"I fucking knew it."

The slam of the motel room door rattles the entire wall and almost sends Sam vaulting straight out of bed.

Dean doesn't bother suppressing a shit-eating grin as he dumps his keys and wallet on the table by the door. His jacket gets thrown onto the armchair in the corner.

Sam's stammering about something, and Dean's happy to let him dig the hole as deep as it goes (there's a lot of Sam to bury after all), so he just tucks his thumbs into his belt loops and smirks until Sam trails off into fish-bubble mouthing on nothing. He finally seems to remember he's in a shitty mood and his expression twists back into the moue that's taken over it the last few weeks.

It's been a long couple months. The cast has finally come off Sam's right forearm–again, after getting it snapped by a piece of shit demon while the first break was healing. It's still weak, but he'll get that right soon enough. At least they can get back into the game properly now; being on forced downtime has not been fun–it never is. Even the hunts so simple a well-toned preteen could've handled them had been obnoxious with Sam pissed about being stuck on research duty and taking it out on everyone around him (Dean). And when he wasn't bitching, he was mother-henning so hard over every little graze and bump that Dean collected, Dean was ready to gag him and stuff him in the trunk, and not in the fun way. Dean mother-hens, he does not get mother-henned, damn it.

The end result is a hell of a lot of built-up tension, unfocused resentment and unspent energy. The storm that's been brewing on the horizon is ready to burst. In fact, it might just explain Sam's little attempt to blow off some steam. Dean had chosen to go to a bar to hustle some idiots out of money they didn't deserve. Sam's endeavor had just been more…inwardly focused, you might say.

That in mind, given the mood he's been in lately, it's not pity on Sam's embarrassment that Dean takes.

"I knew you weren't just being a 'good little brother' all those times you volunteered to clean my gun, you naughty bitch." His smirk gets dirtier, eyes hooding as he trails his gaze over the butt of his Colt. It's still in Sam's white-knuckle grip, trying to hide under the edge of the pillow where he shoved it when Dean barged into the room.

Before that, it was nice and cozy in his good little brother's mouth.

The fact that Sam was also naked, sweating, and fucking himself with a dildo is secondary to the whole 'choking himself on Dean's personal cock-proxy' thing. Not that it isn't excellent background scenery to the main point. It's just that they've been walking in on each other playing the old skin flute or sticking things where the sun don't shine for years. They're red-blooded young men running on testosterone and adrenaline and booze (Dean) half the time. 'The mood' isn't so much something they need to get in as it is a meter that fills up on suggestive looks and near misses until it's depleted by a hard fuck or a quick jerk in a public bathroom before starting the process all over again. Multiple times a day, some days. If one of them isn't around to help scratch the itch, well…they've got two hands each.

"Well, Sammy? Nothing to say?" Dean stalks closer. He can feel the predatory tilt to his head, eyes locked on Sam. It's the kind of thing he has to tone down around civilians most of the time. Sets them on edge, especially the jumpy ones, the spooked witnesses, and Sam has to stomp on his toes until he blinks a little 'harmless idiot' back into his expression.

"Fuck you, you're back early," Sam finally huffs, letting go of the gun and flopping onto his back with an arm over his face. Any hint of embarrassment has vanished like a ghost full of rock salt. They left shame behind so long ago that it was literally illegal.

Not that it isn't still, in most places.

"Oh, I dunno about that. Looks like I'm right on time."

"You would think so."

It's the work of thirty seconds to strip down to nothing, and ten of those are eaten up wrestling with the leather cord of his amulet when it gets tangled in his shirts. Throwing the whole mess to the floor with a grunt, he climbs onto the bed, into Sam's lap, ass at the top of his thighs so their nuts can snug in close and their dicks can lie together. Dean's not fully hard yet, but interest has been building since he opened the door and saw what his nasty baby brother was getting up to without him.

"Don't play hard to get with me, princess," Dean says, barely keeping the laughter out of his voice when he sees Sam's mouth purse in its usual pissy way at the taunting endearment. It opens to suck in a breath when Dean closes his fist around the generous girth of Sam's stiff cock. "Your naughty little clit's giving the game away."

"Dude." Sam takes his arm off his face to give Dean the full strength of his bitch-face. "You mind?"

"Mind? No, why would I mind?" Dean plays dumb, stroking up the length of Sam's cock to where it had been slicking the soft skin by his belly button before Dean interrupted. It's moist again at the slit despite Sam's protest, making Dean's thumb slip-slide over the gleaming silver jewelry there. He smiles as he says, "Just tryna treat my girl right."

"Ugh, fuck off if you're gonna be an asshole. I can finish this myself." Sam brings his arms up like he's going to shove Dean, but before he makes contact, Dean's hands lock around his wrists in a hold tight enough to grind the delicate bones. Sam hisses in pain, teeth bared and eyes going wide and then narrowing. As tightly wound as they've both been, it could be anger, could be threat. It's definitely discomfort. Doesn't really matter.

"No, I don't think you can, actually," Dean says, affecting casual, although if anyone can hear the hardness lurking beneath, Sam can. He jerks his arms, testing Dean's grip. It doesn't falter.

A warm pool of blood starts to color Sam's cheeks from the inside.

"What are you doing?" he asks, and it could be irritation, could be warning, brow pinched, mouth tight.

"Like I said, princess," Dean emphasizes the tease, tasting every letter just to dig it deeper, "I'm gonna treat you right. But first…we're gonna have a little chat."

In a move Sam's not prepared for–too busy thinking of a snappy comeback, probably–Dean transfers Sam's wrists to his left hand and snatches up the gun with his right. By the time Sam realizes what's going on, his wrists are pinned above his head and the cold muzzle of the gun is digging into the hollow under his chin, right up against his pulse.

Whatever Sam might've said gets swallowed down with a heavy bob of his Adam's apple pushing against the gun. Dean digs the muzzle deeper for just a second, watching Sam's eyes pinch uncomfortably and then close altogether.

"Is this what you've been getting up to with my gun lately, Sammy? Do you think I don't notice every time it goes missing? That I don't notice when it comes back extra clean?" The skin-warmed tip rasps over Sam's faint stubble. It follows the diamond-sharp line of his jaw along the same path Dean likes to trail his mouth. He leans closer, forearm braced against Sam's, fingers closing tighter around captive wrists. The tendons there flex in the webbing of Dean's thumb and forefinger, muscles flinching. He wonders just how much pressure it would take to snap that newly healed bone. "Been sneaking around on me with my own piece, haven't you? Tell me, baby boy…" The engraved barrel strokes over the place where one of Sam's dimples hides, before reaching his mouth. Dean taps soft pink lips gently and murmurs, "Does it fuck you better than I do?"

A visible shiver goes through Sam, but he doesn't open his eyes and he doesn't answer the question. So stubborn. Dean loves this kid, even when he's just a little fucking tired of him.

Relishing the possibility of a confrontation, he tips the muzzle back into Sam's cheek, right over that dimple spot. "I said–" The metal bites in, halted only by the hardness of teeth behind Sam's flesh. "Does it fuck you. Better. Than I do?"

Nostrils flared and breathing harsh, Sam's mouth trembles like he's fighting with himself about whether to answer. Finally, it opens, but Dean doesn't give him the chance. As soon as those lips spread, he fits the barrel past them, sinking inches of unforgiving steel into what he knows is a soft, perfect heat.

Sam's eyes shoot open and his teeth bite down instinctively with a noise that makes the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand up. At the same time, it sends blood rushing to his dick. He bites his bottom lip to stifle a sound when he feels Sam's tongue rolling against the underside of the frame like he has any hope of forcing it back out. The piercing through the slick muscle clatters faintly against steel.

The thing is, it wouldn't be that hard for him to fight Dean off right now. Sam's size is a close match for Dean's extra years of training while Sam was away at college. It's not as though he really thinks Dean would shoot him. Hell, Dean doesn't even know if the gun's loaded. It could go either way with Sam. They both get off–hard, well, and often–on the fucked up shit they do together, but for Sam, the more dangerous it is, the better. It's like the strength of his orgasm increases in direct proportion to the likelihood he'll end up eating it by the time it's over.

So, sure, Sam could fight him off. Dean's only holding him down with a single hand and a seat on his thighs. Any amateur could turn those tables with some brute force.

But Sam… Dean's candy-sweet, gentle-giant, rescues-kittens-from-trees, king-of-the-nerds genius of a little brother… His filthy-mouthed, pornstar-nasty, twisted little sadist of a baby brother… Well, even if Sam didn't need to expend some of this stagnation-murky energy that's been building lately, he just wouldn't want to. Not yet, anyway. Not without a real good excuse.

With his mouth preoccupied, Sam obviously hasn't answered. The stubborn glint in his eyes says it all, but that just makes it more fun for Dean.

"I asked you a question, Sammy," he says, voice hardening. The gun slides deeper until Sam's bottom lip is curved around the trigger guard and he's swallowing heavily to suppress the beginnings of a gag as the muzzle meets the back of his tongue.

They stare at each other for a long moment, at an impasse, iron will abutting iron will. Sam's glare gets deeper and his cheeks get redder; Dean's cock gets harder and his smirk more knowing.

Finally, Sam mumbles awkwardly around the gun. More metallic clinking. Dean tips his head at an angle, turning his ear toward Sam and frowning.

"Sorry, what was that? You're all muffled."

Nostrils flaring hard around a sharp exhale, the sound of Sam's teeth shifting against steel as his jaw tries to flex is titillating. Dean deliberately doesn't laugh out loud the way he wants to, just waits, confident he'll get what he wants. What they both want.

"No," Sam grits out. The word is just as mumbled and barely intelligible as the first time around, but that's okay. It's more the principle of the thing.

Dean beams.

"Aw, thanks, Sammy, you say the sweetest things. Now, open wide." Sam's eyes narrow suspiciously, making Dean roll his own. "If you wanna risk chipping a tooth, be my guest, but–" Sam's mouth opens and Dean withdraws the pistol, tapping the barrel, now glistening with saliva, against Sam's cheek. "That's what I thought. Good boy."

"I dunno what game you think you're playing here, Dean, but–"

"Sure you do," Dean interrupts easily, smearing spit across Sam's flushed mouth and cheeks. The etched stainless steel looks so good against his tanned skin and rosy lips. They set into a bitchy purse and Dean chuckles. "We're playing the game where you do what I say and you get to come. You remember that one, don't you, Sammy? I seem to recall you being quite a fan."

Sam's lower jaw hitches to the side as he huffs. "I was doing just fine before you got here."

"Weellll," Dean draws the word out dubiously. "You woulda come, sure, but why blow your wad into a fistful of tissues when you could put it somewhere so much more fun?" Sliding the gun down between them, Dean taps it against his own lower belly where he's just a little soft over the hardness of his muscles in a way Sam's never been able to get enough of.

Lifting his eyes back to Sam's, he raises a brow in question. Some of the opposition bleeds out of Sam's face, replaced by heat as he realizes what Dean's saying. His dick twitches, making Dean smirk again to feel it, his own dick fat and hardening pressed up against it.

"How about it, Sammy? Wanna play a game?"

Chest expanding with a deep inhale, Sam makes him wait until he's breathed it all right back out before finally saying, "Yes."

"Excellent."

Dean's barely finished saying the word when he crushes their mouths together and his grin between them. Sam's mouth feels just as good as it looked, hot and soft and opening instantly to let Dean in. The contrast of yielding flesh and the solid metal of Sam's piercing against his tongue is electric.

They battle for control of the kiss briefly, teeth nipping and lips sucking, until Dean tilts the gun still pressed between their bellies. He sucks his own inward to make room to sink the muzzle into Sam's gut.

It takes a second–no more than two–for Sam's lizard brain to register the threat and for his conscious mind to understand it. When he does, he shudders and backs off, letting Dean take control.

Humming approval, Dean takes his time exploring the now kiss-swollen lips, sucking messily at them. Sam even gives him his tongue, letting him toy with the titanium ball sitting pretty in the center of it. Still, he leaves the gun right where it is.

When he's satisfied Sam's got the picture, he catches Sam's bottom lip between his teeth and bites sharply. Sam jerks in surprise and his grunt washes over Dean's face, making him grumble happily as he drags his way off the sensitive flesh until it bounces back into place. Sam's tongue immediately slips out to lick over it, testing for blood or split skin. There's neither. Yet.

With a last, self-indulgent kiss that catches just the tip of Sam's tongue, Dean sits back a little.

"Now. You gonna keep your hands here if I let 'em go?" he checks, squeezing Sam's wrists, and not gently. If Sam doesn't have dark smudge bruises somewhere by tomorrow, they'll both be disappointed.

A brief nod assures him of Sam's obedience (ha! He won't be holding his breath), so Dean releases his hands. They flex, wrists and fingers stretching, but don't otherwise move.

"Good. Then let's get started," Dean declares cheerfully.

Not waiting for a response, he pushes up onto his knees and walks backward on them until he can tuck them between Sam's legs, shoving them wider.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" Dean teases, like the shock of bright red silicone hadn't been one of the first things his eyes caught on when he entered the room.

Transferring the gun to his left hand, he examines the dildo Sam had abandoned between his own thighs like he could hide it there. Now, all spread open and on display, Dean can see where his skin is shiny with lube, shadowed little hole no doubt flushed with abuse.

Much as they love their toys, they don't have many. Hunting, living on the road, doesn't give them a whole lot of room for excess baggage. So their selection is small, but it's a curated collection of their favorites. The dildo Sam was working himself with is the fancy one. Of course. Such a snob. The fact that the toy is called the Rouxgaroux (pronounced just like the monsters they've literally hunted, although whether their dicks look like this isn't something they've felt the need to investigate) had made it a done deal the moment they (Dean) saw it.

His amusement is quickly buried beneath a surge of arousal as he strokes his fingers down the ridged spine of the toy. The bulbous head tapers to a narrower shaft about halfway down before bulging back out to a fat knot near the base, just above the silicone balls. It's always such a stretch to get inside.

Licking his lips, Dean taps thoughtfully at the knot as he looks up, catching Sam's glare. He can't help the curve of his mouth when he sees Sam's throat bob on a heavy swallow. "This is the kind of mood you're in, huh?" he asks, voice getting low and smoky. He scoops up the dildo, testing its weight and eyeing it critically. "You wanna hang off a knot like a bitch, get your guts pumped full of come?"

"Fuck you."

The words are more groan than anything else, confirming Dean's assumptions nicely. The overhead light glints off Sam's cock piercing as it twitches against his belly.

"Knees up," Dean barks, blood set to boil all of a sudden.

Sam jumps to obey for a change, startled, maybe. Either way, his knees rise and spread even wider. They try to close belatedly, like Sam realizes he forgot to cop an attitude, but Dean just presses the muzzle of the gun to the inside of Sam's knee and forces it back out.

When he appears to have gotten the message, Dean sets the gun aside in the crook of Sam's groin. He spits on the dildo, smearing it over the gently pointed tip until the lube is slick and slippery again. His wet fingers swipe between Sam's ass cheeks to check if he needs anything extra.

"Dean," Sam gasps, reluctantly needy sound like music to Dean's ears.

Still. Can't let him get too comfortable.

"Surprised you even remember my name, Sammy," Dean says darkly, ponderously. Two fingers work their way past the tender ring of muscle, finding all that soft warmth he loves to soak in. Sam squirms, tilting his hips to encourage them deeper. "Looks to me like you'd be happy enough with my gun in your mouth and whatever monster wants to take a shot at your ass."

"No," Sam disagrees, biceps straining when Dean looks up to raise his eyebrows. Sam's eyes are closed, focused on what he's feeling. His concentration face has been a turn-on for Dean since way before it was appropriate, but when he's wearing it because Dean's loving him so good… It doesn't get much better than that.

"No?" he parrots, twisting his fingers and pressing upward into the shape of Sam's prostate. Sam gasps, jolting, thighs clenching, and Dean can't resist repeating the motion to watch him do it again. The rhythmic squeeze of his asshole around Dean's knuckles makes his mouth water. "'Cause I gotta tell you, it looks like you just wanna get fucked and it wouldn't have mattered who walked in that door as long as they had a dick to do it."

"Christ, Dean, no, I–"

"Shut up," Dean snaps, pulling his fingers out. Sam's breath gushes from his lungs. His cock's so hard it could rival the Colt lined up next to it for steel. "Toss me the lube."

"Dean–"

"Did I tell you to speak? Did I ask you a question?" A beat passes before Sam shakes his head. "No, I fucking didn't. Now do what you're told."

Hands fisting nervously in a final moment of hesitation that Dean watches with bated breath, Sam exhales and then snatches the lube off the nightstand, pitching it into Dean's waiting hand.

"That's more like it. Maybe I'll let you finish in me after all if you're real good. Wouldn't you like that, Sammy?"

Without taking his eyes off Sam, Dean pours lube into his right palm and discards the bottle by his side.

"Yeah," Sam croaks. Clearing his throat, his voice isn't much better as he watches Dean fist the dildo, coating it shiny again and letting the thick head pop obscenely through the ring of his fingers. When Dean doesn't do anything but lift his eyebrows expectantly, Sam works up the spit to say, albeit grudgingly, "I'll be good. Please, just…"

"Aw, princess, begging already?" Dean smiles, though it's not particularly friendly. "You really are feeling needy today, huh?" The embarrassed but defiant little growl Sam lets out makes him chuckle.

Wiping excess lube on the sheets, he picks up the gun with his left hand and holds it sideways to aim to the right, nudging the barrel under Sam's balls until they're draped over the top and held up out of the way. They flinch, muscles contracting nervously, and Dean can't help inching back and leaning down to nuzzle at them, inhaling deeply as he does. He can't resist a taste while he's there, dragging the flat of his tongue across the wrinkled skin, the tip catching just a hint of the cool steel below.

"Don't worry, darlin'," he purrs, feeling the skin shiver under his mouth and smiling. "I got exactly what you need right here."

Without warning, he sets the tip of the dildo to Sam's hole, pushing against instinctive resistance until Sam sucks in a gasp and lets go. Humming in satisfaction, Dean sits up so he can watch. He doesn't ease the pressure until the thick head surges through and Sam's whole body jerks, asshole locking down around the silicone shaft.

"There you go, that's better, huh?" Dean croons, rocking his hand back and forth just enough to see Sam's rim drag wetly against the shallow bumps covering the top side of the dildo. "You feel better all filled up, don't you, baby girl? Needy little thing, dunno how you get anything done when all you can think about is the next cock you can sit on. Next load your pussy's gonna soak up."

"Jesus, Dean, shut up, you're so fucking sick," Sam groans, but he's way too breathless to be taken seriously, his dick way too hard, not to mention his hips twitching upward like they're begging for more.

Besides, for them? 'Sick' might as well be a term of endearment.

Not bothering to reply, eyes still between Sam's thighs, Dean slips the head of the dildo out and then shoves it roughly back in. That earns him a shout, so he does it again, the resistance harder this time as Sam clenches in surprise. He can't restrain a moan himself when he thinks about how good that would feel around his own dick. But this is what Sammy wanted, after all, so this is what Sammy gets.

It's easy to fall into a rhythm with the encouraging roll of Sam's hips. It's not too fast, not too slow. It's enough for Dean to watch as Sam opens up, loosens up, ready to take more. The throaty whimpers and moans tell him the same.

With each thrust, Sam's hole sucks the dildo in a little farther, spreading to take the knot where it starts to flare out. It's at that stage when Dean angles the head upward every time he sinks it in. The depth and the shape of the head are so precisely calculated to hit Sam's sweet spot, you'd think they had it custom made. Come to think of it, maybe that's why he prefers the fancy dildo.

"Ah, fuck, Dean," Sam stutters, each plaintive syllable forced out like a punch as the fake cock shoves against his prostate.

Dragging his eyes from the mouthwatering sight, Dean looks up to see Sam looking back. His forehead is creased and folded, face flushed pink in adorable blotches. Dean wants to chew on every fucking inch of him.

Breathing deeply through his nose to maintain a grip on his self-control, Dean lets his gaze fall to Sam's cock. Speaking of every inch…

"Yeah, yeah, touch it, c'mon," Sam starts entreating when he notices the new center of Dean's focus. He's beautiful. Hot and needy. He'd be such a good ride.

Thing is, he's always all of those things and more. And it's also just a little too easy. Dean doesn't want easy right now, and he's almost positive Sam doesn't either. Even if he does…well, he'll just have to forgive Dean later.

For Sam's benefit, he hums thoughtfully, sliding the gun out from under Sam's nuts and taking a moment to sweep his tongue down the length of the barrel on both sides, tasting metal and sweat.

Sam makes a sound of disbelief, like he's not intimately acquainted with exactly how nasty Dean can get for his baby brother. Like he doesn't love it.

Satisfied and smirking again–sue him, he's a big brother, it's his job to skeeve the kid out–Dean sets the mouth of the gun to the fattest vein that winds its way up the length of Sam's cock. Sam's breath suddenly stops, lizard brain probably sending up warning flares again with a firearm aimed at the family jewels. Dean can practically see it throb in response as he traces the gun up and up and up into the sensitive little place under the head.

Letting it hang there in the pause for a few seconds, Dean does two things simultaneously: he grinds the tip of the dildo into Sam's prostate and raps the gun hard against the ball at the bottom of Sam's Prince Albert.

"Fuck!" Sam belts out, body arching and fists smacking the wall above his head. When Dean repeats the move, metal ringing on metal, sending vibrations down through one of the most sensitive parts of his brother's body–and again–rocking the dildo in place even as Sam tries to twist away–and again–lean hips flexing, belly sucked in–and again–Sam bellows, the sound higher pitched and strangled half to death.

Finally, he breaks, hands shooting down, one to shove the gun away and the other to fist around the head of his cock protectively. His chest is heaving, eyes watering, and he's shaking.

Dean's not much better, hard enough to pound nails and sweating like he's just run a half marathon. The sight of his little brother strung out and hurting, overwhelmed, is like how he imagines shooting heroin straight into his eyeball might feel. It's pretty intense.

It takes real effort to speak in an even tone, though he can't do much about sounding like he's been deep-throating glass as he says, "Get your hands back over your head."

Instead of obeying, Sam chokes, "Don't–" and coughs out a wheezing, "Don't do that again."

Dean's eyebrows fly up. He looks pointedly between Sam's deepening glare and the Colt in his own hand. "Excuse me? Did I fucking stutter?" He waits, giving Sam a chance to self-correct, but that pink mouth remains stubbornly closed and those big hands remain exactly where they are. Dean narrows his eyes, even as the prospect of Sam's defiance gets his blood pumping faster. "Get your hands back over your head, Sam. Now."

"Don't fucking do that again," Sam repeats hotly, any kind of plea lost under a heaping pile of attitude. It's way too much like an order to let fly.

Switching the gun to his right hand, Dean waits until Sam's eyes are on him to say coldly, "This ain't a negotiation, sweetheart. Hands over your head. Last chance."

Sam's eyes narrow, chin set in the jutting stubbornness he'd perfected as a teenager. If Dean's dick twitches at the sight, that's his not-so-little secret.

"Or what?" Sam bites out, cheeks still a hectic red.

Dean knows his brother is expecting a threat of violence–the gun back under his chin or hands around his throat. But neither of those things will rattle him. That takes more precision.

Tugging the dildo out none too gently, Dean drops it between them, ignoring Sam's grunt.

"Or we're done here. You think I can't go find some other big-dick jock to fuck with? One who actually knows how to take an order? Please."

One of Dean's feet hits the floor at the same time as, ironically, Sam's hand wraps around his throat. It doesn't bother with his airway, pinching at the sides of his neck just enough to limit the blood flow through the arteries. Just enough to get his attention.

"Don't even think about it," Sam grinds out. His fingers flex like he wants to squeeze harder. He probably would, except they know from experience that it's more fun when they're both conscious. Usually. "You started this, so you're finishing it."

Laughing makes Dean's whole head pound like it's swollen with blood instead of deprived. He knocks Sam's hand off his throat with a sharp jab at the wrist. Not his fault Sam used the injured one, he thinks, as Sam shows his teeth again in a pain response.

"Make me," Dean sneers, more than a small part of him hoping Sam will do exactly that. But whether Sam doesn't want to or he's thinking of just how to do it, he takes too long, and Dean's mouth keeps running headlong into danger. "Hey, man, don't sweat it. If you're lucky, I'll find a cute monster to hook you up with while I'm out. Let 'em know our room number, send 'em on back here. Hell, if you're real lucky, maybe it'll be a werewolf, or, shit, maybe an actual rugaru–we could find out if their dicks really do have those knots you love so much." Pausing thoughtfully, he ignores the way Sam's chest is rising and falling faster, nostrils flaring. Could be anger, could be interest. "You think they can wear condoms over those things? I know you wanna get bred up like a broodmare, but safety first, Sammy."

With a condescending pat on Sam's thigh, Dean moves to get up again. This time, Sam's hand catches him under the bicep, fingers digging into muscle so deep that Dean feels the nails cut. He slides his gaze from the hand restraining him to Sam's livid face. The heat in his eyes doesn't go unnoticed.

"If you leave this bed, I'll take you down before you get to the door. If you won't give me what I want, I'll take that, too. It won't be pretty and it won't be nice. Not for you at least," Sam promises, nothing but threat in his voice.

The needy, pain-loving, submissive little slut inside Dean roars at him to roll over and take exactly what Sam's offering, but he holds it back. The dark pit in his belly that relishes the fight roars just as loudly in response to the challenge, but he holds that back, too. They're playing a different game tonight, even if Sam's taking his time getting with the program.

"Oh, Sammy," Dean chuckles, cocking his head to the side. "This ain't got nothing to do with what you want."

There's a barely visible moment of doubt in Sam's eyes as they flick over to watch the brush of Dean's fingers over the back of the hand around his arm. Dean takes advantage of it to catch Sam's wrist and shove it into Sam's chest, bringing the gun up to dig hard into his temple. Forcing his head to the side, Dean releases Sam's arm and darts his own between their bodies. With Sam's hand no longer there protecting himself, Dean's got a split second free–just before both of Sam's hands fly to his wrists–to hook the tips of his index and middle fingers under the ball at each end of the titanium barbell curving in through the slit of Sam's cock and re-emerging at the base of the head.

It doesn't take more than Dean scissoring his fingers closer together, increasing the strain on the delicate flesh, to abort Sam's almost reflexive attempt to dislodge Dean's hands.

They're both breathing faster, Sam frozen in self-preservation. Dean tugs on the piercing just to hear his breath catch and see his expression pinch with discomfort. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, eyes straining to the side to see Dean from where the gun is still holding his right cheek to the pillow.

"Dean–"

"Shut up," Dean says coolly despite the racing of his heart, pressing the muzzle harder to Sam's temple in warning. "You lost your chance to do this the easy way. Now you get two choices: either you lie there and I give you what a stubborn little slut like you deserves, or I rip a new hole in your dick and leave you to bleed out. What'll it be, princess?"

Adam's apple bouncing obviously against the stretch of his neck, Sam squeezes his eyes closed for a long moment. The hinge of his jaw flexes like he's physically biting back words. Knowing him–and Dean does–they're not friendly ones.

Fortunately, also knowing him, Dean sees all the other go signals his body's giving, even if he'd deny them to his last breath right now. The biggest one–no pun intended–is the straining hardness of his dick under Dean's fingers. If it wasn't for the fact that a potentially life-threatening injury would put an end to the fun, Dean knows Sam would be tempted to tell him to go ahead and do it. Hell, they're both a little tempted anyway, according to the sick lurch in his gut that pulses right into his dick, and the warmth of precome that dribbles off the back of his index finger from Sam's.

As tense as he is, an involuntary twitch jerks his fingers tighter, pulling and rubbing against the sensitive stretch of frenulum and urethra, and Sam finally gasps. His hands go up reluctantly, fists clenched, wrists crossing.

Dean smirks.

"Good choice." The gun leaves a red imprint in the shape of the muzzle on Sam's temple when Dean pulls it away. With a final, deliberate tweak of the piercing that makes Sam grunt, he lets go and brings his hand to his mouth to suck his fingers clean of precome, one at a time, without breaking eye contact. The taste sets off all his gonna get laid alarms and he tilts his head back to suck in a deep, steadying breath.

The bag with their kinky shit in it travels with Dean's stuff. Sam wears too many layers and is too prone to lugging dusty old books around to have any spare room in his duffel. At least that makes it easy for Dean when he vaults off the bed, ignoring Sam's mumbled protest, and goes over to his own.

"Dean–"

"Uh-uh." The gun's waggling at Sam in admonition before Dean turns his head to aim a stern glare. "What did I just say? You wanna come tonight or not?"

The level of exasperation in Sam's huff is so little-brother dramatic that Dean almost laughs. Snagging a pair of cuffs out of his duffel's side pocket and his keys from the table, he returns with the play bag, dropping it by the side of the bed and setting the gun and keys on the nightstand.

They get so close–he's so close to having the cuffs all the way on before Sam can't help himself. Dean's impressed.

But then Sam says, "Dean, just–" and Dean reacts without thinking. The gun's snatched back up and the barrel of the Colt hits Sam's cock piercing with a clink that's underwhelming compared to the way Sam belts out a sound and jerks his hips away. While he's still recovering from the reverberation, Dean finishes closing the cuffs and then climbs onto Sam's lap to grab his jaw. Sam tries to shake him off automatically, but Dean digs his fingers and thumb into the hinges, between his back teeth, so he can't close them without taking chunks out of the meat of his own cheeks.

"I said. Shut. Up," Dean growls, fitting the steel barrel past Sam's lips and teeth and tongue until the piercing in there makes all those fun little noises as it bounces around again.

Sam's eyes spell murder, but the blown pupils and the needy flush of his cheeks as he pants gustily through his nose spell at least one good fuck first.

"Another word and you'll be wearing the chain, too," Dean warns, holding tighter when Sam jerks his head again. Alarm this time. "You hear me, Sam? I'm done playing this game with you."

The threat of the chain is enough for now. Dean watches him consciously force himself to rein it in. It doesn't really matter how it happens, as long as it does.

"There, ain't that better?" Dean asks, giving Sam's cheek a pinch. "Now hold this for me." Bruised mouth locks automatically around the gun barrel as Dean lets it go and scoots back. He ignores the snarl in Sam's upper lip and reaches for the lube. "You know what your problem is, Sammy?" Slicking his fingers, he liberally coats the head of Sam's dick and all of its silver hardware. "You can't switch off bratty little bitch mode long enough to get properly fucked, even when you want to." Up on his knees, he reaches back to push two fingers inside himself. He doesn't bother holding in a satisfied noise as he wriggles them, voice a touch breathier as he continues musing, "And sure, I get that it's hard to go from extra-large and in charge to begging to get stuffed from both ends, but you're kind of overcompensating, don't you think? I mean, you don't see me complaining, do you?"

Not that Dean has any reason to, he admits internally, in some degree of fairness. He's getting fucked either way, so why should he complain? It's just so much fun to rile Sam up. They've both got mean streaks a mile wide, and taking them out on each other like this probably isn't the best idea, but it's better than the alternatives. And the orgasms are fantastic.

Besides, Sam really is an annoying little fucker sometimes, and Dean's not a saint, so occasionally he points it out.

Satisfied that he's ready–enough–Dean stretches his fingers apart and drags them out with a rumbling sigh. Licking his lips, he rubs at the sensitive skin of his hole a minute longer, eyes heavy-lidded as he teases himself. Sam's gaze won't settle, jitterbugging from Dean's face to his nipples to his cock. Sam's jaw is locked and trembling with the unbalanced weight of the gun hanging out of his mouth, nostrils flared with effort the longer Dean makes him hold it.

As tempting as it is to see how long he can go without dropping it–

As statistically unlikely as an accidental discharge is if he did–

The hair on the back of Dean's neck stands up at the thought. Could be fear, could be excitement. Either way, he hides a shudder and scoops the gun up with his left hand, tapping it thoughtfully, spit-coated and mouth-warm, against his chin.

"Thanks. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. No one likes a mouthy bottom."

There's a moment of silence so loaded that they could probably shoot something with that instead. Dean wonders if Sam is going to call him out on the blatant lie or be good for once in his life and say nothing. And then…

"Fuck you," Sam mutters sullenly, flexing his jaw.

There's a dark sort of giddiness that fizzes in Dean's veins like soda. He sighs disappointedly and shakes his head.

"Oh, Sammy."

He doesn't have to say more than that. His next actions say it all.

Setting the Colt back by Sam's thigh, Dean leans over the side of the bed and reaches into the play bag. Realizing what he's done, Sam goes corpse-stiff at the sound of metal rattling and clinking as Dean paws through the pockets.

"Wait. Dean. Just–hold on, okay, just–"

"Keep talking, you're only making it worse for yourself," he points out, bypassing the collar altogether and pulling out a length of chain. It's not too long, a couple of feet, links maybe a half inch in diameter. There's an O-ring at one end and a carabiner at the other. There are a lot of ways it can be used, but the way Dean's about to? Is one of Sam's least favorite. And he has no one to blame but himself.

"Man, come on, that's not necessary," Sam's still arguing, although something more than simple trepidation is creeping into his face. His chest rises and falls in a quick rhythm, face tense and eyebrows dancing between pissy and concerned. "I'll stop talking, okay? I'll shut up. You don't need to–"

The words cut off like he's already choking as Dean drapes the chain over Sam's throat and then loops it around to slide it under the back of his head. His skin flinches at the cold even though the rest of him is still frozen, as good as paralyzed.

Everything except his mouth, anyway, which, despite his promises, starts babbling again, all pretense of control and brattiness bled away.

"Dean. Dean, please, you don't have to use it, I swear I'll make it good for you, I'll fuck you so good, whatever you want, just not–"

With the carabiner threaded through the O-ring, the ring tinkles its way down the chain until it's snug up against Sam's skin. His words collapse into a whimper, though the pressure on his windpipe is negligible at this point. There's just a little pinch of skin where the chain and the O-ring catch and secure at the side of his neck, and Dean holds tension on the chain just long enough to make sure it leaves a mark. There are going to be so many more by the end of this, but the first is always special.

Sam swallows. The sight of his Adam's apple fighting against the unyielding metal makes Dean's cock jerk between them.

Still, he's not totally heartless, and all of the heart he does have is for Sam, anyway. When he sees the way Sam's eyes have screwed up and a new mist of sweat has developed at the hollow of his throat and his temples, Dean relents. Just for a moment.

Leaning down, he rubs his lips against the chain, mouthing hot and wet at Sam's skin as he does. A deep sound of approval rumbles in his chest as he grazes his way to Sam's ear.

"So pretty when you choke for me, Sammy," he purrs. Goosebumps rise under the fingers of his other hand, thumb stroking the vein standing out prominently down the length of Sam's neck. There's another strained whimper in his ear, but the frantic huffs of breath slow down just enough as Sam turns his head, nose ruffling Dean's hair.

A few more gentle touches of Sam's jaw and cheek, and Dean can't resist anymore, sliding his mouth over until he finds Sam's and coaxes it into a deep kiss.

It's a good distraction. The chain goes slack enough to allow Sam to relax, to breathe a little easier, to ignore the susurration of it moving across the sheet as Dean threads the free end under the chain linking the cuffs. Back over the top of it in a short loop, he clips the carabiner to the original chain and he's done. There's now about a foot of chain between Sam's neck and his wrists. If he tries for anything beyond that, well, Dean won't have to punish him at all. He'll be doing it himself.

"There, see how much better that is?" Dean points out as he sits up, patting Sam's chest. He tweaks the tip of Sam's nose just to shock him back into an instinctive glower as Dean shuffles backward. And maybe just a little to be a jerk. "Now you can drop the attitude and take your punishment like a man, and I can stop fucking around and take this like a man. Everybody wins."

Spitting in his hand, Dean fists Sam's cock back to full hardness. His genuine dislike of the choke chain has left him flagging, but it doesn't take much to get him back on board. He's a team player like that.

He's sensitive, too, shuddering as Dean rubs his thumb around and around the slick head, back and forth over his jewelry. The reverberating strikes with the gun have left him overstimulated before he's even come.

But despite how good his little brother looks when he's aching and helpless, Dean has his own needs. Kneeling up, he holds Sam's cock around the middle and slides the head into his crack. That fucking Prince Albert feels incredible catching on his opening with every stroke Dean gives himself. The two additional barbells pierced through the flare at the top of the head tempt him down, though, letting it breach him until they're kissing his hole as well. The contrast of artificial hardness compared to the firm but giving flesh all around it sends shivers rippling across his skin, every tiny hair on his body standing upright.

Sam's loud groan as Dean sinks down, hastened by impatience now as much as gravity, is an echo of his own.

"Ah, Jesus," Dean whines. He has to straighten his fingers out from around the gun's grip. His thumb and palm press it to his temple as his whole body trembles and tenses, adjusting to Sam's cock. Wouldn't look good to accidentally pull the trigger just because his brother has a big dick.

"Fuck, that's good," he sighs when he's fully seated, stretched and aching. Adjusting his balls, he can't help grinding back and forth a few times, hips circling as he does. Not only to feel Sam inside him better, but to rub the piercing in his taint against Sam's pubic bone. "Ain't that good, Sammy?" he exhales, fisting his cock in time with the absent rocking.

"Dea–" Sam cuts himself off and Dean squints open an eye to see Sam biting his bottom lip nervously. So he can learn.

Chuckling, Dean clenches around Sam, satisfied when his breath catches. Dragging the gun along Sam's lowest rib, Dean taps pointedly. "Asked you a question, didn't I? Is it good?"

"It's good," Sam admits, strained but honest. The chain and cuffs rattle as his hands grope at phantoms. "You feel so good."

"Yeah, I do," Dean agrees, smug and warm at the same time. "Gonna make it even better. Bring your knees up."

Sam follows the order without complication this time. It serves to brace Dean as he twists and reaches back, but, most importantly, it gives him access to that needy little cunt between Sam's thighs.

When he says as much out loud, Sam's groan is conflicted. It drives him up the wall the same way Dean's taunts about being a girl always have, but he'll come just as hard. The fact that it's so much fun for Dean is a bonus.

"How bad do you want it, princess?" he asks, teasing the tip of the dildo between Sam's cheeks to spread lube back around. His hole's still relaxed and ready when Dean finds it, and the head sinks almost all the way in with just a nudge. "Damn, fucking hungry little pussy, isn't it? Just wants to eat this dick right up."

Sam's groaning turns to a growl when Dean continues to fuck him with barely an inch of silicone. He really hates that, always has. When he wants to get fucked, he doesn't want to fuck around. If Dean wasn't sitting on his dick right now, Sam would be doing whatever he had to do to get the toy inside him.

A sudden snap of chain and a choke followed by a cough makes Dean look back. Sam's rubbing at his throat, expression sullen. Dean wants to laugh, and he can't suppress a smirk, but he manages to push it down and raise an eyebrow, glancing pointedly from Sam's hands to where they should be above his head. Fortunately for him, he gets the hint the first time, throwing them noisily back into place like a kid snatching their hand out of the cookie jar.

"That's a good slut," Dean purrs. Sam's mouth twists and then opens, ready to prove Dean wrong. Dean just burns the insolence right out of him by easing the dildo in. The way Sam moves into it rocks Dean on his lap, leaving them both sighing shakily.

Wanting more of that, of the sound and the sight and the sensation, Dean draws the dildo out and then pushes it back in. The response each thrust gets from Sam is mouthwatering; all his hard muscles flex and roll as he tries not to do more than Dean's given him permission to, which is lie there and get fucked, essentially. But it feels so good–Dean knows how good, knows how much Sam loves being stuffed with cock–guts full, throat stretched, rode hard and put away wet. The fight he puts up…well, that's just Sammy being Sammy.

"Dean," he gasps mindlessly when Dean pushes the knot up against his hole.

"Yeah, darlin', you moan for me. Let me hear how bad you want this knot in you, how bad you want your belly filled up." Dean's voice is like gravel, his own cock throbbing with need despite the lack of direct stimulation. It's leaking precome all over Sam's abs in sticky little kisses as their bodies grind together. Light catches the shine of it and the mother-of-pearl grips on the gun at the same time, drawing his eye.

Dragging the tip of the gun back and forth across Sam's abs, Dean gathers precome on the muzzle. "Make you a deal, Sammy," he says, painting Sam's bottom lip with it, catching the swollen flesh and tugging it to the side. The rosy pink of his tongue dips out to taste, just far enough to give Dean a peek of silver. He licks his own lips sympathetically.

"Dean," Sam moans again, pulling Dean back to the moment.

"You like that?" he asks. It might as well be rhetorical with the way Sam follows the tip of the gun like a baby after a nipple. Dean relents, just enough to let Sam catch his lips on the end of the barrel, pursed and plump like he's sucking a lollipop.

"Make you a deal," Dean repeats. "You suck my Colt as good as you suck my cock and I'll give you this knot." He grinds the dildo against Sam's ass, the wide pressure of the silicone knot threatening. "What do you say?"

"Mhm," Sam agrees with a mumble, nodding urgently, eyes wide and imploring. His hands strain against each other as well as the cuffs, clearly fighting not to grab for the gun and risk choking himself again.

"Then sit up a little. Can't expect me to do everything here," Dean says, taking the gun from Sam's reluctant mouth and waving it toward himself. He could just yank Sam into place with the choker–God, that'd be pretty–but alas, he has only two hands.

When Sam leans up in a half-crunch, he has to bring his hands to his chest, cradled close to keep the chain slack. He looks so perfectly supplicant that it's Dean's turn to groan.

Now that he doesn't have to stretch to put the gun in Sam's mouth, Dean's right arm gets back to work, fucking him slowly with the dildo. The bulbous head takes a little more pressure to force in now that his body's all tense with holding itself in position. Dean has to remind himself of his goal just to resist the temptation to get between Sam's legs and fuck that tight ass himself. Maybe with his dick and the toy together. Jesus, that'd be a hell of a squeeze–

"Suck it, little brother," he grits, nudging Sam's mouth roughly with the muzzle. "Show me what you got."

A loud groan shakes out of Sam's lungs even as he opens his mouth and sucks the gun inside. His upper lip barely catches on the shallow profile of the front sight, and maybe that's why he chose this gun, as opposed to some sentimentality over it being Dean's favorite. That's Sammy either way–practical and sappy.

There's no sign of either trait as he swallows the gun all the way to the trigger guard and sucks like it'll give up precome of its own if he does a good enough job. The sight of his cheeks hollowing makes Dean curse under his breath and shove the dildo deeper. Sam's mouth falls open around the barrel, eyes screwing shut.

"Come on, baby, you want this knot? Huh?" Dean urges, grinding it in little thrusts right up against Sam's hole. Sam nods frantically, swallowing. "Then you gotta work for it. Show me how good you can be."

Sam gets to it. He pulls off, licks his mouth shiny and wet, and then sinks back down into rhythm. His tongue piercing is a constant, muted tinking against the nickel-plated steel of the gun, and Dean wants to see it. Like he's reading his mind, Sam opens his mouth at the base of the barrel and flattens his tongue to the side of it. Eyes heavy-lidded and locked on Dean, he draws back, letting the ball of his piercing drag along the engravings all the way to the tip. The other side gets the same treatment and then he's lapping at the opening, moaning like it tastes of more than just gunpowder and metal. It's obscene, all that fleshy pink and red against the shiny metal of a weapon Dean's used to kill countless monsters. And here Sam is, worshiping it like it really is an extension of Dean's body–another part of his big brother to consume, rightfully his by blood and oath.

"Perfect little cockslut," Dean praises, almost panting. Turning the gun sideways, he can push it even deeper. Sam lets him–just opens wider, wriggling his tongue against it like he would the fat vein up the underside of Dean's cock. "Take whatever I give you, don't you? Long as you're getting railed, you're a happy little whore."

There's no argument from Sam, just a groan that cuts off into a gag as Dean presses the muzzle into the opening of his throat. His mouth closes instinctively, lips hot and slick on Dean's knuckles, but he doesn't pull away, even as he swallows desperately. His tongue comes out to counter another gag, finding the backs of Dean's fingers where they grip the handle. With a needy sound, he licks at them, piercing catching between them and making Dean growl in response, sinking the gun deeper. Sam just lets him–lets Dean explore the back of his throat, his uvula and his tonsils, pressing heavy on the back of his tongue until his eyes are tearing up and he's close to dry-heaving.

When Dean finds himself jabbing his own hips forward in a rhythm his hand picks up with the gun, he has to pause and catch his breath. Imagining his cock in there instead is easy, filling that wet, convulsing space over and over again until Sam can't breathe, until his eyes roll in his head and he goes slack and unresisting, perfect and open for Dean to do what he wants, whatever he wants–

A full-body shiver takes him as he drags his mind back to this Sam, pleading now with those glistening, wide-open, galaxy-swirl eyes of his, tear tracks down his cheeks and mouth swollen and bruised from the unkindness of the gun. Dean could just eat him up.

Having to halt the mindless rocking he's doing in Sam's lap sucks. He's still spread and stuffed on Sam's cock, wanting to get fucked as much as he wants to fuck, but a promise is a promise. It takes focus to pull the gun carefully out of Sam's mouth, too, or he really will end up knocking out teeth.

He almost does anyway, but somehow he cares less about that when it's because their mouths are slamming together. He wraps his left arm around Sam's head, cradling it in the bend of his elbow and pulling their bodies as flush as he can in this position. The curved strain on his body leaves Sam breathing heavily, but he kisses back without reservation. Hands clutching at Dean's chest for some kind of purchase leave stinging furrows in the skin. It only makes him kiss harder, lick deeper. The inside of Sam's mouth is slick with spit, and Dean drinks from it like a tonic.

Gripping the dildo's base, fingers wrapped around the balls, he starts pushing the knot in. Sam grunts and then whimpers, mouth falling open and panting into Dean's.

"Relax," Dean orders harshly, lips catching on Sam's, grinding the toy inward with tiny circling motions to coax the muscle open. He bites sharply at Sam's bottom lip and tugs to get his attention, teeth nipping. Sam nods, but there's no more give under Dean's hand than before. "C'mon now, Sammy, thought you wanted to hang off a knot tonight. You gonna take it like a good bitch or not?"

The exhale Sam breathes into Dean's mouth is stuttering and hot, and Dean flicks his tongue at the tip of Sam's where it's hiding behind his teeth. The contact is tender compared to his next words, brushed against the corner of Sam's lips.

"Darlin', don't think I won't tear you up if I have to."

There's time enough for a strangled breath and a high-pitched sound, both caught up in Sam's throat, but that's all. Dean drives hard with his right arm and the knot shoves its way into Sam's guts. Shouting, Sam seizes up all over, arching away from Dean, who catches behind the cuffs binding Sam's wrists and arrests their motion while he's still pulling the rest of himself away. The choke chain snaps taut, tightening around his neck, and he panics like he's forgotten what it is, struggling harder to get away and only making it worse.

Dean watches it happen, breathing hard not only with the effort of keeping Sam's arms in place. His cock aches, jerking at the sight of the chain links biting deeper into the sensitive skin of Sam's neck with every second; the O-ring itself will leave a beautiful imprint just below his Adam's apple that Dean can hardly wait for. If he could get closer to Sam's reddening face without lessening the choke, he'd be licking a swath over the burning cheeks and gasping mouth.

Pulling the dildo out only to force it immediately back in, knot and all, sends another lurch through Sam's body while simultaneously seeming to jar him back to reality. He throws himself forward into Dean's chest in a noisy clattering of metal and heaving breaths, a strained moan attached to every one. Dean fucks the toy out and in again, out and in, the sound of Sam's tight hole taking the knot absolutely pornographic, sucking filthy wet and obscene and only improved by the way Sam grunts, almost shocked with every thrust.

With the arm still trapped within the circle made by Sam's, Dean buries the Colt's muzzle into the soft flesh under Sam's chin and tilts his face up for a kiss. It's a little one-sided, even with Sam leaning into it to deepen the contact as Dean works to maintain his balance between fucking his brother stupid and licking the half-formed pleas out of his mouth.

When Sam's upper body starts shaking from the effort of holding the half-crunch he's folded into, and his forehead is a lined mess of tension, eyebrows pulled up and together, Dean relents. He tugs the knot from Sam's ass and goes back to nailing him with the rest of the length. The give of his hole is easier now, fucked loose on the thickest part of the toy, and Dean gets a primal sort of satisfaction out of it. It may not be his cock, but it's him doing the ruining.

Sam collapses to the mattress with a bursting sound of relief at the eased pressure, taking his hands with him this time, which Dean allows. The relief is short-lived, though, and Sam's squirming constantly after barely a minute, feet restless in the sheets behind Dean, hands grabbing at his own hair, chain dragging over his jaw.

When Dean lowers his shoulder to dig the toy up into Sam's prostate with every thrust, the begging is more than just nonsense this time.

"What's that, princess?" Dean asks, turning his ear toward Sam and slowing his rhythm like it'll help him hear better.

Sam groans, all little brother exasperation, but his eyes are wide and imploring. His hairline is soaked with sweat, dark locks plastered to his forehead and throat. He's wrecked and it makes Dean feel ravenous.

"Fuck, Dean, c'mon."

"Manners," Dean chides, but the want pumping through him and the restraint it takes to hold it back makes the word come out growling. Not that he's inclined to take it back. "Know I raised my girl better than that."

Sam's eyelids flutter and then go even wider, flicking back and forth between Dean's, trying to read him, and he swallows. He licks his lips and says more carefully, "Please, I need to–just–make me come, please."

"Isn't that what I'm doing?" Dean asks lowly, eyes narrowing, daring Sam to contradict him. A hard thrust with the toy has the fat knot sinking halfway in, Sam's fingers curling spasmodically into his palms.

"Yes," he rushes to say, writhing because he can't do much else. The muscles down both sides of his body and under Dean's ass bunch and flex, and he instinctively tightens the grip he has on Sam with his thighs, a cowboy waiting for the horse to buck. "You are, I just–I need more, please, just a little more, just–"

"More," Dean echoes dangerously.

Sam doesn't heed the warning, keeps begging, "I'm so close, just fuck my cock, please, ride it, just for a second, I just need–"

"Quiet," Dean bites out. The word isn't loud, but it cuts right through Sam's pleas and makes his breath hitch visibly as he snaps his mouth shut. His hands twist in the cuffs, skin red and sore where the metal gouges with each uneasy movement; Dean suspects he's not even aware he's doing it. Instead of pulling them to his mouth to bite at the flesh until it bleeds, teeth scraping bone and severing tendon, Dean sits back. Using the added leverage, he forces the dildo balls deep with a sudden shove, swallowing a sound of his own as Sam jerks and shouts, cock moving inside Dean in all the best ways.

"What kind of breeding bitch needs more than a belly full of cock to get off, anyway, huh?" Dean sneers, slipping the knot back out and grinding the head of the toy upward, rocking it shallowly. He knows it's nailing Sam's prostate by the sound that comes out from between his gritted teeth–like someone's twisting a knife in his guts and he's loving every second of it. "Is it the come you need, Sammy? Need this knot to be real, slopping you out with monster jizz before you can get there?"

The throb of his cock inside Dean gives away the lie of his shaking head even as he begs, eyes screwed shut and voice shredded, "Please."

Dean grunts, jabbing him between the ribs with the muzzle of the gun.

"Maybe I should pimp you out to something nasty after all. Hell, maybe a whole pack of somethings, way nothing seems to satisfy you." Sam's mouth opens, probably to deny that too, so Dean digs the hard metal cruelly where bone is closest to the surface, making Sam suck the words back in with a flinch. "Could tie you up out in a forest, stake you down, get you all worked up and begging…" Dragging the gun lightly along one rib after another, Dean winds up at a taut nipple and flicks the mouth of the gun against it. Sam's whole chest shivers. "Bet they'd come running just at the smell of you, most desperate little bitch they'd ever seen. Could line 'em up at both ends, let 'em run a train on you, long as they promised to dump all that come in your greedy, fucked-out cunt." Sam's lungs are heaving now; the pulse in the hollow of his throat is rabbiting, shiny with sweat. Dean licks his lips, tastes the salt in the air and imagines it's fear. "That's where you need it, right, baby girl? Wonder how long it'd take 'em to knock you up like that, one after the other 'til you're so full it's spilling back out and pouring down your thighs."

"Dean!" Sam whimpers, somewhere between scandal and need.

"Not that we'd let that stop 'em, would we?" Dean continues, gyrating the base of the dildo so it stimulates the sensitive, swollen rim at the same time it keeps lighting Sam up inside. He doesn't chastise Sam for the way his hips roll in tiny little motions to complement the rhythm this time–it's too unconscious; he's too far gone. As it is, Dean's voice keeps dropping lower, grating rougher, self-control slacking as his own need stretches near breaking point. There's a single bead of sweat tracking down the valley of his spine, tickling, crawling like a thing with too many legs and setting tiny hairs on end along the way. Every inch of his skin feels electric, and every layer beneath it pulses in time with Sam's heartbeat, moving outward in waves that originate from his cock.

"No, we'd let 'em keep you as long as they needed," Dean promises. He drags the Colt's muzzle down between Sam's pecs into the hollow right above the start of his abs. The gun cuts a path through the sheen of sweat coating Sam's tanned skin until it comes to a rest in the softest part of his belly and sinks hard, pointed. "We'd make sure whatever they plant in here catches nice and strong. Let 'em feed you up with as much dick as you can handle while you get all fat and round. How big do you think you'd get, darlin'?" Dean shrugs and tips his head, pretending not to see or hear Sam tugging at the chain around his throat, fingers curled over it, trying to loosen it like it's a tie, strangling him as the tension builds. "Guess it depends on how many little monsters they put in you. Two, you think? Three? A whole litter?" His mouth waters at the thought, balls tightening. "Bet you'd hardly even be able to move by the end, so fucking huge and swollen. Couldn't do anything but lie there and keep taking whatever filthy monster wants to spread your whore legs and put another load in you while they wait for you to pop."

Sam doesn't say anything when Dean's done, broken, hurting, wanting sounds the only things bubbling in his throat. He's a gorgeous wreck, face pink and sweaty, moisture at the corners of his eyelids and muscles trembling from the strain of holding back all the strength and power contained in his big body, and it's all at Dean's say-so. He doesn't even have to hold the damn leash.

"Well, Sammy? What do you say? Sound like a party?"

Head shaking before his lips manage to unstick, Sam says, "N-No," voice thick. His eyes finally open, pupils blown halfway to demon-dark. Another bead of sweat drips from the nape of Dean's neck, muscles shivering all the way down to where he's keeping Sam's cock snug and wet and warm. Sam reacts with a flutter of eyelashes, mouth trembling as he says something almost too quiet for Dean to pick up.

Almost.

Dean's eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"Excuse me?" he breathes, eyes narrowing to slits. "What did you say?"

Licking his dry lips, Sam pointedly ignores the warning. Dean can see it in the rigidity of his jaw even as the words come out fumbling.

"I said that's f-fucked up. I'd never want that."

Dean sees red. It's the color of the blood that thunders through his body like a shockwave. It's the color of the anger and satisfaction and burning, blistering need that thunders after. And when he shoves the toy deep into Sam, letting the knot do its job and lock itself into place as he uses his freed hand to twist the chain linking Sam's wrists and neck around his fist, pulling the choker taut, it's the color Sam's face starts to turn.

With the gun jammed into Sam's ear, Dean drags his brother up by the chain. He meets him halfway, their noses barely an inch from an Eskimo kiss, and huffs a hot, furious breath through his nose to wash over Sam's gasping mouth.

"You selfish little bitch," he snarls, ignoring Sam's hands wrapping around his forearm like claws. He means, You dirty, rotten liar.

"You think you're the only one who matters here?"

You think I don't know the truth?

"Fucking typical. Not everything's about you, Sammy."

You think just 'cause I can't see it that I can't feel how fucking hard you are?

"It's about time you learned that. It's about time I put you in your place."

You think I can't feel your cock twitch and jerk inside me? That I don't know you're slicking my guts with precome every time I talk about you getting passed around and bred up like a prized mare?

"It's way past time you learned not to be so ungrateful."

You think I don't know you're winding tighter and tighter the nastier I get? The meaner? The crueler?

"It's time you learned to come when you're told, like the good. For nothing. Whore. You are." He punctuates the words with unforgiving yanks on the chain, winding it shorter around his fist.

I can read you like a fucking book, he thinks, snarling inside and out as he bites down around the sharp line of Sam's cheekbone purely for the sensory feedback of flesh in his teeth. One of his canines sinks so close to Sam's eye that he can feel the lashes flutter against his lip. The throbbing jerk of Sam's cock inside him then is so strong that Dean thinks for a second that he's come after all, except that it doesn't continue with the rhythmic pulse of orgasm. Except that Sam doesn't slacken with release and tremble with the relief of it.

They're both breathing hard by the time he lets go, but Sam's is wheezing, air forced thin by the constriction around his throat.

"Pathetic," Dean sneers in disgust even as his heart pounds and his nuts strain for completion. Lips grazing the indents his teeth have left in Sam's cheek, he mutters, "Oughta put you out of your misery myself."

Shoving Sam away so roughly that his head bounces on the pillow, Dean transfers the Colt to his right hand and holds it up, turning it one way and then the other, examining it with a critical eye. He can tell by the weight and balance that the magazine isn't full, but that doesn't mean the chamber's empty. In his peripheral vision, he sees Sam freeze and stop breathing, though it's no fault of the choker anymore.

"Is this thing even loaded?" Dean asks derisively. Sure, it had been his first thought when he'd walked in and seen the barrel past his little brother's lips, heart dropping through his stomach. Sure, he'd checked the safety was on the second he took it in hand. And sure, he's got good trigger discipline on his worst days, but the thought… "You got the balls to play in the major leagues, Sammy, or are you half-assing that, too?"

When Sam doesn't reply, just lies there breathing harshly, loudly through his nose, Dean sneers, impatient.

"Well? Do I have to pull the fucking trigger just to get an answer out of you now?"

Sam gulps, red mouth ripe as he works it in shapes that don't form words until he forces out a gasping, "Do it."

Dean lunges forward, in Sam's face faster than either of them can blink, snapping, "Do what?" His jaw feels wired shut, it's that tense, heartbeat pounding so hard in his temples that it might as well be plugged into a speaker system, all bass, making the room expand and contract with the strength of his pulse. "Huh, bitch? Do fucking what?"

It's a dare and a threat while every instinct in Dean is screaming at him to shut it down, do not pass go, don't you put that shit into the universe, don't you tempt fate, you son of a–

"Do it. Pull the trigger."

The whisper brushes against Dean's mouth and falls like a hammer on his heart. Adrenaline floods his system and saliva gathers under his tongue.

"I want it to be you, Dean," Sam continues, and Dean drags his gaze from lips that are damning him to the eyes that have weighed and judged him his whole life. Ice flushes his veins, leaving him cold under the sweat that makes their skin glide as their chests heave together.

"It's gotta be you." Sam's voice gains strength despite the abused rasp, a feverish urgency that Dean feels in his muscles. In the grip that keeps his hand wrapped around the gun. "It can only be you. You–you see that, right? You're the only one who's earned it. The–the only one who ever could. You gave me my life. You've given me everything. Let me give you this." The earnest, zealous belief in Sam's glistening eyes is all Dean's ever wanted, and it's as terrifying as it is enthralling. "Please, big brother. You deserve it. I want you to have it. Please."

There's a silence that roars in Dean's ears so loud he doesn't even hear the metallic tinkling of Sam's hands moving until they're wrapped around his wrist again. He flinches hard enough at the unexpected contact that he almost drops the goddamn gun until Sam steadies him. Wasn't he in control of this a minute ago? A second ago, he was in control. Wasn't he?

Eyes darting frantically between Sam's face and the gun, Dean watches like he's not even attached to the thumb that Sam guides over the safety, edge of the nail dragging it slowly back down, off. He's never seen the hand that Sam guides under his own chin, unforgiving metal sinking into soft flesh as he tips his head back. His watering eyes close naturally, twin tears forced from their corners.

"Please–"

"Shut up," Dean hisses, shocked back into his own body by the sound. His left hand collars Sam's throat in emphasis, squeezing until he can feel Sam's fluttering pulse kissing at his own. It's a plea and an order and he can't think so he needs Sam to just– "Shut your mouth. Just–shut the fuck up."

Sam swallows hard and the gun bobs with him when he nods, silent, obedient with his pretty, bruised throat wrapped in chain and bone but Dean still can't think because what Sam's asking him and offering him is too much and not enough, it's everything and how could he? How could he?

Could he?

Couldn't he?

Couldn't he take this for himself? This one thing? This one huge, precious, important thing: his brother's life, the one that he's always insisted out loud and in private and inside where no one could hear was his already? This man he raised from a boy, from a baby, from the moment he separated from Dean's soul to claim rights as a unique but not separate, never separate, being. Could he take him back? Take that final breath, that final heartbeat, and pour it back into place in the fabric of his own existence? Deny ghosts and ghouls and demons the pleasure of snuffing out the one pure light left in the world. Follow it into the empty or whatever comes next, right after, so he doesn't have to be alone in that new-dark plane.

Could he?

Is the gun loaded, Sammy?

Could he?

Sammy, is it loaded!

He doesn't realize how hard he's shaking until his finger slips down to the trigger and he jams the gun deeper and Sam makes a noise like a death throe, a chest-deep groan as he thrusts his hips up and reminds Dean exactly what the point of all this was. His nervous system lights up like July Fourth and New Year's Eve just folded his calendar in half to land on the same day and fuck him up good. His skin aches and his insides burn and his orgasm is tied to his trigger finger, about to go off.

"Don't you fucking fuck me," he rasps, desperate, nails digging into the edge of a cliff. "Did I say you could fuck me?" He's floundering for the reins like he was ever in control of this unbroken horse as Sam bucks again but swallows down a sob, eyes squeezing tighter in concert with Dean's fingers, tears spreading in the creases. "You wanted to come so bad, you should've done it when you were getting fucked. Now you don't get shit, you stupid slut."

Sam chokes out a thin sound, mouth falling open, gaping uselessly for air that the chain and Dean's hand won't allow, and he fucks up, in, deeper, goddamn it, Dean can't–

Grabbing the chain, he yanks it up and to the side, hard, making it bite nasty into Sam's skin, making his shoulders twist and his fingers scrabble at his throat, nails scraping raw, red where he's already bruising.

"Fuck me one more fucking time," Dean barks, too loud in what's nearly a silent room apart from the writhing of Sam's body on the cheap bed sheets, feet kicking, toes curling, cuffs rattling around Sam's wrists as he struggles.

They aren't enough to drown out the sound of the hammer being cocked.

For a split second, everything freezes, the breath taken as a glass falls, the rictus of seizure, Sam's body caught still like a snapshot.

And then it releases, the glass shatters and Sam's arching, body taut, every muscle engaged as he shoves up into Dean once more and comes.

"Fuck, Jesus!" Dean drops the chain to brace his hand on the pillow next to Sam's head, riding out the frantic pump of his hips as he pours his orgasm into Dean. Dean's fingers twist tighter into the fabric with every throb, every slick new drive of that life-ruining cock.

Not that his life wasn't always Sam's to ruin. He just does it way too fucking easily some days.

Gritting his teeth, he slams his fist into the pillow–Sam doesn't even react, come-dumb and fuck-stupid–and sits back, wrapping his hand around his own dick. It's wet enough with neglect to make do and hard enough with it that it wouldn't matter if it wasn't.

The first stroke sucks his lungs full through his nose, only to pant it back out in short little huffs as he twitches like he's overstimulated despite barely having touched himself. He twists his fingers around the head, letting a nail catch the frenulum. His thighs try to slam together, but he's still hooked around Sam's body, open in his lap while Sam's thrusts slow and his movements become a churning grind that flips Dean's belly and clenches in his nuts.

He's so focused on the building fire in his pelvis, the rhythm of his fist and the wet slap of skin, that it takes him long seconds to register his other hand moving without his direction. Head shooting up, he finds Sam nuzzling at the Colt like an affectionate cat, nosing between his fingers and rubbing his cheek along the skin-smudged barrel. He's still huffing exhaustedly, a wheeze on the edge of every inhale.

"Sammy," Dean warns hoarsely, willing his stiff finger back alongside the trigger guard where it goddamn belongs. He can't help thumbing Sam's swollen bottom lip, pressing into the softness of it as he does the same on the head of his cock. "Sammy," he groans again, abs tense, hole clenching around Sam, whose tear-clumped eyelashes flutter. The moisture there shines, drawing Dean irresistibly to smear the muzzle of the gun through it before meeting Sam's begging, upturned mouth to push it between his lips and watch him suck.

"Damn it, baby boy," Dean croaks, jerking himself harder and circling his hips in Sam's lap, tight little grinds, just enough to feel Sam's softening dick rubbing at his insides while he still can. Just enough to roll his taint piercing between them and make everything spark that much brighter.

He's close–fuck, he's so close, balls tight, thighs tingling, eyes locked on Sam's working mouth–when Sam finds his voice. It's shredded to rags and ground up like salt.

"It is, you know." His lips catch on metal, wet teeth a glint of white against red.

Dean meets his eyes and grunts a questioning sound, the best he can do with all his functioning brain cells down in his dick.

Sam's gaze flicks to the gun still happily molesting his mouth. It's too close for him to focus properly, so his eyes go right back to Dean's as he turns his face to plant the muzzle dead-center to the bow of his lips.

"Loaded," he says quietly, a breath down the barrel. "It always is."

Dean's fist clamps painfully around his shaft, frozen as his heart drops through his stomach to his feet, the floor, lower, vision fear-blurry as he looks from the Colt to Sam's guileless eyes.

"You–" An agonized sound hollows Dean's chest, because he knew, of course he knew, of course Sam would– Damn it, of course he would, the death-wish-having little punk, the absolute bitch, making Dean risk his life too with this fucked up little game, tempting Dean with what he can't have, could never take, tempting, goddamn it– "You fucking–"

Sam's tongue peeks out, pink on red, wets his lips, and Dean tracks it, hardly breathing. He licks his own mouth because it's Pavlovian: get ready for Sam.

Sam, who says, "Two bullets," serious as the grave. He waits for Dean's eyes to find his again before saying, "One for me…and then one for you."

Dean's orgasm is an implosion. He's a planet collapsing on itself and then a shockwave that bursts outward, come in his fist and all over Sam's belly and chest. He drags it out with a shaking hand, slippery over nerve endings gone hypersensitive, every successive throb and spurt like he's full of molten metal, glowing with it, burning up. He's heaving like a bellows, he can hear himself, loud, pained groans with every exhale, but his vision is dark, and he doesn't even care if it's because he's got his eyes closed or he's gone fucking blind. His focus is on the squeeze of his fingers around the head of his cock, cradling the slit in his palm to feel as it dribbles the last of his orgasm into his life line.

He takes a minute, takes his time, slouched over with his forehead resting on the point of Sam's chin. The Colt's…somewhere, not in his hand anymore, because those are both in Sam's hair, messy but who cares, carding and clenching and massaging, soothing in the way that always comes naturally, whether Sam's injured from a hunt or exhausted from a fuck. Big brother will make it better.

And then Sam's cock slips out of him with a truly raunchy noise and he snorts a little laugh that Sam huffs in response to.

The sound wavers, though, so Dean lifts up to get a good look at him. He doesn't avoid Dean's eyes, which is good, but his own are still wet, tracks from the corners still gleaming in the lamplight. Dean hums a soft noise into his mouth as their lips meet.

"You're okay, darlin'," he croons, thumbs drying Sam's temples. "You're okay, baby boy. I'm right here."

The words get another spill of moisture, which Dean kisses away, nuzzling into sweaty hair, salt on salt, the taste of his brother. The words also get the beginnings of a smile, Sam's attempt to reassure this time, which Dean mirrors, brushing Sam's bangs off his forehead.

Chain rattles as Sam's hands lift from his own chest to touch Dean's.

"Hold up, sweetheart," Dean cautions, pressing his hands back down. The key for the cuffs is on the nightstand, so it's only a matter of a few seconds to get them open. He unhooks the carabiner on the choke chain, too, and hushes Sam's hurt sounds as he pulls the chain open and out from under Sam's neck. The skin around his throat is branded with ligature marks in various measures of pressure that are going to bruise like an array of necklaces. God, Dean's going to enjoy watching those get ugly before they fade. He kisses every one, humming and murmuring when Sam flinches. He pays special attention to the places where the skin has pinched tightest between chain links and the O-ring, ruptured blood vessels in a deep red that's almost purple. The gouges Sam's fingernails made as he clawed at his own neck get Dean's tongue, because the penny-copper taste isn't one he can resist.

When Sam's neck is moist with the kisses he's left on it, Dean switches to Sam's wrists, rubbing gently and turning them over to examine the delicate skin. The marks aren't as bad as on his throat, but that doesn't stop Dean from giving them the same treatment. There's some swelling too, maybe, in the wrist that's only fresh out of the cast, and Dean should've gone easier on it, yeah. 'Easy' just isn't somewhere they go when things get like this between them.

It'll be calmer now, he thinks. At least for a while, some of the pressure in the tank siphoned off, bled out, if not literally–this time.

He sits back upright and Sam's hands fall to frame his head on the pillow. The tears have stopped and he just looks a little sleepy now, eyes on Dean, replete and quiet. These moments are few and far between in their hectic lives lately, so they feel almost sacred.

"Want the toy out?" he asks eventually, fingers bumping down Sam's ribs along his sides.

Sam shrugs and then shakes his head and then shrugs again, indecisive. Dean makes a thinking sound, looking over Sam's torso–Dean's load is still wet where it landed thickest. A smirk twitches at the corners of his mouth.

Scooting backward, he gets between Sam's legs again, nudging them wide with his knees and then his hands until Sam drags them up, feet flat on the bed. Dean supports the underside of his right knee to press it back even farther. Sam doesn't complain, but his expression is curious, head lifted to see what Dean's doing. Dean just winks.

The lube has mostly dried on the outside of Sam's body, so the drag makes his knee knock spasmodically into Dean's shoulder as he eases the knot from Sam's straining hole. It flushes a deep, aching red as soon as the toy comes free, and Dean can't help the groan he lets out, equal parts sympathetic and possessive.

"Look at you," Dean mutters, sucking on two fingers before rubbing them over that abused skin. "So pretty with your pussy all used up."

"Dean," Sam finally croaks, head whumping to the pillow. His stomach sucks in and his hole spasms as Dean presses his fingertips inside, but the rest of him stays liquid-limp, unprotesting.

"Yeah, Sammy, right here," Dean promises, a firm stroke up and down the back of Sam's thigh.

Sam sighs hugely and then even that last muscle relaxes, going soft and tender around Dean's fingers. His legs flop out to the sides, and it's such a shamelessly, unselfconsciously pornographic display that Dean's spent dick twitches, an ache in his nuts that says he could get it back up right now if the offer's on the table.

But Sam's exhausted. Even Dean can see that through his fuck-tinted glasses. So he just smiles and pats Sam's splayed thigh.

"Yeah, there you go, that's my girl," Dean praises. He rocks his fingers back and forth slowly inside Sam, barely inches, just enough to move the lube in there around, really, and then pulls them out. His next stop is the come painting a mess on Sam's belly and abs, gathering it into a little puddle to scoop onto his fingers. He mumbles quietly as he does, almost but not entirely to himself, "Don't need some fugly motherfucker breeding you up, do you? Got your big brother right here for that."

Sam's whole, giant body shivers at the words, spreading warm satisfaction in Dean's chest. His fingers, loaded with come, press carefully into Sam's fucked-out hole, planting it as deep as he can and rubbing it into the softness of Sam's guts.

"That's it, doin' so good," he breathes, repeating the motion until he's got as much of his come inside Sam as he can, right where it belongs. His other hand spreads low on Sam's abdomen. "Such a perfect breeding slut for me."

When Sam whimpers, toes flexing at a gentle touch over his prostate, Dean takes his fingers out and picks up the toy again. He can't see the lube anywhere, so he reaches between his own legs and swipes at the come smeared between his cheeks and still leaking from his body. He uses it to re-slick the dildo and then sets the tip to Sam's hole again. He gives Sam a moment to speak up if he doesn't want it and then lets the silence fill up with Sam's whine as he takes the silicone cock deep again. The knot has him huffing a few sharp breaths, but it doesn't take nearly as much effort or pressure to help him swallow it up this time. Dean thinks maybe he feels as it settles into place, but it's probably his imagination. He curls his fingertips into Sam's belly anyway, enjoying the thought.

As much as Dean could stay between Sam's thighs and stare for hours, he can't be away from Sam's mouth any longer. Not with the needy little sounds he's making, half Dean's name, half plea, all little brother.

"There, baby, that feel good?" Dean asks between kisses. Sam meets them with an open mouth, letting Dean in to taste blood and metal, tongue piercing a gentle, familiar clink against his teeth. "Got my come all knotted up inside you, gonna keep it in 'til you catch. Can't take it back now."

"Don't wanna," Sam replies muzzily, eyes heavy-lidded as he rubs his face against Dean's whenever he separates their mouths. His hands are still lax on the pillow, submissive in a way he only really is when he's finally stopped thinking about it. "Gonna breed for you, Dean."

Dean's jaw clenches. He has to press their foreheads together for a minute, exhaling deeply through his nose. This kid. Christ.

The lull in action and conversation has Sam melting even further into the bed, breaths gone sleepward. Dean stays where he is for a while before lifting his head. He spies the gun tangled in the sheets to their side where he must've tossed it as he came. When he picks it up, he's relieved to find that muscle memory at least had him thumbing the safety back on before he discarded it. One more potential negligent discharge to leave off the day's tally.

Climbing off Sam without disturbing him is more effort than it should be for a dude his age, with a body more than used to aching in a whole lot of places, but he manages it. Just. As he goes to set the gun on the nightstand, he hesitates, looking down at Sam's peaceful face. His eyes flicker to the bruises around that long throat, and his teeth scrape his bottom lip.

The gun goes under the pillow on the other bed.

The slow-ass plumbing means cleaning up takes a minute and more than a little shrinkage as he gets impatient, soaked washcloth leaving cold in his ass crack as he wipes off the rest of Sam's come and lube. It's as least lukewarm as he finishes up, and then finally hot as he wets a clean one and takes it out to the room along with a glass of water.

Sam's still starfished on the bed, eyes closed, the sight making Dean grin through the sharp pull in his chest. It reminds him to untangle the amulet from his pile of clothes, rummaging in Sam's bag with one hand while he's down there, and dropping the leather cord over his head with the other. It's the only stitch of fabric on his body, but he feels clothed again as the pendant falls into place.

"Hey," he says quietly from the edge of the bed, facing Sam. Sam's head turns toward him, eyes still closed, and Dean chuckles. "Going to make me do all the work, huh?" A nod. "Figures. Brat." The faint shadow of a dimple appears in a cheek.

Before the washcloth can go cold–because he's an awesome big brother–he cleans Sam up, starting with the scratches on his throat and then moving to his dick, cleaning it off with practiced motions. It'd be easier if it was still hard, but it's nothing he isn't used to. Sam will need to get his junk under running water to clean his piercings properly, but Dean does what he can for now, folding the cloth and continuing to his balls and the dried-sticky lube in the creases of his thighs. He gives the base of the dildo a fond stroke and a tap when he's done, shushing Sam when he makes a questioning noise at the ghost of sensation.

Finishing up with Sam's chest, Dean pitches the cloth through the bathroom door, trading it for the wrist brace he'd dug out of Sam's things. Sam had stopped wearing it a few days ago, and he grimaces listening to Dean open the velcro straps, but he doesn't put up a fight when the sleeve is pulled over his hand and the straps are tightened up. Dean sets his arm back on the pillow.

"Okay, Sammy, sit up a second," he urges. The corners of Sam's mouth turn down in a pout, making Dean huff. "Those pits are wide open. If you think I won't–"

Before he can finish the threat, Sam's arms are down, protecting the ticklish spots, and his eyes are open in a squinty glare. Smiling benignly, Dean holds out the glass of water until Sam takes it, gulping once, only to wince and slow down as it passes through his sore throat.

Dean bites the corner of his lip. It's not guilt that he feels, exactly–not any more than about Sam's wrist, anyway. He can't even say he doesn't like seeing Sam in pain, at least when he's the one who causes it. And maybe that's what it is. Guilt that he doesn't feel guilty. But he’ll get the same flashes of arousal from Sam’s hoarse voice over the next week as he would if he’d face-fucked the sounds from him, so it's six of one, half a dozen of the other, isn't it? And besides that, Sam will get his own back in spades–count on it–and Dean will thank him for the privilege.

"Shove over," Dean orders, empty glass on the nightstand. Sam grumbles as he shuffles to the other side of the narrow bed, but he knows the rules: Dean sleeps between Sam and the door or no one sleeps at all.

The lube resurfaces with a sharp jab perilously close to his balls, and he barely suppresses a yelp, cursing instead as he flings it across the room. Sam's muted snort gets ignored. Mostly.

"Cram a sock in it and assume the position, little spoon." Before Sam can trot out his usual complaint, Dean preempts him with, "Because I'm the big brother. It's in the name, genius."

An exasperated huff turns into a rasping, muttered, "Big pain in my ass."

"Damn right," Dean answers, deliberately bumping his thigh against the base of the toy cradled deep within Sam as he plasters himself to Sam's back. Sam's breath hitches, body stiffening and then going lax in Dean's arms, like the reminder that he's still plugged up for his brother is enough to send him back to that quiet state.

"There you go, isn't that better?" Dean breathes in satisfaction, stirring the hair curled behind Sam's ear. He noses at it, feeling Sam shiver and settle, stroking his hand up and down the length of his torso, over ribs and belly, and then as far down a hairy thigh as he can reach. Sam's big body is warm and still sweaty where they're touching, and Dean's amulet slips to dig a horn between a pec and shoulder blade. It's pretty great.

Eventually, Sam catches the wandering hand and curls it up with his own, tucked under his chin. Dean kisses the back of his neck. There's a welt under his mouth, one of the places the chain pinched, and before he can think better of it, he's got his palm lightly holding the front of Sam's throat. One of his calluses roughs over a scrape left by Sam's nails, making the skin twitch.

"You okay, Sammy?" he asks quietly, because he has to, even if they don't talk about this stuff most of the time.

A short vibration fills Sam's throat as he nods, hair tickling Dean's eyelashes.

"You sure?" he presses, a brief squeeze of his fingers so Sam knows exactly what he's getting at. The image of Sam desperate and begging him to stop, to put the chain away, fills his mind's eye, and the overwhelming response he has to it, even now, is satisfaction, want. But he knows it's not the same for Sam. Not quite. He can and does get off on it, sure, but he doesn't like the chain. It's a punishment for a reason.

Sam's silence is thoughtful, thumb brushing the back of Dean's hand, bumping over knuckles that have shattered and healed wrong on too many occasions to count.

"Would you have let me stop you?" he asks finally.

Frowning, Dean's mouth is open on an automatic 'yes' before the phrasing sinks in. Sam's not asking if Dean would've stopped if he'd asked–because, actually, Dean wouldn't have. Hell, he didn't. That wasn't how they rolled, wasn't how they played these games, no rules, no time-outs, just go hard or go home. If you wanted out, you'd have to use more than just your words. And Dean preferred it that way. Actions had always spoken louder to him.

"Yeah, Sammy, I would."

Another hum and Sam links their fingers, drawing their hands down to rest on his stomach. The misaligned edge of a velcro strap digs into Dean's forearm.

"Then it's okay."

"Good."

There's a beat of silence and then Sam mutters, "Fucking hate that chain, though."

Dean's grin spreads where he's nuzzling into Sam's hair. He's sure Sam can feel it.

"Yeah. I know you do."