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The back door of the bar slams closed behind them as they stumble into the alleyway. The sound almost drowns out the grunt Dean makes as Sam shoves him against the brick wall, licking the taste of whiskey out of Dean's mouth.
The alley is fucking disgusting. It stinks, it's dirty, and the wall Dean's back is currently rubbing all over (courtesy of Sam angling him every which way he wants for the kiss) is covered in grime. The thought of having unknown...things all over his shirt almost has Dean calling it off until they're in a better, and more importantly cleaner, place.
Almost. The fact of the matter is, Dean has never made his best decisions while drunk, and he's really fucking pissed right now. His thoughts are moving sluggishly, and all he wants to focus on is how good it feels to be kissing Sam.
They've been dancing around this shit for weeks. Hell, years, if Dean is honest, but it's only in the past few weeks that things have really started getting intense between them.
Apparently, seeing Dean drunk off his ass with his legs wide open, lounging back against the bar, was what finally made Sam snap.
"Taste so goddamn good," Sam growls, pausing to grip Dean's hair and wrench his head back before diving back in to take Dean's mouth in a brutal kiss. His words are slurred, and it's probably a testament to how well he knows Sam that Dean can understand him easily.
Dean doesn't have any prior experience with fucking Sam to compare to, but he suspects it's the alcohol that's got Sam loosened up enough to be so rough.
Dean would be lying if he said he didn't find the rough treatment hot.
"Gotta fuck you," Sam pants after a second, turning Dean around without so much as a by-your-leave. "Need to, fuck, you'll be so tight."
All Dean can do is grip the wall in front of him and push his ass back encouragingly. It's only once Sam has opened and dragged his jeans and boxers down to his knees that Dean's whisky addled brain really processes the fact that he's not even hard.
Dean stares blankly down at his cock, completely soft between his thighs. "Sam," he tries, but it comes out slurred, too. Fuck. How drunk is he?
Sam doesn't seem to notice. Dean hears the sound of him spitting, noise of him stroking his cock to spread it around. Then he's got a hand on Dean's lower back, pushing him forward until Dean's head is pressed against the wall.
Dean doesn't think he's ever made a noise quite like the one he makes when Sam shoves his dick into his ass. It's...fuck, it's a wail. For all his adventures in sex, this is something Dean hasn't done before. Fingers, yeah, but never a cock.
Sam must be really fucking drunk, he's not waiting, just pushing in and in and in. Dean lets his mouth hang open, tries to breathe. It's difficult, every part of him is intensely focused on where Sam is inside him.
Oh, god, he thinks with clarity that's startling considering how wasted he is. Sammy's in me.
Mouth working sloppily on Dean's shoulder, huge hands tight on his hips, Sam starts to move, fucking into Dean at a pace that's too fast and too hard and just plain too much to be comfortable.
Dean looks down the length of his body, at his soft dick swinging with every thrust. If he was hard...maybe this would be good. It mostly hurts. It's not the worst pain he's been through, but it's certainly the most uncomfortable sex he's ever had.
At least it's good for Sam. Dean spreads his legs wider and bites his lip at the sting of his sore hole with every thrust. Spit isn't the best lubricant, isn't even halfway decent. This might as well be an entirely dry fuck.
"Dean," his name is dragged out of Sam in a half whine as Sam pistons his hips, faster, driving Dean into the wall on every thrust. "Fuck," Sam gasps as he comes, thrusts gradually slowing and then stopping.
Dean feels his legs shake a little when Sam withdraws. He feels tender, sloppy, used. Sam grins at Dean when he turns around.
"That was amazing." He leans forward and kisses Dean, then tucks himself in and heads for the car.
Sighing, Dean drags his jeans up and follows, wincing with every step.