Word count: i don't even know. maybe like 650 or so.
Notes: the other day our beloved big_heart_june posted this here photo which sorta went straight to my fic-brain, and i wrote this in a comment to her, and then decided to archive it over here for organizational!kink reasons, and because there were two, TWO (!!!) typos in the original comment that i couldn't fix. warnings for somewhat public sex.
Summary: Pretty sure this is the ladies', Sam.
"Pretty sure this is the ladies', Sam," Dean slurs as his brother pushes him through the door. They'd been eleven shots in, celebration over a night gone right for once, decided to go for a tidy dozen. Strange firewater in this neck of the woods that shot straight to Dean's head, commandeered his better judgment. Anyway this is all Sam's idea, and Dean would say that nine times outta ten, Sam is his better judgment.
Dean sways in the middle of the bathroom, Sam like a brick wall behind him, all warmth and wandering hands, a hot mouth on the back of his neck, a nudge of hips against his ass. "Alright, it's definitely the ladies'." Pepto-pink everywhere, for a good time call written on every chipped up door.
"Quit bitching," Sam tells him, then licks up the column of Dean's throat, whiskey-slick and wet. "It's cleaner than the other one and you know it."
"Still doesn't mean I'm getting on my knees," Dean shoots back weakly. If it came right down to it, he would. All it would take is a certain 'blow me' look on Sam's face or a carefully choreographed kick to the back of Dean's knee and he'd be there, ready, willing and able to pry open Sam's jeans and get his mouth on his kid brother. A little bit of institutional grime is only a fraction more stomach lurching than graveyard dirt and bones ground down to dust, viscera from a ghoul or motherfucking ectoplasm.
"You won't have to." Sam pushes him into one of the stalls, can't be bothered with latching the door before he has Dean's belt unhooked and his pants pushed down around his thighs, two spit-slick fingers shoved up Dean's ass.
The world is tilting and that's not the liquor. Not just, anyhow. Mostly it's Sam, who can get Dean all fucked up and turned around better than anyone else. Sam, who is Dean's world entire, the best thing that's ever happened to him, the only thing he's ever gotten to keep, his reason for getting up in the morning and turning the key in the ignition and heading to the next town.
"Does that feel good?" Sam asks, tricky twist to his wrist that makes Dean claw at the pink, pink, so fucking pink wall of the stall, kick his feet wider.
"I'd prefer your cock and maybe a little less ego," Dean tells him, knows full well that Sam won't deny him that, just like Dean wouldn't deny him either. Whatever Sam wants is his. The last piece of pizza. The less lumpy side of the bed. Dean spread out over the hood of the car. Every last bit of Dean's banged up, rotten soul.
It's nothing fancy, just something to take the edge off, get them back to the motel in one piece where they'll take their time. Sam slams home, rough scrape of his belt buckle on Dean's ass, rougher bite to the back of Dean's neck. Sam pounds into him, brutal rhythm exactly how Dean likes it, makes the shoddy walls in this place quiver and squawk. A few quick thrusts and Dean's spunk is dripping down the wall, and Sam's is leaking out of Dean's ass, dripping down the back of his thigh.
They laugh like they're kids again, like they got away scott-free from a quickie mart with pockets full of candy. Sam still has his dick hanging out and Dean has his tongue down his brother's throat when the door opens. A woman is standing there, hand cupped over her mouth and her eyes wide with shock.
"It's okay," Sam says as he slides past her, dragging Dean along by his loose belt. He gives her a nod and a cowboy wink and a grin so big it's probably visible from space. "He's my brother."
Thanks for reading!