Just This Once

Summary: Sam gets down with his bad self – the one night Dean's plans don't pan out. Shameless brother-touching PWP.

Jesus tap-dancing Christ, I have no idea where this came from.

Of course, of all the times Dean leaves the motel room to do what he calls his "dine-and-dash" (read: drink-and-fuck) during which Sam, left to his own devices, has his way with his freaky self via hand and the small selection of toys he keeps very carefully sequestered in his bag – of course, the one time Dean strikes out so completely that he comes home early, that's the one time Sam deems it safe to go all out, no holds barred, right there in the middle of the room.

They're Winchesters. Wouldn't be right for it to happen any other way.

That evening, Sam gets into it slow, and maybe that's why things happen the way they do. He doesn't jump in feet first, with both hands, like usual. He figures he has plenty of time, since all of Dean's sexcapades in the history of ever have taken until at least two or three a.m. Sam thinks he has plenty of time to spare, so he takes plenty of time getting revved up.

He has his laptop set up on the nightstand, close enough to see every drop of sweat rolling down the writhing bodies onscreen. He's taken to watching orgies, semi-amateur, none of that jiggling-fat nonsense of the lower end but none of the cheesy-saxophone-false-tan of the higher end, either. Just sex, raw and natural, good old-fashioned fun. The noises are more genuine in this bracket, too, and that's really what gets him the most. Sam is, all other kinks aside, an aural voyeur.

Sam palms his dick through his jeans, hasn't even taken his shirt off. He feels the long, hard ridge of himself and smiles, one of those low-down secret smiles like he knows something that'll set the world on fire and he's keeping it all to himself. No one there to see him, so he drags the zipper down slowly, small vibrations echoing up the length of his cock, the sound of it running counterpoint to the breathy pants from his speakers. The orgy onscreen is just getting warmed up, and so is he.

Thing is, anticipation is one of the best and worst things that can ever affect you. He's almost fully hard by the time his zipper is all the way down, his dick straining against the confines of his boxer briefs, a spreading wet spot at the head. Sam wraps long fingers around the heated member, feeling it through the cloth both in his grip and in his groin, and he moves those fingers ever-so-slightly up the shaft, drinking in the anticipatory tingle. His dick twitches, the wet spot grows.

Oh, he's going to enjoy this. So very, very thoroughly.

Sam wriggles slowly, tortuously, out of his jeans and briefs, letting them pool on the floor as he lays back, once more forming a tunnel of fingers around his erection. He's hard as silken steel already, and he's barely begun. The hand that's not cupping his dick is running feather-light beneath his shirt, across the taut expanse of his abs, up to his chest. He takes one nipple between two calloused fingers and even knowing that he's the one doing it, he gasps when the pinch and twist sends an electric shock straight down south. He drags his nails back down his pectorals, straight down the center of his torso to toy with his sensitive pelvic ridge as his other hand lazily slides over his length, up and back down, a rhythm that in any other circumstance would be infuriating.

But he's got all the time in the world.

Still stroking himself, skin-on-skin like the lightest of breezes, Sam reaches down with his other hand to cup his balls, rolling them across his fingers, feeling the wrinkled skin pull up as the hand on his cock unconsciously closes down, firmer grip and faster rhythm causing his breaths to shorten. His questing hand leaves off his balls and dips back behind, deeper, and Sam bites his lip when the pad of his index finger brushes his perineum. He's running the hand on his cock up to slide in the precome pearling at the head, the other swirling fingertips maddeningly around his entrance, and he realizes that he'll need to lube up at some point. He chuckles at the nonsense of it; he planned this, and still went about it half-cocked (ha, ha) like a horny teenager about to shoot into a sock.

Sam wrestles out of his shirt, drops it with his pants. He catches sight of himself, all six-foot-five-inches of naturally tanned skin in the ubiquitous motel mirror, but he can't keep looking, because all that'll do is make him feel lonely, and while that may be the crux of the issue with all masturbation ever, that feeling is not welcome here, tonight.

The orgy on the laptop has gotten rather heated, and he notices as he's flipping open the lube bottle's lid. Two men and a woman, as of yet, and she's being penetrated by both, the skin around her pussy stretched tight and pale as they take her together. Sam watches briefly, but his hands find his dick and ass again and then he's falling backward on the bed, heated tingles radiating outward and in.

The slide of his hand on his length is dirtier with the lube, and when his other fingers find his entrance again, Sam's eyes slip closed. He can almost pretend it's someone doing this to him, someone desirable on the other end instead of his own hands. The tip of his finger slides just past the ring of tight muscle and he swears on a whispered exhale, squeezing tight at the base of his cock. He feels the air of the motel as more of a chill, now, a thin sheen of sweat loosed from every pore. He gets shocks, nerves firing randomly, and he's glad for the moans from the laptop because it means he's not alone, fucking himself in a series of squelches, raw panted noises falling from his parted, chapped lips. He's got them, too, those five or six or seven other people, naked and loving every minute of this.

He cracks open an eyelid, sees a man line up behind one of the men already fucking the woman, and when he sheathes himself in his partner Sam slides his finger all the way inside himself, crooking it expertly and riding the jolt. Again, and again, brushing his prostate, he feels his cock jump beneath the hand he's still got on it and he picks up his pace, slick slide of lube across the soft skin, precome mixing with synthetic oil. He adds another finger inside himself, his hips canting downward to catch every last bit of that pressure, and when he adds yet another before he's ready and realizes this is one of those nights when he loves the burn – well, he has to stop. Another secret smile, a heated huff of a laugh. Sticky fingers grasp a length of blue rubber on the nightstand, slick it up with the mess from his dick, and Sam almost loses himself in the orgy onscreen – two male couples bare-backing each other on opposite sides of two women in a sixty-nine, he starts to think too hard about the mechanics of it and his ass clenches unsympathetically. He lays back, once more, working fingers almost feverishly back inside himself, relaxing as much as he can before he leverages the tip of that blue monstrosity against the opening.

It isn't the biggest piece he's ever seen – it isn't even as big as he himself – but it's plenty big for what he uses it to accomplish, and it's even angled perfectly to reach that spot deep within.

Sam slides the toy in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, stopping to pour lube over it when it becomes apparent that he hadn't prepped enough. "Wait," he mutters to himself, his voice a shock in the stillness of the room, even above the slap-squeal soundtrack. "What am I doing?"

With an inch or so of dildo still stuck up his ass, Sam gingerly flips so he's on his hands and knees, face pressed into the tacky bedspread, and there, that's a much better angle. The toy slides in almost dreamily, the tip kissing his prostate like a golden tease, and Sam pulls the thing back out til only the head remains inside – then he snaps it back in, striking that spot and wrenching a howl from deep within him. He does it again, and again, the howls becoming deep, throaty moans as he finds a rhythm, his other hand finding his cock again and jerking it fitfully, his hips working back of their own accord as the toy fucks him open. He rides the balance between two points, thrusting back to meet the slam of the dildo, bouncing forward into the sheath of his hand, over and over, speeding toward release. Sam's nearing the point where he falls into a frenzy, sweat gleaming on his skin and sliding down the crack of his ass, and he slides his fingers in quick succession over the head of his cock, his ass clenching around the toy and it's almost like someone is –

The sound of a keycard sliding home, the door clicking open, is like a nightmare. Terror punches him in the gut, freezes him to the spot but there's no time, nowhere to hide. Dean comes in, turned with his back to the beds as he closes the door, saying, "You wouldn't think a major metropolitan area could be so fucking dry, but there you have it. Michigan fucking blo –"

Sam had managed to move up on one elbow, his face a wreck of shock and fear and draining heat, and when Dean's eyes meet his neither of them can look away – until Dean does, his gaze flickering down Sam's naked body, taking in every detail, from the way he's positioned to the hand slowly dragging out from under himself. Sam, while he's remembering to breathe, thinks rather hysterically that at least Dean can't see the fucking toy.

Because that's the greatest of worries right now, obviously.

In the palpable silence, the orgy on the laptop winds to a close, and the last man to come does so with such a lingering groan it's like a chorus of nails on a dozen chalkboards, straight up Sam's spine. Like icing on the cake that is his utter, fatal humiliation.

Dean doesn't bat an eye, though.

Sam's drawing in on himself, doesn't know what to say, he's about to slide off the bed and collect his clothes and try to get the dildo out unseen when Dean lets out the breath he'd apparently been holding, his eyes glitter and he says in the lowest voice Sam's ever heard him use:

"Don't stop on my account."

What? Sam's every synapse misfires and falls silent. He can't move, can't think. Breathing, what is that? All the air runs out of him like he's fallen hard to the ground and he can't draw the next lungful, no, every fiber of his being is focused on Dean like Dean's the single point in space and time ahead of Sam, the only place he can go.

He's distantly aware of his muscles complaining, he's been crouched like this without moving for too long. His ass is full but it's no longer entertaining, and his dick has gone soft. He's poised for flight, a skittish animal. When he remembers how to breathe it's in sharp, shallow pants, the world has gone so very wrong and all he can do is hang on tight.

Dean steps closer and Sam's lungs are on fire. He feels his brows draw together, his arms folding in to hug himself as he draws up, trying to be smaller but goddamnit, so many yards and yards of him now.

Perversely he wonders if, when Dean looks at him, he can even see the small thing Sam used to be.

Dean's shrugging out of his jacket and Sam has no idea what's going on, can't understand. He feels a bit cold and wonders if this is what it's like when you die of embarrassment – but wait, Dean said don't stop, what is he supposed to do with that? Dean's kicking off his boots, flicking little glances in Sam's direction as he moves, and Sam feels each and every one of them like a blow both to his face and to his dick, but not in a bad way. No, that's the kicker, isn't it – once the initial shock died, and Sam could actually analyze the way he's feeling, he understands in a gigantic swoop of wrong and oh, hell and yes, please that he's actually ridiculously turned on by this whole unanticipated turn of events.

Then Dean's leaning across the bed, his face poised so close to Sam's, all Sam has to do is tilt and lean and –

"I said, don't stop."

Dean's voice ghosts across Sam's face, low and serious. There's burger on his breath and maybe one glass of whiskey, but between that and the clarity of his eyes there's no doubt that Dean is sober. This doesn't make a whole lot of sense to Sam, but then again, he's not about to look this gift horse in the mouth. Dean walked in on him, sure, but Dean's not freaking out – just finish, Sam tells himself with a shaky breath in and out. Just finish and then you can both go to sleep, forget this happened.

Dean hasn't moved, so Sam rears back, his ass clenching around the dildo. The hard unnatural feel of it sends a not-quite-painful spasm through to the base of his cock, which begins to regain interest in the proceedings and twitches upwards toward his belly. Dean notices, snorts, pulls back and sits on the edge of the bed, in his jeans and t-shirt, drinking in the sight of Sam so gloriously nude, kneeling on the mattress before him.

The attention crashes straight to the pit of Sam's gut and roils there, and he reaches back to pull the toy out and slam it back in, hitting his prostate with practiced aim. A throaty squeal launches from his mouth and even as he's falling forward to brace on one hand he arches his back, thrusting with the toy, unable to look away from Dean as he does it because at the noise he made, Dean's eyes flushed black and those perfect, cock-sucking lips dropped open, and Sam doesn't have to look down to know Dean's tenting his jeans and that's just incredible.

Okay, confession time. Sam's wondered for awhile what it'd be like, to have Dean suck him off. To have Dean's fingers wrapped around his cock, and fucking deep into his ass. He's wondered how it'd feel to have his brother's cock inside him, instead of a toy.

He thought such things were depraved, sinful, and maybe they are – but with a look like that on Dean's face, they sure as hell can't be wrong.

Sam can't touch himself and fuck himself and look at Dean all at the same time, so he makes one of the most nerve-wracking judgment calls of his life. Looks his brother straight in the eye and says, no-nonsense, "Little help here."

Dean's eyebrows shoot into his hairline, his eyes blow even blacker and then he's slowly dragging his legs up on the bed, shuffling forward on his knees and pulling Sam up, one hand on his shoulder, the other ghosting over his cock. There's a question in his eyes. Sam huffs, nods, and the smile on Dean's lips goes from relieved to predatory in a stunning series of seconds. "All right, Sammy," he says, his voice a sensual purr like the Impala in neutral and Sam cannot handle it. "Just this once," and then his strong hand is wrapped around Sam's dick and sliding, and Sam can't help the noise he makes. His ass clenches around the dildo, relaxes, and he reaches back to fuck himself with it in counter-time to Dean's slow rhythm on his length. He's breathing heavily, but steadily, finding his prostate with the toy and grinding on it til the slow fire burn of it spreads fine tremors throughout his body. He hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes until Dean's kissing him and they're snapping open, just in time to see his brother's beautiful green eyes roll back and close.

Dean's tongue slides across Sam's already parted lips and dips in, and Sam meets it with his own, mapping his brother's mouth in a nasty tangle of tongue and teeth. The kiss is open, filthy, they're both moaning and the vibrations echo back into Sam's throat, and his hips are moving of their own accord between his hand and Dean's. Dean's other hand is sliding from his shoulder but Sam's too involved in their kiss to really notice until it's cupping his ass, moving back to find the dildo all but buried inside him.

The noise Dean makes at this discovery is both surprised and pleased, and he curls his fingers around it, knocking Sam's out of the way, drawing it out as slowly as humanly possible, Sam thinks, just to hear the lengthy grating moan it knocks out of his lungs. Sam draws breath against Dean's lips, exhales his brother's name like a prayer. "Dean..."

As the N fades away between them, Sam feels Dean smirk, and then his arm is flexing and the dildo is driven home with such explosive force that when it hits Sam's prostate, Sam screams. Dean's already drawing it back out again, quicker than before, and Sam chases it with his hips; he wants more. Dean's fist is on his cock and he's jerking Sam with ruthless efficiency, choking the purpling length and milking precome on to his palm. Sam is caught between the toy and his brother's hand and it feels like he's got two people on him, two Deans, one made of plastic and the other so real, so warm. Sam can't breathe for kissing Dean but soon he's fallen to the side, suckling Dean's sweat-coated neck ferociously, lapping up every bit of salt he can find and leaving a brutal series of hickeys because fuck, what else can he do? He's being set on fire and Dean's the Zippo; he's gaining sky and flying, and Dean is his wings.

He's on the edge of a precipice and he's gaining altitude; somewhere in the midst of all of this Dean's been pulling Sam's legs forward and now he throws him on his back, using one hand to simply grind the toy around in Sam's ass while the other hand splays across his stomach. Sam's a quivering mess and he's so close to coming, white closing in on the edges of his vision –

Dean flicks his tongue into the slit of Sam's cock and Sam comes with a shriek, all over Dean's face, stripes of stringy fluid pulsing out as he shakes, and shakes, riding the high as long as he can, Dean helping him ride with the steady flashburn of pressure against his prostate and a gentle, hot mouth on his softening cock, drawing out the eddying pleasure until Sam's breathless with it, protesting, too sensitive and spent.

They lay there, panting, for a long, long moment. Dean moves his hand, pulls the toy from Sam's ass slowly, and Sam's breathing hitches with the force of his muscles trying to re-align as they lose what held them open. All he can do is breathe, and watch what bits of Dean he can see from this position on his back as Dean moves around the room, placing the dildo on the table and grabbing a towel, wiping his face, grabbing another towel and, with a fond expression, gently drying Sam's full-body sweat.

When Sam feels like he can move again without falling apart, he sits up, shakily, and runs a hand through his hair out of habit. It's sweat-soaked, droplets flying everywhere, and he must make a priceless face at that because then Dean's laughing,over, knees on the floor. He grins up at Sam, hauls himself on to the bed, and kisses Sam once more, his eyes sparkling a deep, dark green.

"Next time," he says, a hint of teasing still in his voice but Sam knows he's serious, "next time, don't start without me."

Just this once, my ass, Sam thinks, and Dean takes the Cheshire smile that slides across his lips as acquiescence, and in a way it is – but really, it's just appreciation of his own horrible pun.

FIN

Before you ream my ass through the internet: there will be a sequel, and Dean will get his. So just, add me to your Author Alerts and try not to foam at the mouth, k? ^_^