just nodded and managed a breathy, "Yeah."

He couldn't help the smile that spread over his face for a moment before he pulled out, just a few inches and pushed back and Dean's body tensed under him, but relaxed almost as quickly – a reflex left over from his youth – and that made it easier at the next thrust and the next one and Sam pulled himself up, tipping Dean's hips back a little more and when he pushed in this time, Dean's gripped into the skin of Sam's neck was painfully tight and the cry of "Oh, fuck, oh fuck, Sammy!" said Sam had found the right angle.

It didn't last nearly long enough, maybe ten minutes, maybe less of pushing and pulling and Dean under him and as absolutely beautiful as he'd known he would be when he came all over his own stomach, Sam's hand around his cock and Sam's cock in his ass and Sam dropped his head down, spilling inside Dean and god, he was seeing fucking stars.

Sam lost count of time for a moment, still inside Dean, his head on his brother's shoulder and his hand still working over Dean's half hard cock lazily. Finally, Dean shoved at him. "Off."

It wasn't an order. The tone was almost playful and Sam turned his head to hum against the side of Dean's neck. If they stayed there for a few minutes, just like they were, he was going to be able to go again and he really, really wanted to. He could make it last longer, make Dean beg for it this time.

At the brush of Sam's teeth against his neck, Dean groaned his voice light with something akin to awe and shock all rolled up together. "God, Sam, that was… I don't remember it ever feeling quite like that."

Sam smiled, chuckled and nipped at Dean's ear. "Yeah, well, I doubt anyone ever really cared whether the whore liked it."

He knew he'd said something wrong as soon as it was out. Not because of any internal compass, but because Dean went absolutely still and when he said, "Off," this time, it was demanding and the hands pushing Sam aside were insistent and Sam let them dislodge him.

He rolled to the side and if looks could kill, he'd have been a pile of ash on the bed. "What?"

"What?!" Dean stood up, collecting his clothes. "You… fuck, I knew this was a bad idea."

"Dean, come on." But Dean was already in the bathroom, door slammed shut and locked behind him.

Sam considered following him, but it wasn't worth it, really, because Dean would get over it and Sam really didn't like to talk after sex, anyway.