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Rough Riders

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It wasn’t like they’d done more than fool around sporadically before both of them went to Hell and back, so Dean didn’t have a great base for comparison. And Sam might’ve got a taste for the rough stuff to show that he had his strength back, or because of what he’d gone through in his life, or, who knew, just because he liked it the same way he liked Lucky Charms, a random preference that couldn’t and didn’t need to be explained, like naughty French maid outfits.

Usually Dean was all about asking his fucks what they wanted, because that was the easiest way to find out and he rarely had time to waste. With Sam, he’d had time to build up an understanding. ‘What d’you want, baby?’ was hard to say to Sam even when he already had Sam’s cock in his hand, but there’d been a couple of nights when he’d been half-lit that he’d managed, and Sam’s answer had always been the same: pushing Dean into place and giving it to him.

Sam was a man of consistent preferences, from his shampoo (unchanged since Sam was fifteen and started buying for himself) to his sneakers (if Puma ever sought an endorsement from hunters, they ought to put Sam first on the list). And the way Sam liked sex was to shove Dean up against some hard surface and use that gravedigging strength to fuck his brains out. Sam wasn’t selfish—he’d take as long as he needed to make sure Dean got off first. But that was almost a problem in itself, since Dean didn’t always have the easiest time keeping it up when he’d just been given a new set of bruises, Sam’s teeth digging into his shoulder or Sam’s hands tight on his hips. He got the job done—Dean’s body had never been his weak point—but sometimes it took a while, and then it was a lot of not sitting down for the next day or so.

Dean didn’t have many blessings to count, but Sam would’ve been at the top of the list even if there’d been an unending supply. If hard and fast was what Sam wanted, then he was going to get it—and maybe it’d be enough for Dean to keep him, after so many attempts to leave. Dean could handle anything Sam could dish out. He wasn’t about to stretch his luck to breaking by trying for something Sam didn’t have any interest in.


Sam was restless, the way he always got around his birthday, another year older and still in the life. Being a Man of Letters had done him some good, made him feel part of something bigger, but Dean could tell he was having regrets. He’d been willing to die for the greater good; living for it was different, as Dean knew all too well.

His usual crappy gas station gifts weren’t going to cut it, and Sam had figured out that Dean cooked comfort food when he was worried about Sam, so that was also a no-go.

Head-on seemed like the only option.

“Got a birthday coming up,” he observed while they were doing some routine refiling (okay, Sam had dragged Dean along and Dean was helping once in a while, when he saw something interesting, but they were together).

“Yeah?” Sam sounded dubious, not sure why Dean was bringing this up.

“Just wondered what was on your wish list.” He waited until Sam closed the file drawer and looked at him, still skeptical. “You know,” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively, “anything special you want.” Asking during sex was different, more about positions than big fancy scenarios; if Sam really wanted to see him in red panties or something, that would require planning. Okay, maybe the red panties wouldn’t require a lot of planning, but Sam didn’t know that.

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it, looking thoughtful. “… Really?”

“Or I could get you a bottle of Jack and a Penthouse like always,” Dean said lightly. “Your call.”

“Hunh,” Sam said, and went back to filing.

But that night, with his forehead still pressed to the back of Dean’s neck, sweaty and sticky, he said, “I want you to know, you can say no and I won’t be on your case about it.”

That’d be a first, but Dean was smart enough not to say that. “Do I get to know what I’m rejecting?”

Sam huffed, wet and warm against Dean’s skin. “It’s … a little kinky.”

Dean didn’t even bother to turn his head so that he could stare at Sam in incredulity, and let the line of his back say ‘yeah, because bouncing your big brother on your dick on the regular is so very vanilla.’

“Right.” Sam half-laughed, and Dean could tell that it was mostly at himself, and a little bit of nerves. Dean really hoped that this wasn’t going to involve knives. Or piercings. Or—

“I, uh, want you to fight me. Like, we’ve never done this before and you struggle and I overpower you. You say no and I don’t stop. I mean, you’d have a safe word, obviously. But it wouldn’t be ‘no’—”

“I get it,” Dean interrupted, because Sam was pretty clearly working himself up to full word-tornado mode, and there was no need. “Sure. Why not?” They always had sex that was practically fighting, anyway, all shoves and biting. Dean wasn’t sure why Sam wouldn’t have asked for that already if he wanted it, but it was harmless enough, and Sam sounded like he’d given it a bunch of thought.

“Yeah?” Sam sounded … grateful.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. He was warmed by the thought: giving Sammy something that made him happy. Dean had a limited range of techniques for doing that, and it was nice to add a new one.


Sam didn’t mention it again until the evening of his birthday, when he suggested that Dean take a shower, “and I’ll see you after?”

“Sounds good,” Dean said. “Safe word’s ‘frog,’ by the way.”

Sam grimaced in that way that meant that he thought Dean was a freak, which was pretty standard. Dean didn’t know why Sam even cared, since the word wasn’t going to get used.

Dean took his time, letting his skin soften under the unbelievable water pressure of their hideout. He even shaved his face, so that Sam wouldn’t have cause to complain about stubble burn. When he was done (with maybe a little hair gel to make sure he looked good), he wrapped a towel around his waist and headed out.

Sam was sitting on his bed, in a T-shirt and sweats, looking expectant, maybe nervous.

“What are you doing in my room, Sam?” Dean asked. He could get into this: pretending to be someone else, some guy who’d never voluntarily choked on his little brother’s not-so-little dick.

Sam took a deep breath. “I’m here to settle some things, Dean.”

Dean raised a challenging eyebrow. “Yeah? What needs settling, Sammy?”

Sam stood, suddenly looming over Dean. “You know what.” His mouth descended on Dean’s, bruisingly hard, his tongue sliding into Dean’s mouth—

But Dean was supposed to be shocked. He pulled back, grabbing at his slipping towel. “What the fuck!?”

“No,” Sam said, shaking his head. “You don’t get to pull that on me.” He swiftly tugged his T-shirt over his head and threw it to the side, so now they were both bare-chested. “It’s time you admitted what’s between us.”

Dean scoffed. “I don’t know what—”

And Sam had his arm twisted up behind him, shoving him forward so that he lost his towel as he landed on the bed, his face pressed into the soft coverlet that was almost as much a favorite of his as the memory foam. It smelled familiar, the way no motel room ever had.

“You’ve been asking for this for years,” Sam said, securing Dean’s other hand. He’d brought padded cuffs, concealed somewhere, and Dean felt them cinch around his wrists, keeping them trapped behind his back. “Walking around like that, giving it up to everyone else. You don’t get to say no now.”

“Sam, don’t—” Dean said, because that was an important part of this for Sam. “No.”

Sam shoved Dean’s knees apart with his own. Dean started to struggle harder, like he was just now realizing that Sam was serious, but Sam had him pinned, one hand at the small of Dean’s back and the other probably fumbling with his sweats.

The restraints meant that Dean wasn’t responsible for taking care of Sam: he didn’t have to hold himself still or move in the most convenient way. He lunged forward, trying to get out of Sam’s grip that way, but Sam caught him by the upper thighs and yanked him back.

“You can’t pretend you don’t want it too,” Sam said. But when his lubed-up finger touched Dean’s hole, it was a slow stroke, not the immediate thrust Dean had expected. He was tentative, rubbing over the roughened skin, as if he’d used up all his violence getting Dean here. “I know you haven’t done this, so I’m going to go easy on you this time.”

“Sam, stop,” Dean said, his heartbeat going triple time now.

“I don’t care what you say,” Sam continued, just the pad of his finger pushing inside, careful despite Dean’s thrashing. He took his time opening Dean up, like he never did in real life, talking in Dean’s ear about how pretty Dean was going to look split open on his dick.

Dean was shaking and Sam was so gentle, nothing Dean had ever imagined from him. Dean made an embarrassing little whimper and Sam hissed. “You can’t lie to me any more,” Sam ground out. “Gonna have you begging for it, like you really want to,” all the time moving almost delicately, like Dean needed taking care of, like he needed convincing. He kept it slow, pressing deeper inside as he kissed across the line of Dean’s shoulders without even a hint of teeth.

When Sam put a third finger inside, he started a reacharound with his other hand, and Dean was having no trouble at all this time, starting to fuck himself back on Sam’s fingers without even meaning to.

“Yeah,” Sam said, raw and victorious, “that’s right, knew you wanted it,” still sliding into him so carefully, his lube-slippery hand moving easily over Dean’s cock.

Please—” Dean managed, which was when Sam pulled his fingers out and replaced them with the wide head of his dick.

Dean blew his load before Sam’s cock got halfway inside, which was Sam’s cue to start pounding away, but Dean was so relaxed and open that it didn’t hurt, Sam’s dick hot and slick, practically holding Dean up just with the force of the fuck. Sam’s arms were wrapped around him, strong muscles clutching him so tight, like a shield keeping him from the rest of the world; the strain on his arms bound behind him didn’t even matter, his fingers scrabbling helplessly against the ridges of Sam’s abs.

Sam came with a howl, collapsing on him and panting like he’d just been running from the cops.

“Wow,” he said after a minute, raising his head just enough to get a look at Dean. Then—“Dean?” suddenly worried, and Dean tried to make his brain come back online.

“Yeah?” Dean said. His voice was weirdly rough.

“You’re crying,” Sam said, and he sounded devastated, because why would anything ever go right for Dean trying to make Sam happy?

“What? No,” Dean denied, reflexively. But when he blinked, he could feel wetness on his cheek. “Sam, no, I liked it,” he insisted, twisting around so that he could look Sam in the face. “I don’t know why—I swear to you. It was good. I wasn’t just—it was good,” he repeated, hating his goddamned traitor body, his inability to get even this right.

Sam was watching him, a canny hunting look in his eyes. “I believe you,” he said, soft, after a long moment in which Dean felt himself shrinking under Sam’s scrutiny. “I do. Thank you,” he added, and leaned down to kiss Dean’s now salt-slicked mouth before bringing out the key to free Dean from the cuffs.

But when Sam immediately retreated to his room, Dean knew he’d screwed up, bigtime. One thing, Sam asked. One fucking thing, not even a big deal, and Dean had made a huge mess without even trying.

Dean wasn’t all that surprised when Sam didn’t come to him the next night, or the night after.


They did a couple of routine salt-and-burns, and it was like they’d gone back in time, to the years when there was so much unsaid and hurt in between them that they were only held together by blood and history.

Dean knew he should go to Sam and apologize, show Sam that he could be the way Sam wanted him. The trouble was, he was pretty sure Sam was going to turn him down. And it wasn’t like Dean wasn’t used to striking out—you didn’t get Dean’s level of experience without getting a lot of ‘no’s in between—but it would be different with Sam. It might even be the kick Sam needed to get out of Dean’s space entirely.

But this was misery, and it wasn’t going to get better, so two weeks in Dean got himself ready with some Dutch courage and then went to knock on Sam’s door. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” Sam said. Dean entered, looking around. They didn’t end up here much—Sam liked his privacy, now that he had some, and he also liked to stack books up into tottering piles that Dean would probably knock over just by being in the general area. Sam was sitting on the chair in front of his desk, swiveled to watch Dean.

Sam probably knew that Dean was nervous, but that was no reason to show it. Dean crossed to him and didn’t waste any time. “So I was thinking—” he said, leaning down with a leer, hoping to get Sam’s little head interested enough to overwhelm the big head.

From the expression on Sam’s face—resolute, ready to do an unpleasant job—Dean knew instantly he’d made the wrong move. He tried to pull back, but Sam’s arms were already octopused around him as Sam stood.

“Hey,” Sam said, not breathing hard even though Dean was legitimately fighting to get away now. “Dean. Look at me.”

Dean gritted his teeth and obeyed, because pretending wasn’t going to buy him time.

“I like where this is going,” Sam said gently, the big fat liar. “But last time, you did something for me. How about this time I do something for you?”

Dean just stared at him.

“What would you like?”

“Sex,” Dean said, mulish. “Fucking, I like fucking, what the fuck, Sam—?”

Sam settled his hands on Dean’s waist. “How do you want it?”

“You know how!” Dean protested. “My ass, your dick, it’s not complicated.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, and he looked regretful, half-smiling, “I kinda think it is.”

Dean stared at him.

Eventually, Sam sighed and began talking again. “I was furious at myself at first, because I should’ve known better than to assume you’d speak up if there was something you weren’t getting. And then I was furious at you, because you didn’t speak up, and it’s insulting. You didn’t trust me to do that for you. You’d rather suffer in silence because being a martyr is easier than telling me the truth. But that’s you, which I already knew.”

That was some bullshit, because Dean knew suffering, and taking it up the ass was not it. Okay, maybe Dean hadn’t wanted to find out if Sam wasn’t willing to trade off what he liked best for what worked for Dean. There were some things it was better not to know for sure. Anyway everything had been fine, fine, until Dean had fucked it up.

Sam put a hand on Dean’s cheek, drawing their faces closer together. “And the thing is, Dean, all the aggravation, all the shit you pull, I don’t care. You’re it for me. You’re everything. I want to give you what you give me. So fucking open your mouth and tell me what you want, or show me if you can’t say it. Trust me. I can’t promise I’ll get everything right, but I can promise to keep trying.”

Dean couldn’t—Sam was so fucking stubborn, that vow was even halfway believable, but the more Dean was work, the easier it would be for Sam to leave again.

“Was it the dirty talk?” Sam asked, kind, and Dean’s hands clenched into fists. “Okay, no, or not really.” Damn the kid for knowing him too well. “Was it—did you want to be seduced?” His breath caught on the last word.

Dean wanted, more than anything, an honest-to-God Batsignal, so there’d be something to interrupt Sam.

“Maybe it’s some macho thing that’d make me want to smack you if you could actually say it. I love you and I want you, and I can deal with you not being able to talk about this, us, because I do know it’s fucked up. But I need something, man.”

“You don’t have to,” Dean made himself say.

Sam huffed and brought their foreheads together. “I know. What is it I don’t have to do again?”

The worst part was not knowing whether Sam meant it, instead of just wanting to mean it. Longterm, that last one was no good. He’d been through that trying to stay with Lisa, even if the problem there hadn’t been in bed.

Sam obviously tired of waiting for Dean to say more. “It wasn’t the cuffs, either,” he said, and got confirmation from Dean’s aura, or something. “So—” and Dean felt Sam get it all the way, that Dean had gotten off on being treated like some virgin, someone who needed to be warmed up.

“Dean,” he said, and it was compassion and want and everything that Dean was terrified of and starving for. His hands gripped Dean’s biceps and he kissed Dean, not feather-soft but with precise intent.

Sam could usually get revved and ready with just a couple of minutes like this, but he made no move to push Dean down to the bed. Dean pulled away, gasping, when it became clear that Sam wasn’t going to take this further. He looked up at Sam, trying to ask him to drop this without saying the words. But instead, Sam shook his head a little, still with that terrible patience on his face. “We can do anything you want.”

His heart felt like it was crumpling in his chest. To shut Sam up, he kissed him again—Dean knew what Sam liked, and he could get Sam riled up soon enough.

Sam let him control the kiss, and Dean tried to do it right, biting Sam’s lip as he ran his hands up Sam’s chest. “C’mon, man,” Dean urged. And Sam did wrap his arms around Dean, pulling their bodies tight. He could feel Sam’s cock, just starting to get interested, through Sam’s flannel pajama pants and his own jeans, which really needed to go if Dean was going to get this show on the road. He paused long enough to shuck them, still kissing Sam because Sam was right there, and then continued shuffling them bedwards.

Dean grabbed Sam’s ass, muscles flexing under his fingers. Sam’s breath hitched—yeah, that’s right, Dean thought—and he squeezed Dean even closer. Dean tangled their legs together and brought them down, bouncing a bit off the mattress and ending under Sam. The fall had broken the kiss, and Sam looked down at Dean, lips swelling but expression still annoyingly analytical. Dean closed his eyes and went for Sam’s mouth again, just to keep it busy.

And sure, Dean liked this—their bodies talking to each other, making promises. Usually it was all about learning what the other person wanted, taking his time along the way. But he already knew with Sam, and it was fucking him up, knowing that Sam didn’t have any real interest in wasting time on the preliminaries.

Except that Sam was just kissing him, changing the angle a little now and then. He was still Sam—now that they’d really settled into it, his tongue searched out every crevice of Dean’s mouth, like he was worried Dean’s teeth were going to put up a fight—but the aggressiveness of the kiss wasn’t going anywhere.

Sam should’ve been getting them both naked by now. Instead, he was only pulsing his hips against Dean’s, letting most of his weight rest on Dean. And it was nice—safe, Dean thought, dumb as that was—to be pinned like this, alone in the quiet of Sam’s room, hearing only the small wet noises as their lips met and parted. He let his hands move up, sliding under Sam’s T-shirt and along the smooth muscles of his back.

But he wanted more skin to skin, and Sam would too. He paused to tug at Sam’s shirt, and Sam levered himself up long enough to get rid of it and then not-help Dean wriggle out of his own, still humping Dean’s leg distractingly. Any minute now Sam would get tired of this whole not taking the initiative thing—a hard-on was hard to argue with. Dean rocked up, rubbing their dicks together through layers of cotton, and bit his lip at the shock of pleasure. Above him, Sam groaned.

Still Sam didn’t make any move to actually fuck him, not even after a few more minutes of this. It felt great, no denying, but it was also like being lost on a back road in some place Dean had never been, behind schedule and unable to see more than a few feet ahead.

“Shh,” Sam murmured in Dean’s ear. “Whatever you want, it’s okay.”

Dean hadn’t realized he’d been making noise. He wanted to be fucked, not to be cracked open. It was one thing to give himself up to some chick he’d never see again, who didn’t understand what it meant. Sam had everything already.

Sam tangled his fingers in Dean’s hair and kissed his way wetly along the line of Dean’s neck and behind his ear. He arched up, and Sam moved down, mouthing over Dean’s jaw, down past his Adam’s apple, like he had all the time in the world.

It was so good Dean couldn’t stand it. “You gonna do anything about that?” he asked with effort, working his hand down Sam’s pajamas and in between them, fingers grazing the hot ridge of Sam’s cock.

Sam grunted. “Gonna do what you tell me to do.” He sounded strained, but unwavering.

“Then how ‘bout you get out of those fugly pants and on your back,” Dean said, rough with want. It was more than gratifying to watch Sam scramble to obey.

Sam’s body had recovered from the trials enough to re-approach the ridiculous anatomy model end of the spectrum, which was awesome for a whole bunch of reasons, but now Dean was only thinking of himself. He licked his way up the ridges of Sam’s abs and chest, going as slow as he could stand, not letting up just because Sam was shaking beneath him like a hemi in neutral. Sam’s hands kneaded Dean’s shoulders, the pressure warm and just tight enough. He thumbed Sam’s nipples and loved how Sam jolted, soft surprised gasps like Sam was learning something about himself, too. Sam’s cock bumped against Dean’s skin, the head warm and slick already.

Finally Dean’s face was level with Sam’s, his hands pinning Sam’s shoulders and his knees straddling Sam’s narrow hips. Sam’s eyes were glazed, sweat at his temples, panting like he’d just outrun a werewolf.

Maybe Dean was pushing too far, or maybe he just wanted to see if there was a too far. “Get me ready,” he said, growling to disguise his nerves. “Use your mouth.”

Sam’s eyes got huge, which would’ve been hilarious some other time. Then, before Dean could even start to feel uncertain, Sam grabbed him by the hips and simultaneously eeled himself downwards, so now Dean was all but sitting on his face. And his tongue was sliding over Dean’s ass, between his cheeks, Sam’s big hands pulling them apart and holding tight enough that Dean couldn’t have gotten away without a struggle.

“Oh,” he said, because the sensation drove everything else out of his brain. It was just that tiny stretch of skin but he felt it everywhere, hot and wet and demanding. He shifted up because it was too much, then down because he wanted more. Sam’s tongue was inside him, fuck, he was surging up and down Sam like he’d fuck a girl, his hips pumping and his whole body seizing with how good it was.

He could’ve gone on like that for hours. Sam’s sloppy noises beneath him sounded enthusiastic, and also increasingly desperate. And this was good, more than enough. He was tempted to shove himself down Sam’s body and land on his cock, even though that would probably have ended with an unsexy trip to the hospital. “Use your fingers,” he gritted out. “C’mon, Sammy.”

Sam’s hand disappeared somewhere unknown, then returned moments later completely messy with lube, nothing like Sam’s usual precise amounts. Dean could feel it drip down Sam’s wrist, catching on the hairs of Dean’s thigh, while Sam slowly pressed two fingers inside, up against his tongue. The stretch buzzed through him like electric shock, his legs shaking as he grabbed on to his own head just to have something to do with his hands, struggling to keep his balance. Sam stayed like that, teasing, bringing him right to the edge.

“More,” he demanded, and Sam obliged. His muscles were relaxing and clenching without any conscious control now, finally ready for anything. Sam’s fingers were thick and long, but not enough. “Get your dick wet,” he managed, and Sam pulled out before he’d finished speaking. There were wet smacking sounds, and Sam groaned.

Dean’s legs were wobbly, but he eased himself down Sam’s body without falling over, and in a triumph of coordination managed to reach behind himself to grab Sam’s fat cock, so slippery and ready for him.

Sam was making noises that might’ve had Dean’s name in them, long half-sobbing words. Dean lost all control as he slid down, stuffing himself full so fast that they both gasped, but Sam had gotten him so hot that there was nothing but pleasure in the feeling.

Some switch had been flipped in him, and now he wanted this to last forever, heedless of anything but the way every cell was yearning, enjoying the ride.

Sam thrust up, and Dean moved with him, keeping himself just on the edge of too much. Sam was flushed, his cheeks and chin spit-smeared, his hair damp with sweat, but his eyes were locked on Dean’s face like he wanted to tear Dean apart and swallow the pieces.

Dean’s head fell back as he set a slow rhythm, rolling through him like a wave. Sam’s hands clamped around his hips like usual, but this time Dean pried them loose, lacing their fingers and leaning forward so that Sam’s hands ended up braced on his own pecs. The position made Sam’s biceps bulge, which was a bonus, and Dean used the new angle to go even slower, teasing himself with the careful slide of Sam’s cock.

Sam bit his own lip, eyes slitted with the effort of keeping Dean’s pace.

“Yeah,” Dean said, mindless with the pleasure of it, “yeah, that’s right.” Beneath him, Sam turned his head from side to side, all his power leashed. Sam’s skin was glowing with sweat as he panted, beautiful. “You like that?” It slipped out of Dean’s mouth, uncontrolled—

Yes,” Sam gasped, before Dean could second-guess himself. “God, yes, please, tell me—”

Dean tilted his hips and saw white, so close, so right. “Feel so good, Sammy—”

“Dean,” Sam said, begged really. “Dean, ‘m gonna—”

But Dean wasn’t done with him yet, crazily hoping that Sam could want Dean’s selfishness. He rose up, until Sam’s ragged thrusts couldn’t keep him inside any longer, and Sam flat-out whined. His teeth were bared and he looked half a second from throwing Dean to the floor and fucking him through it, but he collapsed back to the mattress, panting. Dean shifted his weight and brought one hand to his own cock, dragging Sam’s hand with his.

When Sam was stroking him slow and firm, fingers still sticky-slick with lube, Dean shifted back just far enough to reach behind himself and find Sam’s dick, easing himself down again. The thick pressure was even better this time, taking Sam all the way. Sam’s thumb rubbed up and down just underneath the shiny red head of Dean’s cock, and the ropy veins of Sam’s forearms stood out as he jacked Dean with one hand and cupped Dean’s hip with the other, not grabbing but holding.

Dean came in thick, messy spurts, the orgasm rolling through him like thunder. Sam howled and pushed up so hard that Dean nearly fell, and then Sam was coming too, so far inside that he’d never get out.

Much later, Dean was brought out of his half-doze when Sam squeezed his shoulder. “I can’t believe you don’t know this,” Sam said in his ear, “but I want what you want.”

Dean knew he should say something like ‘Yeah? I want you to get your giant paws off of me.’ But somehow, he only managed the first word.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “You will never be more trouble than you’re worth. And that’s really saying something.” But he said it with a smile in his voice, and a hand sneaking around to rest on Dean’s belly, pulling them closer together. And suddenly it didn’t seem so impossible, letting Sam see where Dean was soft and open and still all Sam’s. If he really wanted to know, then Dean had a lot to show him.