Word Count: 1000
Notes: warning for watersports. written for this prompt over at the spn_masquerade.
Summary: Dean's never been able to deny Sam anything, not when he sounds like this, and even when he doesn't.
An hour has passed. Probably closer to two. Sam's ass is in the air, his face down on the mattress. His legs are cramping from having them folded under him for so long, and he's intimately acquainted with the minutia of this particular hotel comforter.
He's proving a point. Okay. It's fair to say he's lost track of the point, had been entirely fucked out when he'd decided to make it, but goddamn, he's been at it for long enough and isn't gonna back down now. He's devoted, sure the second he gets up, Dean will waltz back into the room wearing that shit-eating smirk of his and Sam will be doing laundry for a month, sharpening the knives, get stuck on the giving side of every blowjob.
Not that he minds that last one too much, but whatever.
The bed reeks like sweat and come, or maybe that's just him. Sam's hair feels greasy from sweat and his skin is sticky. Dean's come has dried on the backs of his thighs and balls where it's leaked out of his ass and he's still incredibly loose back there, all sloppy and fucked open on his brothers cock, his fingers, the torturous tease of his tongue.
Car tires crunch on the broken pavement. The engine revs one last time. The creak of a driver's door that's as familiar to Sam as the sound of his big brother's voice. A key rattles around the hotel door, and by the time it finds the lock, Sam's already getting hard, dick filling up with blood, hanging heavy between his widespread legs.
Dean walks in, red flush in his cheeks, heels dragging. He smells like he fell headfirst into a river of booze and decided to save himself from drowning by drinking it dry.
"Damn, Sammy," Dean says, "you weren't kidding." He's barely slurring, has always been able to hold his liquor.
Sam feels a rush of backward pride, hopes like hell that Dean doesn't want to hold his liquor much longer. "Get over here," he says, muffled against the bed.
Dean moves out of his line of sight, and then there's a calloused hand toying with his balls, the scratch of Dean's jeans against the side of Sam's thigh, a few quick, not-enough tugs on his dick.
"You are a kinky bastard." And now Dean's the one who sounds proud, although Sam thinks that on a scale of one to fucking around with you brother on the regular, what Sam wants doesn't even rank.
Without warning, Dean shoves his fingers in Sam's ass, knuckles bumping up against Sam's skin like Dean owns him. It's immediate and obtrusive and so fucking hot because Sam does belong to Dean, every part of him, every fingernail, every fiber, every bad intention. It goes both ways and they know it.
"Still so loose," Dean groans, fucks his fingers in and out, and Sam's painfully hard now, balls aching and pulling up close to his body. "Taking three so easy. Shit. Four."
"Do it," Sam commands, voice only a little broken. "C'mon, Dean."
Dean's never been able to deny him anything, not when he sounds like this, and even when he doesn't.
The first clink of Dean's belt buckle and Sam almost loses it, deep down need in his gut pushing to the forefront. He wants to wrap his hand around his dick and jack himself raw, makes himself hold back. Wait for it.
"Drank down half the bar," Dean admits. "Wanted to make it good for you. Feels like I'm gonna spring a leak."
Sam arches his back, tips his ass higher and spreads his thighs, anticipation jittering through him.
"So open," Dean says, and it's not the liquor making him slur. "Fucking wide open."
The first splash of Dean's piss hits Sam in the small of his back, trickles down his side and tells Sam that Dean's drunk enough that his aim is for shit. Dean readjusts, breathes out a sigh that sounds like relief as the stream courses down the crack of Sam's ass. It seems warmer than body temperature on Sam's skin, feels like a flood. Hot piss pools in his fucked-open hole, so much of it that it spills over, soaks his balls and runs down the inside of his thighs. Such a waste when Sam wants it all inside of him, wants every single part of Dean inside of him and he reaches back to hold himself wider, face smashing into the bed in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
The stream cuts off, probably lasted only a dozen seconds in the first place. Dean groans once more, closes in on Sam, his bare thighs bumped up into Sam's. He slaps the head of his dick against Sam's rim and then he starts pissing again, directly into Sam's hole this time and fuck, fuck it's better in every way, the spray harder and thicker. Hotter, and Sam can't even get a hand on his dick before he's coming, streaks of spunk mixing with his brother's piss on the bed.
Behind him, Dean staggers backward, knocks into something and croaks, "That's all I got, brother mine."
Sam's wrecked, skin going cold and puddles forming around his knees. His body wants to sink down onto the bed, but fuck no. He might not mind it but he knows Dean would use it as ammo for the rest of their lives.
"Get up," Dean says, and Sam doesn't point out that he sounds like he's in no shape to be giving orders. "We're gonna take a shower and then we're gonna beat feet."
"It's two in the morning." Sam crawls out of the bed, sways in front of his brother. He's dripping onto the carpet. It should be gross. It really, really isn't.
Dean's collapsed in a chair, pants down around his knees and his cock nestled in the crook of his thigh. "I know. But I kinda want you to fuck me, and I need a clean bed to do it in."