mickeym

Title: Everything I Want Is Nothing But You
Pairing: Sam/Dean, nominal Sam/OMCs
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~12,200
Spoilers/Warnings: A/U (mostly, with some canon woven in), hooker fic, references to past underage prostitution, but none appears in the story.
Disclaimer: They're not mine, and I'm not holding my breath.
Summary: He swore last winter he wasn't going to trick any more, but it's hard to pay the rent on just tending bar.
A/N: This is for

balefully, for the

spn_j2_xmas exchange. Honey, I hope you like it. I tried to work a lot of your likes and preferences into it! *crosses fingers* I need to say huge thanks to

cormallen for holding my hand through this, and to

arliss,

lazy_daze and

thehighwaywoman for looking it over for me.

It's too early in the season to be this chilly, and Sam scowls as he looks himself over in the haphazardly-hung mirror. Tight jeans, ripped tank, eyes lined just enough to make them seem bigger, darker, more. He runs his fingers across his chest and shivers slightly when his nipples tighten, the newly-healed piercings pulling just enough to make him feel them.

He swore last winter he wasn't going to trick any more, but it's hard to pay the rent on just tending bar, especially when your roommate takes off without even the courtesy of a "hey, I'm outta here".

So, desperate times, and all that, and it's not like he's fourteen anymore with no other choice, but Sam can't help the curl of anger that flickers through him when he thinks about how, no matter how hard he tries, he keeps ending up in the same place.

"Get a grip," he tells his reflection, and glances at the clock. He has time to pick up a couple of tricks, then come back and change for work. At least it won't be quite as cold now, as it will be once the sun's all the way down, and once he's at the bar he'll be busy enough he'll be sweating.

He still wishes for his hoodie as soon as he steps out of the small house, though, or better yet, a winter coat.

But no coats while hustling, because the johns aren't gonna spring for what they can't see. At least not any more. When he was thirteen, fourteen, even fifteen -- particularly those years, because he was so skinny he looked more like thirteen, until the summer after his fifteenth birthday, when he shot up three inches overnight. It still boggles Sam's mind when he thinks about it, how many sick fuckers are out there, wanting to fuck a kid.

The best place to hustle is down on the corner by Olive and Chestnut, just a few blocks from home. Sam hunches his shoulders against the wind and hopes he manages to get a couple tricks who have cars, or will spring for a rent-by-the-hour. It's too fucking chilly to be trying to give head out here – much less do anything else – and no way he's bringing anyone back to his place.

That's been his number one rule since he's had a place, and even if his place isn't the greatest, it's his private space, and he's not going to violate that by taking a trick home with him.

He's not quite to the corner when he hears the rumbling purr of a big engine, and a minute or so later an absolutely gorgeous classic Chevy pulls up alongside him. Sam leans in toward the window, making sure to smile so his dimples show, because some guys really dig that.

"Hey, there. Lookin' for a good time?"

The guy behind the wheel is almost too pretty to be real, with full, pouty lips and high cheekbones. He's got gorgeous green eyes that widen, then move as he looks Sam over, head-to-toe. He smiles and shakes his head, and for half a second Sam thinks maybe the guy is going to say yes, even as his lips are forming the word 'no'.

"I wish, man. Just looking for an address—you know the area?"

Sam snorts. Just his luck, and probably how his afternoon's gonna go. "Yeah, whatcha looking for?"

"Three-oh-two Vine."

"Vine is a couple blocks over—" Sam gestures to his right. "Make a right up here at the corner, then take a right onto Vine, and go three blocks, and it's the midway up the fourth block." He smiles at the way the guy's eyes keep moving over him. "Sure I can't interest you in a good time, first?"

Dude's eyes crinkle when he smiles. Sam finds that kind of cute. "Nah, but thanks for the offer. See you round, man."

Sam nods and watches the car drive away. He's reminded briefly of the fantasy he used to have, thinking somewhere 'out there' was someone who was looking for him, who wanted him, loved him, would take him away and give him a home and hugs. He ditched that fantasy years ago, when it became more of a liability than anything, and he seldom revisits it, now. He doesn't need a knight in shining armor (or gleaming steel and chrome) to rescue him. He's doing just fine, thank you very much.

He can't get the guy out of his head, though, and later when he's on his knees in front of some older, pudgy, balding guy, he lets his thoughts wander to brilliant green eyes and a lush, pouty mouth. No one – including the john – is going to know, so it's no harm done.

~~~~~

It's not a real busy night for the bar, which is disappointing, but Sam keeps busy anyway. Seems like there's always something to do: cutting up lemons and limes, wiping down counters, refilling the bowls of pretzels and peanuts. He's half-listening to the television that's tuned to the weather when a low, kind of familiar voice asks what's on tap.

Somehow he's not surprised to see the guy from earlier sitting here at his bar, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth when he sees – and recognizes – Sam.

"You stalking me, dude?"

Sam snorts. "I'm the one working here, so if anyone's stalking anybody—" He sets his bar towel down and leans against the edge of the bar. "So what can I getcha?"

"Budweiser on tap?" Sam nods, and the guy smiles. "That'll do it. Unless you guys got a cook in the back?"

"Just burgers and the occasional grilled cheese."

"Onion rings?"

Sam laughs. "Because every growing boy needs his veggies?"

"Damn straight." The guy lifts his beer and takes a healthy swallow. "I'm Dean, by the way."

"Sam. How d'you want your burger?"

"Medium-well, fully dressed."

"Got it. Back in a second." Sam draws another beer for the guy – for Dean – and takes the order back to the kitchen. They don't do a lot of food orders, but Benny doesn't mind manning the grill when it's slow out front, and whatever doesn't end up selling he and Sam will split and take home anyway. He likes the onion rings, too. "So, did you find your address okay?"

Dean's still sipping at his beer, eyes focused somewhere off in the distance, but Sam feels it down to his toes the minute Dean settles his attention onto him. "Huh? Oh—yeah. Thanks. No problem, once I knew which way to go on Vine."

"It's easy to get turned around over in this part of town. I think the people who laid out the streets were taking drugs when they planned this area."

Dean laughs and gives Sam a once-over. "Yeah, but at least I got some nice scenery to look at while I was driving around."

"So why were you looking for that house?" Sam gives up on trying to look busy. There's exactly one other person at the bar right now – Crazy Eddie, down at the far end, who could care less what anyone not inside his head is doing – and the manager left an hour ago.

"Oh, thinking of buying it. I work with a company, we fix up houses, then rent 'em out."

"Uh-huh. Well, you might want to reconsider on that one."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

"That house? It's kind of hinky." Benny comes through the door with Dean's burger and onion rings, and for a split-second Sam's jealous of the plate, because Dean's looking at it like it's the best thing he's ever seen. Ugh.

"Hinky?" Dean's reaching for the burger almost before Sam sets the plate in front of him, and the look on his face when he bites into it actually makes Sam feel hot and bothered. He reaches for his glass of water, ignoring Dean's blissed out expression as best as he can. "In what way?"

"Hinky in that it's supposedly haunted," Sam says. "Anyone who lives around here will tell you that. People going by say they hear things, moans and shrieks, and the last person who rented the place left in a big hurry – like, didn't bother to take their furniture, hurry."

"Huh." Dean shrugs, wipes his thumb across his lower lip, sucks the ketchup off it, and takes another bite of his burger. "Well, I don't scare easy. Besides, I was in it all afternoon, I didn't see or hear anything weird."

It's Sam's turn to shrug. "Just tellin' you what I've heard, man. Maybe you need to like, spend the night in there."

Dean sucks another bit of something off his thumb, and Sam bites his lip to keep from offering to do that for him.

It gets a little busier as the evening wears on, since a lot of the folks who get off-shift at the canning plant at eleven come in to wind down before heading home. Dean stays and has a couple more beers, but Sam can't chat with him as much once the bar is full, as well as some of the tables, and in a lull between rounds Dean reaches over and hands Sam a couple of bills. "For my tab, and keep the change," he says, and then he's gone before Sam gets a chance to say anything beyond, "see you later."

For the first time in longer than he cares to think about, Sam wishes he'd gotten the guy's phone number.

~~~~~

Sometimes Sam feels like his life can be summed up by, "second verse, same as the first", like that Henry the Eighth song.

Today is one of those days. It's still chilly outside, still cloudy and gray, and he's down practically to his corner when he hears the rumble of that big Chevy engine behind him.

"Didn't we do this already?" He asks, when Dean pulls over against the curb. "You don't need directions again, do you?"

"Nah." Dean smiles at him, eyes crinkling up, then reaches out through the open window and hands Sam a big, steaming cup. "I didn't know how you take it, so I just added some cream and sugar – you look like a cream-and-sugar kinda guy."

Sam stares at him for a minute, then wraps his chilly fingers gratefully around the nicely warm cup. "Thanks—I think. I mean, thanks for the coffee, definitely." He flashes Dean a quick grin, then holds the cup up to his face and breathes in the warm, rich coffee-scent.

"Kind of a brutal day to be out, isn't it?" Dean tips his head toward the passenger seat. "Wanna sit a while, warm up?"

Sam hesitates, looking down toward his corner, then back up the street – the fairly deserted street. "I—"

"Dude, how much work can you pick up in the middle of the afternoon, seriously? C'mon, get in the car, warm up a while, then go back to work."

Sam opens the door gingerly, and settles himself, sighing when the heater kicks in and his toes start defrosting. "Thanks. Definitely not lookin' forward to winter."

"You should think about flying south for the winter, man."

"Yeah, maybe. But I got a house and a job, here. I mean, besides this." Sam blows on his coffee, then takes a sip. It's just right, sweet but not too sweet, with just enough creamer in it to neutralize the bitter under taste coffee usually has. "How 'bout you? You got a place down south when you're done looking at your haunted house?"

Dean shakes his head. "I—travel a lot. For my job. Don't call any one place home, really." He runs a hand over the steering wheel, and smiles. "Just this, really. This is home."

"Your car?" Sam blinks. "Had it a while, then?"

"She belonged to my dad; now she's mine. We moved around a lot when I was a kid, but the car was the one constant."

"That's cool." Another swallow of coffee adds to the warmth spreading through Sam. Or maybe that's Dean's easy smile and relaxed attitude. "It'd be nice to have something like that, I guess. Something that belonged to your parents, to connect with them," he clarifies, when Dean gives him a questioning look. "I was fostered a lot as a kid. Don't know who my folks were," Sam adds.

"Ah, gotcha. That'd be kind of rough," Dean says, giving Sam one of those once-over looks. "Why do I get the feeling you didn't stay in the system as long as the state planned?"

"What gave it away? My awesome career choice?" Sam makes a face, then smiles half-heartedly. "I didn't. Life on the street wasn't great, but I gave it a higher survival chance than staying in the foster home I was in at the time, so when I had the chance, I split."

"How long ago?"

He hasn't thought about it in a while, so Sam has to count back in his head. "Lessee…that was… seven years, and three states ago."

"Wow." Dean looks surprised, maybe even shocked. Sam isn't sure, since he doesn't know him well enough to say for certain, but yeah. Definitely surprised. "So you were—"

"Thirteen," he finishes, taking another long swallow of coffee. It burns his throat going down, still a little too hot to drink quickly. "Not many career options at thirteen."

Dean bumps Sam's shoulder with his, and gives him a small smile. "I hear ya. But more at twenty, yeah? Or are you twenty-one? If you're tending bar—"

"Ah, what you can do with a fake ID," Sam says, and gives Dean a grin. "But let's keep that our secret, huh? And yeah, there're more options at twenty—but I didn't finish high school. So that narrows the field down again. I thought I was done, doing this—" he gestures toward the street, and his corner, "but my roommate split without warning, left me kind of tight. Bartending only goes just so far."

"You ever hustle pool?"

Sam shrugs. "A little. But I'm not very good at it. Better at hustling other stuff." He looks down the street again and recognizes the little blue Escort pulling up to one curb. It's Frank, who likes sloppy head, and always calls him 'Mark'. "Speaking of which. I should—go."

It's hard to leave, though, and after he gets out of the car Sam hesitates a moment longer, leaning on the door, looking at Dean who's looking down the street.

"You working tonight? Um—at the other place, I mean."

"My shift starts at seven."

Dean gives Sam a smile and a wink. "See you at seven, then, Sammy."

Sammy? Sam blinks, then shakes his head, and yells at the car as Dean pulls away, "Sammy's a little kid's name!"

But somehow, he can't bring himself to mind too much, and he's still hearing that warm, gravelly voice calling him 'Sammy' over the gasps his latest trick makes when Sam sucks him down.

~~~~~

True to his word, Dean's at the bar, mug in hand, chatting comfortably with Alice, who waitresses on busy nights, but does a little bit of everything (as they all do) when it's slow or they're short-handed, when Sam breezes in a few minutes before seven.

Sam clocks in and ties an apron around his waist, then reaches for the bowl of limes. It's two-for-one Coronas night after nine p.m., and once the factory lets out, they'll probably be swamped. Better to get some prep done now than wait until later.

Alice is telling Dean a story about her cat, and Dean is laughing and nodding in all the right places. When she leaves to take an order, a wide smile curves her mouth up, and Sam has the feeling that's probably the reaction Dean gets from about 99 percent of the female population.

"Making friends?" He asks with a smirk.

"Jealous?" Dean counters, reaching for a lime wedge. Sam makes an aborted chop motion with the knife toward Dean's fingers, determinedly not thinking about tequila and lime juice, and body shots.

"Of Alice? Pretty sure she's old enough to be your grandmother." Sam frowns when Dean reaches for another wedge. "Hands off my limes, dude, or you're in serious trouble."

"Please tell me you don't use that as an actual pick-up line." Dean licks lime juice off his fingers, and just like last night, Sam's left with the urge to offer to do that for him.

"Not many chances to use pick up lines," Sam says, corralling the lime wedges. "Unless you count 'hey, looking for a good time'?"

"Work doesn't count." Dean finishes off his beer and glances at the clock hanging over the television. "What time do you get a break?"

"Probably about ten, before it gets busy. Why?"

"Eh. Figured I could stick around, have a bite to eat with you. Otherwise, it's just go back to my motel room and stare at the television, and this is more entertaining than anything on TV is gonna be."

Well, that's more direct than either of them have managed so far. Sam slices down into another lime, then looks at Dean from under his bangs. "Why, really?" He asks, softly.

Dean shrugs, and picks at a spot on the bar where the fake wood has lifted slightly, warped from too much moisture seeping down into it. "I like you," he says finally, then looks up at Sam. "You're interesting to talk to. I don't get to talk to many people outside of my, um, business stuff. Job stuff. It's a nice change."

"Yeah. It is." Sam doesn't talk to too many people, himself, aside from Hey, looking for a good time or What can I get you to drink, so it's been a rare treat, talking to someone who's interesting to talk to and who treats him like an actual person, and not an object. "So, uh. You want another Budweiser? And a burger for dinner?"

"That'd be awesome, Sammy, thanks."

Sam rolls his eyes as he fills Dean's mug. "Dude, it's Sam. Seriously."

"Whatever. Sammy." Dean waves his hand and winks, and Sam actually thinks about asking him to forget the motel and just go home with him, when his shift ends.

~~~~~

Dean sticks around for the rest of Sam's shift, retiring to a seat at the far end of the bar, once the place fills up. He spends most of the evening thumbing through a worn-looking, leather-covered book, pausing at different points to read pages, or make notes. He has a folder with some newspaper clippings and pictures, and when he's not reading in the leather-covered book, he's making notes in a regular notebook while he goes through the clippings.

Sam deposits a Corona, with lime wedge, and a shot of tequila in front of him, and smiles when Dean looks up, eyes slightly glazed but grateful. "Thanks," he says, and reaches for his wallet, but Sam shakes his head.

"On the house. Well, on me." He looks at the scribbles Dean's making and frowns. "Can you even read that?"

"What? Of course I can." Dean scowls at him. "It's my own writing, isn't it?"

"Whatever you gotta tell yourself, man." He turns away to hide his smile, but not before he sees Dean look down and squint at the paper, like he's willing the squiggles to turn into actual letters.

~~~~~

"A ride home's the least I can do," Dean says to him, stretching and yawning before gathering his stuff up. Sam shakes his head, but zips his hoodie up and follows Dean out to where the Impala's parked, gleaming black under the wavering light of the streetlamps.

"You're insane, you know that? You could've gone home hours ago."

"Right. To that empty motel room?"

"Whatever, man. Just sayin'." Sam directs Dean away from the bar and toward his little house, but it isn't until the Impala's idling in front of it that he looks at Dean. "You, um. You want to come in? To a not-empty, not-motel room?"

It's quiet beside him for so long that Sam's tempted to pretend he never said anything, and just get out of the car, forget Dean Whoever He Is ever existed. He's reaching for the door handle in fact, when Dean shifts beside him, hand closing over Sam's arm.

"I want to," he says, low and soft, and a curl of heat winds its way through Sam at the intensity in those three words. "But I gotta get up early, got some research to do in the morning, and if I come in, ain't neither one of us gonna get much sleep."

It's been a long, long time – Sam can't remember the last time, in fact – since someone's promised something like that and made Sam actually believe it, and want it.

"Okay," he says, hoarsely. "Okay. But—before you leave town, alright? Promise me."

Dean nods, then reaches out and touches Sam's face; brushes his hair back and out of his eyes. His fingers are warm, and a little rough – calluses, Sam thinks – and feel so good just stroking lightly. Sam closes his eyes when Dean rubs the pad of his thumb across Sam's mouth; he shivers at the soft sound Dean makes when he opens just enough to lick at it, warm and salty, with an odd metallic tang underlying.

It's not enough. Not even close.

Dean's eyes are wide open, but it's dark, not even streetlights right here, and Sam wishes he could see Dean's eyes clearly. Wishes he could see how dark they'd be, shaded with hunger, pupils blown wide, drowning the green.

"Sam—"

"Shh." Sam doesn't want to talk; doesn't want to hear whatever Dean's about to say. He closes the distance between them and kisses Dean, brushes his mouth against Dean's.

It's meant to be a quick kiss, nothing more, but Dean opens his mouth and he tastes sweet and warm, his mouth slick and yielding to Sam's, and so much for quick. Sam needs to taste Dean, needs to drink him in and fill up on him. He presses closer, swallowing down the quiet sounds Dean makes, shuddering when Dean cups the back of his head, trails his fingers through Sam's hair to hold him tight. The car is full of the wet sounds of their kisses; of the fast, frantic gasps for breath in between each kiss.

Dean pulls back first, but not far. Just enough to lean his forehead against Sam's, his breath still ghosting warm and moist against Sam's lips.

"What is it—about you?" He asks, the words low, hardly more than a whisper. "Do you feel it, too?"

Sam nods, and leans in for one more kiss, this one the chaste, brief touch he'd intended to start with. "Yeah. Like." He closes his eyes, and all he sees is Dean. "Like there's a connection. Between us." He smiles, and feels Dean's lips move against his, mirroring it. "Like I've been waiting for you."

That gets an actual snort of laughter, and Dean leans back. "Corny."

"But not wrong."

"No." Dean scrubs one hand over his face, and again Sam wishes for light – lamplight, moonlight, whatever – so he could see Dean's eyes. See the expression in them. "Go on inside," Dean says, trailing his fingers once more over Sam's cheek. "And I'll see you tomorrow. You gonna be down the street?"

"I dunno. Check here first?"

"Will do." One last touch, and Sam wills himself to move, to get out of the car, ignores the voice inside him screaming that he should stay.

Walking away from Dean is the hardest thing he's ever done in his life, and Sam thinks that's really saying something.

~~~~~

Sam wakes up exhausted, with a weird, nagging feeling pulling at him.

He didn't sleep well, dreaming about fires off and on all night, and at one point, of a woman dressed in a white nightgown pinned to a ceiling, flames shooting out around her before engulfing her. When he wasn't dreaming about fire, he dreamed about Dean, about green eyes staring at him, and Dean shouting soundlessly.

He's only been up for half an hour and he's already finished off a pot of coffee and an entire box of pop tarts – not his favorite breakfast (or any time) food, but they were in the cupboard and he was hungry.

Busy work is usually the best way for Sam to work off nervous energy, so he throws himself into it. He changes the sheets on his bed, and in the other bedroom (though calling it a bedroom is a generous use of the word, since it's hardly more than a closet nailed on to the back of the house), and runs the vacuum, then washes up the few dishes in the sink. He needs to do laundry, but isn't in the mood to hike down to the laundromat.

All the while there's a feeling, some weird kind of electrical buzzing, rippling through him. A sense that something is wrong.

And Dean hasn't been by, yet. Not that Sam is going to start banking on someone he met a couple of days ago, but he's willing to bet that when Dean says he'll do something he follows through.

It's just past ten, the house is as clean as it's likely going to get, and Sam's still drowning in exhaustion and weird something-is-about-to-happen feelings, and he needs to do something. Be somewhere else, maybe.

He decides to go for a walk after all, though not to do laundry. Just to get out, get some fresh air, clear his head.

Later, when he tries to recall it, Sam can't say what it was that made him head in the direction of Vine Street, and the so-called haunted house Dean's looking at. But that's the direction his feet move him, long legs eating up the sidewalk quickly as the weird, nagging feeling coalesces inside him into something like a sense of panic, that he needs to find Dean, and right now.

Dean's car is parked in front of the house, and Sam staggers slightly from the relief that pours through him. That relief is short-lived, though, because he hears a shout from inside the house – not words, just a loud yell, but it sounds like Dean – and then what sounds like doors slamming.

Sam's up the front walk and through the door almost before he processes that he needs to move, and he's just in time to see…something…shove Dean down the stairs.

"Dean!"

He's shouting and running, and there's a growing sense of noise, some sort of hum that's rising into a shriek. Cold all around him, moving over him and through him, and Sam feels like he's trying to run through honey, or syrup, all thick and viscous and holding him back.

"Sam—get out of here--"

"Not without you—c'mon, man," and he's tugging on Dean, trying to get a shoulder up under him and get him to his feet.

They get out of the house just before the door blows – slams – shut behind them, the wind shrieking and howling inside, still audible through the walls.

Sam lands on his back, half on the asphalt of the front walk, half on the grass beside it, with Dean landing on top of him, driving the air from his lungs. When he can breathe again he gasps, "What the hell was that?"

"That," Dean says, grimacing when he moves, "was a fucking vengeful spirit, and not the damn poltergeist I thought was in the place."

~~~~~

"So, lemme get this straight: ghosts are real?" Sam rummages around in his freezer, finally locating the small cold pack he knew he had, tucked away behind a stray package of pizza bites. He hands it to Dean, sitting at his kitchen table, then goes in search of a dishtowel to wrap it in.

"Ghosts are real, yes. So are demons, and vampires, and all sorts of other supernatural shit. Nightmare, monster-under-the-bed type stuff, all of it's real. Except Bigfoot." Dean's dabbing at his forehead with a damp washcloth, face drawn up in discomfort, and Sam just doesn’t even know what to say or do at this point.

"And you hunt them."

"I—yeah." Another dabbing with the washcloth, then Dean lays it aside in favor of putting the cold pack on his ribs. At the first touch he sucks in a deep breath, then winces from the motion. Sam shakes his head and tries to look anywhere but at what's already becoming a brilliantly-colored bruise.

"You sure you don't need to go to the hospital? Your ribs could be broken."

"No hospitals." Dean's been adamant about that since Sam got him into the Impala and asked where to take him. "And they're not broken. I've had enough broken bones to know what they feel like. I'm just banged up some."

"Some. Right." Sam reaches out and very gently touches Dean's mouth, swollen where he'd bitten his lower lip at some point, or possibly got hit by something. Or both. "You're gonna be nothing but black and blue in a few hours."

"But they're good colors on me." Dean tries a smile that ends up as a grimace. "It's okay, Sammy, really. I'm okay. I been hurt a lot worse before, and lived through it."

"And you do this, this hunting thing, this is what you do? For a living?" He rests his fingers on Dean's pulse point at the base of his throat, the steady thump beneath his fingers oddly reassuring.

"Well, it doesn't pay very well. 'S why I asked you about hustling pool. That's how I pay for a lot of stuff."

"Ah. So the whole buying houses to fix them up--"

"One of a thousand different cover stories. Gets me in, around; most of my jobs involve some kind of research. Gotta figure out what's going on, then why, and how best to fix things."

"Do I even want to ask?" Sam's pretty sure he knows the answer to that; he sees it reflected in Dean's eyes even before his lips form the words. "No. You don't."

"Actually, I think I do--but later. Right now, you should rest." There are actually a lot of things Sam wants to ask Dean: how'd he get started doing this, why does he keep doing it, is Sam ever going to see Dean again after he's done here.

That last one catches him by surprise, and he thinks it must show on his face, because whatever Dean was about to say to him -- his mouth was open, words forming -- it changes, and Dean's face softens. "C'mere."

"What?"

"Come. Here." Dean stands up and pulls Sam closer, and God. Yeah. This is what Sam wants, Dean close, in his personal space, forever and ever. Dean's eyes widen a little when Sam presses against him, and he tips his head back, looking up at Sam. "Christ, you're big."

"You should see the rest of me." It comes out dirtier and more with more intent than Sam maybe meant, but once the words are out, there's no calling them back. And Sam doesn't want to. "You should. See the rest of me," he breathes, leaning in so he can brush his mouth against Dean's.

"God, please." Dean's big in his own right, solid against Sam, and he shifts to press one leg in between Sam's thighs. It feels fucking awesome, and Sam groans and kisses Dean hard, mouth open and seeking, desperate to taste Dean again. "Sam--yes. God, yes."

"Bed," Sam manages in between kisses, nuzzling at Dean's jaw. "Perfectly good bed, we don't have to stand up--" He licks at the swollen cut on Dean's lip; shivers at the tang of blood that spreads over his tongue. "Kind want you laying down, man."

"You gonna fuck me?" Dean slides a hand down from Sam's waist to cup between his legs, and Sam's growing erection throbs. He groans when Dean squeezes again, cupping and rubbing and stroking him through his jeans. "Gonna lay me down and fuck me, Sammy?"

Dean's voice is hoarse, the words thick and rough, and hungry-sounding. Sam grinds himself against Dean's hand and growls, "Jesus Christ, yes."

It's difficult, stumbling through the tiny house while kissing, but they manage, mostly, only bumping into the walls and furniture a couple of times. Sam tries to lead the way -- backwards -- so he's the one who bangs into things, and not Dean, who already has enough bruises. By the time they get to the bed Sam wants to rip Dean's clothes off with his teeth, he's so ready. It's like they've had three days of foreplay and enough's enough.

"Wanted to go slow," Sam mumbles, reaching to pull his shirt up over his head, "but I don't think I can. Not this time." He fully intends there's going to be more than just this one time, even if it means he has to tie Dean down to the bed to keep him around awhile. Which is not an unattractive idea, actually. "How d'you feel about bondage?"

"I dunno, I--holy shit!" Dean reaches out and tugs on the ring through Sam's right nipple, and he grits his teeth against the wave of desire that washes over him. "Somebody's a kinky little bitch."

"Wait 'til you see the rest." Sam gives Dean a smile that probably comes out more feral than friendly, but he's feeling pretty damn feral right now, actually. He pops the buttons on his jeans and shimmies out of them, hand coming down to stroke up his dick slowly, root to tip, to where the Prince Albert gleams, polished gold dampened by the droplets of pre-come beginning to leak.

"Fuck me," Dean breathes, sitting heavily on the bed, which hey, puts him right at the perfect level with Sam's dick. "Not so little, then."

Sam laughs, the sound turning to a low groan when Dean reaches out and rubs over the head of Sam's dick before pulling gently on the piercing. "Was planning to."

He watches Dean stroking him, fingers easing up and down tentatively at first, teasing lightly over the swollen head, smearing the fluid into his skin. Each bump and push of the ring makes Sam tremble, the touches too light and gentle to give him any real friction; just enough to drive him near insane with need.

"Suck me," he says roughly, pushing forward toward Dean. Dean's mouth is sinful, gorgeous, lips plump and swollen, shiny where he's been licking at them, and Sam wants to feel those lips curve around him, wants to feel the wet heat of his mouth surrounding his dick. Wants to pull out and fuck back in, and pull out again, be all slick with Dean's spit.

Dean takes him in, licking around the piercing first, hands reaching up to Sam's hips to hang on when Sam pushes in. It's every bit as good as he imagined, Dean's tongue dragging along the length of his shaft when Sam pulls out, flicking at the ring at the tip.

"God, the things I wanna do to you," he says, hunger coiling hot inside him. Sam takes himself in hand and rubs his dick across Dean's mouth, shuddering when his ring catches on the split in Dean's lip and Dean whines. "Wanna come on your face, and lick it off you. Wanna fuck you bare and watch my come leak out of you, then lick it up and eat you out. Tie you up and tease you until you're screaming."

"Christ, Sam." Dean's flushed, red spreading down his throat, but Sam doesn't think it's embarrassment. Given the way his dick is drooling, thick drops of pre-come welling up and sliding down, Sam's pretty sure Dean's about to come just from this, without Sam ever even touching his dick. "Yes. To all of that."

Sam leans in close enough he can practically feel the heat rising off Dean, and takes his dick in hand, stroking it slowly while he whispers, "you just bottom, or you like to top, too? Want me sliding down your dick, riding you hard? I know I wanna see you on your belly, your pretty little hole all slicked up and open, begging for my fat cock."

"Okay," Dean says, and moves back on the bed. "That, right now." He moves a little slowly, stiff from the bruises decorating his body. But on his belly he's fucking gorgeous, the long line of his back calling to Sam to lean down and lick the full length of it, ending at the cleft between his ass, with a nip to each cheek.

It takes just a minute for Sam to reach out and grab lube and condoms, and then he's rubbing slick fingers over Dean's hole, teasing at it, pushing gently until it starts to give. Two fingers slide in slowly, Dean groaning and twisting beneath him, pressing back and panting, "more, more, now," in a ragged voice.

Three fingers has Dean gasping, working his hips to move back onto Sam's fingers and forward, down, to rub his cock against the bed. Sam could stay like this forever, watching Dean begging with his body, with each bead of sweat that springs up and each rough whisper of a moan. Except for how he's about to come even before he gets inside Dean, because fuck, he wants him.

"Enough fucking foreplay, fuck me already."

Sam smacks Dean once on the ass and reaches for one of the condoms. It's tricky to open with slick fingers, but he's perfected using his teeth to rip open the package without nicking the rubber inside. He rolls it down over himself and slicks on more lube, then leans forward to press in.

Dean's head is bowed, and the back of his neck makes him look oddly vulnerable, and makes Sam feel suddenly protective. "You gonna be okay like this? I won't hurt you, your ribs?"

"'M fine, Sam, just—Jesus, fuck me, I'm dyin' here."

Even after stretching him, Dean's body balks at opening fully, and he groans low and deep when Sam pushes, electricity swirling through him as Dean takes him in, surrounds him, so hot and tight.

He holds still there, giving Dean a chance to adjust and get used to him. Sam thinks he says something then, something really stupid like, "God, I could do this forever," but he's not sure of anything right now except how good it feels to be buried deep inside Dean with Dean wriggling beneath him, rocking his hips in increments, squeezing and relaxing around him.

Dean mumbles something that sounds like "move", so Sam shifts, draws himself up so he can. He pulls Dean up and hangs onto his hips, keeping clear of his ribs, and begins thrusting slow and smooth until Dean's shoving back at him, growling "fuck me harder, c'mon, give it to me."

He knows the instant he hits Dean's prostate when he feels Dean go rigid beneath him, air rushing out of him in a shocked gasp. Then it's mewls and whimpers, and Dean shifting around to get a hand on his own dick while Sam pounds into him, hitting that spot over and over.

They move together perfectly in synch, and Sam doesn't remember the last time he honestly enjoyed sex at all, much less this much. He wants to bury himself over and over inside Dean until both of them are slick and wet with spunk. He wants to wrap his arms around Dean and hold him close, kiss him until their mouths are swollen and sore, then kiss him again. He reaches around and twines his fingers with Dean's, stroking his dick fast, hard, feeling blurts of pre-come oozing up and dribbling down, making their hands sticky-slick. Each press forward makes Dean shudder, and Sam's already trying to hold back coming until he can feel Dean squeezing hot and hard around him, but his balls are drawing up, need coiling tighter and tighter, burning hot in his belly.

Dean stiffens up, erection throbbing harder. "Oh, god—"

"Do it. C'mon, give it to me. Wanna feel you come, Dean." Sam bites the words into Dean's skin, licks over each bite, and growls when he feels Dean come, warm, sticky fluid spilling out and over their joined hands in thick pulses. He throbs in response, feeling each pulse echo through him and then out of him, and Sam comes with a low, pained cry, shoving forward through each spasm, trying to get deeper, deeper, bottom out completely.

They end up falling face-forward onto the bed, and Sam scrambles to get off Dean before he hurts him more, but Dean just pulls him close mumbling about how good he feels, and what bruise?

"You're insane," Sam tells him, then raises both their hands to lick Dean's come off, lapping in between fingers, and sucking each digit into his mouth. He feeds it back to Dean in a kiss, then licks the taste out again until Dean tastes like nothing in particular and everything Sam never knew he wanted.

"Mmm. We have so got to do that again," Dean says, shifting onto his side. He reaches out and runs his hand down Sam's chest, pausing to tug on both nipple rings before moving lower, where Sam's still wearing the condom. "Got more of these?"

Sam gives him a wicked grin. "Plenty. Just give me a few minutes to catch my breath."

Dean lifts his arm up and pretends to check his watch. "Alright. Clock starts ticking now."

Part Two