Work Text:
Sam hadn’t meant it, not really, but the stricken cry of “MY BOOTY” leaves him feeling pretty damn dumbfounded as he tromps up a sandy hill.
Clumps of cacti litter the ground, vibrant spots of color against the gritty orange of the rock-strewn desert, and Sam takes care not to brush up against them as he crests the hill. The downward slide is mostly silt and loose rocks and Sam manages to dig his heels in quick enough to avoid sliding all the way to the bottom.
Which is something Dean hadn’t quite managed.
“Ya know, when I said ‘sit on a cactus’ I was kidding.” Sam says wryly as he watches Dean try to struggle out of the cactus patch he’d fallen into, lips set in an angry,angry pout. Dean’s ivory handled gun is half buried in cactus, much like Dean, and Sam’s lips twitch up before he can get his face back under control.
“Fuck you Sam. Fuck. You. You mother-fucker, you are literally the worst.” Dean grits out, ass planted squarely on a cluster of cactus. He groans miserably and looks around for something to haul himself up with.
There’s nothing but a wide stretch of field and more cacti and Dean’s face scrunches up in pain as he tries to wiggle off the chunks of cactus biting into his ass. He can feel each stinging needle pulling at his butt-cheeks as he tries to rock onto his feet and fails.
The resulting wave of pin-prick pain pulls a thin wail from Dean and reveals their position to whatever the fuck it is that’s killing cows in the area. 8 cow mutilations in 2 weeks and Sam’s leaning towards wayward Satanists and Dean has his fingers crossed for a chupacabra
“Welp, since I’m literally the worst guess I’ll just go find the chupacabra by myself and leave you to hobble your prickly ass back to the car.” Sam’s already half-way down the embankment though, taking careful steps and sending up plumes of cheeto colored dust.
Dean snorts and tries to reach his gun, another pained sound slipping through his teeth “Yeah, do that and I won’t put out for a week.” He threatens idly, calves burning as he tries to keep his ass off the prickly satan leaves.
Sam makes it all the way down, weaving through the forest of death, without becoming a human pin-cushion.
“A whole week? Aw heck, guess I’ll just have to carry your dumb ass back to the car, through 2 freakin’ miles of cactus and sharp rocks and then up a fucking hill even though we’re in the middle of a hunt, all because you won’t put out for a whole week.”
“Damn right you will.” Dean says with shaky grin, hobbling to his feet with Sam’s help and viscously kicking a hunk of cactus away from his gun. “And it’s cacti.” Sam’s tempted to just leave him for all of 6 seconds until Dean turns his shiny, miserable eyes on him after he tries to get his gun.
Sam carefully plucks it out, still manages to get poked, and slaps it into Dean’s prickly palm. Dean yelps loudly and almost drops his gun for a second time. Sam grins and brings his hand up to his mouth. He drags his tongue lightly over his fingers, feels the spine catch and then pulls it out with his teeth.
Dean bites his lip, weirdly aroused even though his ass feels like it’s on fire and he’s kind-sorta- but-definitely-not crying a little. Dean pulls out one of his knives, movements stiff, and slips the edge of his knife under the cactus leaf that’s stuck soundly in his ass-cheek.
He dislodges it with a deft flick and whimpers like the man he is.
Sam kicks a circle clear around Dean, little cactus thorns sticking out of his hiking boots and cactus blood shining wetly on the toe as he tries to decide the best way to get Dean back up the slope.
“Bridal or fireman?” Sam asks, grimly amused. He’s already dripping with sweat, grit clinging to his skin and settling into the creases of his body. And more importantly, his ass-crack.
“Fireman, don’t think my ass can take bridal.” Dean says with a grimace, sheathing his knife and holstering his dusty gun. He’s gonna have to thoroughly clean it just as soon as he can sit without crying.
Sam’s shoulder digs into his gut and he grips Sam’s pert ass to make up for the dull pain. Sam yelps, staggers a little in shock and, praise who-ever-the-fuck-is-listening, doesn’t go down.
It’s takes 2 hours to get back to the Impala. 2 miserable hours of Dean bitching and squiggling around on Sam’s shoulder and Sam wishing he’d left in his brother in the cactus patch.
The ride back into town is just as miserable, with Dean groaning in the backseat where he’s laid out on his stomach. Sam digs around in the glovebox and pulls out the half-empty pint of whisky Dean keeps there and hands it back.
Dean lets loose an obscene sound of joy, Sam feels dirty hearing it, and takes a deep glug. “Oh yeah baby, come to papa.” Dean alternates between sounds of exaggerated pain and raunchy sounds that belong in a bad porno as Dean gets steadily drunker.
“’Cause that’s not weird at all.” Sam mutters as he takes a corner carefully. It’s another 30 minutes into town and Dean has moved on from porn sounds and grumbles of pain to singing rock ballads at the top of his lungs.
When he kills the whisky he pulls more whisky out of Sam doesn’t wanna know where and drains that too. Sam’s just glad when he finally passes the fuck out, ‘cause he’s half-hard and Dean is stupid cute when he’s drunk.
It makes getting him into the motel a bitch though and when the nice lady from the desk sees him hauling an unconscious Dean in she storms over, full of righteous fury, and Sam has to explain. Dean makes things easier by waking up in the middle of it and loudly complaining that his butt hurts and flopping his head on Sam’s shoulder with a pout.
She grins at the pair of them, a crinkly eyed smile, and hustles back inside. He manhandles Dean into the room with a lot of grunting and sweating and plops him face down onto the nearest bed. Sam’s considering the best way to get all of the prickles out of Dean’s ass when Wilma knocks on the door and slaps a bottle of Elmer’s glue into his hand.
“For the little ones.” She explains, leaving as quick as she’d come. Sam peeps his head out the door and calls out a confused thank you before she’s out of sight. He has to cut Dean out of his jeans and the ungrateful ass-hole complains the entire time, yelping loudly from time to time.
“Oh my God.” Sam laughs in disbelief as he surveys Dean’s ass in a platonic sort of way. There are so many prickles that he doesn’t know where to start. Dean’s quiet on the bed, occasionally making sleepy, grumpy sounds that make Sam feel weirdly happy, and he digs the tweezers out in the relative quiet.
He finds another half-pint of whisky and sets it neatly on the cracked bedside table for when Dean comes around next and drags out their alcohol.
“Alright Dean’s ass, let’s do this thing.” He mutters grimly, picking a needle at random and gripping it as close to Dean’s skin as he can with the tweezers. He pulls it out slowly, careful not to touch the sea of thorns and drops it into the garbage can.
Dean comes awake with an unholy shriek and Sam topples backwards of the bed with a startled shout, tweezers going flying.
“What the fucking FUCK Sammy?!” Dean almost makes the worst mistake of his life, but stops shy of rolling over. Dean makes a confused sound and throws a muzzy glare over his shoulder as Sam hauls himself up off the floor.
The look of confused horror that morphs over his face as he beholds his pin-cushion butt pulls a tired laugh from Sam while he bends down to get the tweezers. Dean rolls back onto his stomach with a whimper and tries to keep his butt-cheeks from tensing up.
He doesn’t succeed and whines pitifully into Sam’s pillow. Sam snorts and bounces down onto the bed. Dean shrieks again and slaps at him, butt-cheeks a stinging, throbbing mass of pain.
“Why Sam, whyyyy.”
“’Cause you tripped and fell into a cactus and now I have to get up close and personal with your fugly ass.” Sam pulls out another prickle and Dean squeaks indignantly at the teeny jab of pain.
“My ass is a glorious thing to behold, you tasteless cretin.” Dean says in a surprisingly watery voice.
“First of all, it’s cretin, if you’re gonna insult me, do it right.” Sam pulls out a few more while Dean chuckles into the pillow. He’s got his face mashed into it and Sam thinks he might be crying a little.
“Are you crying?” Sam asks curiously, still plucking prickles out.
“Yeah.” Dean says without an ounce of shame. He grabs the whisky off the table and takes a sip.
“No shame in that, I’d cry to if my ass was a pin-cushion.” Sam’s face is an inch or two away from Dean’s ass and up this close he can make out the light scattering of freckles on Dean’s skin. Ya know, hidden amongst the cactus thorns.
Sam wants to drag his thumb over each and every one of them, learn each spot over again, but he’s not dumb enough to stick his hand into that mess. Dean goes a little tense when Sam’s breath feathers over his ass and his dick gives an interested twitch.
Despite the fact that he literally sat on a cactus and his butt hurts, a heated blip of sound eases through his clenched teeth. Something in Sam’s lower belly throbs and his wrist jerks. A needle comes free to quick and Dean grunts unhappily.
“Sorry.” Sam breathes, embarrassed and a little flustered.
“S’it’s fine, just be careful with my money maker Sammy.” Dean grumbles, face red and uncomfortably hot as Sam’s breath continues to brush warm over his skin.
“You fell on the cactus, not me.” Sam says with a smirk.
Dean snorts and takes another mulish gulp. Sam shakes his head and pulls out a particularly stubborn thorn with a little more force. Dean chokes on his whiskey and Sam gets a few more out while he’s spluttering.
When Dean catches his breath, he wheezes out an irritable “You suck” and buries his face deep into Sammy’s pillow. Sam’s almost got them all out, after a solid hour of plucking, and all that’s left are a few stubborn ones and the tiny ones that you can’t really see.
The pillow smells like Sam’s shampoo and Dean does the creepy stalker thing and breathes Sammy’s scent in. It makes him feel better and calms him down right up until Sam closes his mouth over a deeply embedded thorn and sucks.
The strangled, heated moan that spills up from deep in his belly burns in the air around them and Sam flicks his tongue casually over the prickle before snagging it with his teeth.
“Holy shit.” Dean gasps, narrowly avoiding shoving his ass back onto Sam’s face.
“Just getting the prickles out, Dean, don’t get excited.” Sam murmurs slyly, stroking the back of Dean’s thigh. He turns his head and spits the prickle into the garbage and moves onto the next.
He repeats the process and Dean makes the same desperate sound. It curls wicked and slow up Sam’s spine and he has to grip Dean’s hips to keep him from rocking back.
“Don’t see why I can’t get excited, not when it involves your purdy mouth on my ass.” Dean says, voice rough with pain and arousal. Sam gets out the last visible thorn, turns and spits, and then flicks his tongue over the bead of blood that wells.
Dean’s hips stutter and he groans good and loud even though his butt is full of pin-prick holes and is bleeding sluggishly in a few places.
“You’re gross.” Sam says, grinning a little and running his fingers over the curves of Dean’s ass. Dean gasps when the teeny thorns prick and Sam picks up the glue while Dean is pouting into his pillow.
He wonders how long it’s gonna take for Dean’s boner to die when Sam slathers the glue on. The answer is pretty much immediately if the disgusted, shrill sound he makes it any indicator.
“Dude, it’s in my ass-crack, I repeat, there is glue in my ass-crack.” Dean grunts, scrabbling to roll over. Sam bears down on his hips, keeping him on his stomach, and smoothes out the glue with lazy fingers.
Dean makes another grossed out sound and squiggles uncomfortably as the slimy feeling coats his ass-cheeks. Sam’s fingers feel damn good but the cold glue counter-acts anything positive induced by Sam’s long fingers.
“Just getting the thorns out.” Sam says cheerfully, wiping his fingers off on Dean’s back.
“Oh come on dude.” Dean grumbles. He jolts when Sam leans forward and blows lightly, teeth gritted against the surprising tingles that sweep out from his hips.
“Play your cards right and I will.” Sam mutters, grinning sheepishly. Dean smirks and says in a fatherly voice “Proud a you, Sammy.”
Sam touches the glue to see it’s dry and then starts to peel it off slowly. Goosebumps pop up all over Dean’s bare ass and Sam’s lips twitch fondly. “Gonna check for thorns, tell me if I missed any.”
Dean grumbles in agreement and then Sam’s fingers are sliding smooth and easy over his ass, dipping between his cheeks lightly and making Dean’s breath stutter. Sam’s thorough, hatefully thorough, and by the time his skilled fingers finally stop their lazy meandering, Dean’s completely hard again.
“Got ‘em.” Deans says, hoarse and a little shaky.
“Glad to hear it.” Sam says, setting down the tweezers and grabbing a washcloth out of the bathroom. He douses it in alcohol and runs it over the countless red dots. Dean yelps loudly and clenches his ass-cheeks, sharp pain making his eyes water.
“Bitch.” Dean says with feeling as Sam makes a second pass. The washcloth comes away spotted with blood and Dean hisses through his teeth as the alcohol dries.
Sam presses his lips to the dip of Dean’s back and whispers back “Jerk.”
Dean smiles crookedly into Sam’s pillow, Sam’s lips hot against his skin. Sam moves down, lips dragging hungrily over Dean’s salty skin. He slides his tongue slowly over the last few bumps of Dean’s spine and dips it between Dean’s cheeks.
Dean’s dick throbs, a bead of pre-come pulsing out and smearing on his head while Sam tastes the salt of his skin. Sam grips his hips, parts his ass-cheeks with careful thumbs and drags his tongue over Dean’s entrance.
Dean goes rigid, gasps loud and needy, and grips the sheets with tightly clenched fists. Dean does rock back this time and Sam meets him, tongue circling the tight ring of muscle before dipping just inside.
“S-sam, fuck me, Sam.” He unclenches a fist and shoves it underneath him, gripping himself tight. He jacks himself with quick, short jerks of his wrist while Sam flicks his tongue over his hole before delving inside.
Sam’s tongue is hot inside of him and Dean keeps up a steady litany of moans and groans while Sam fucks into him with his tongue. Dean’s muscles clench down around his tongue and Sam hauls him back so he can penetrate deeper.
He pulls out with one last upward curl of his tongue and murmurs lowly “Not ‘till your butt heals." Dean laughs, voice ragged, and thumbs his tip. His thumb slides slick over his head, spreading pre-come and easing the jerky strokes of his hands.
Sam pops a finger into his mouth while Dean fucks his hand and presses it carefully into Dean’s silky heat. “Jesus-fuckin’ christ Sammy.” Dean gasps, rolling his hips back onto Sam’s finger and burying it deep.
Sam lets him; just watches Dean fuck himself open and marvels at the clutching heat of Dean’s body. He eases his fingers out, wets two, and presses them back in. Curling his fingers up, Sam leans in and flicks his tongue over Dean’s stretched rim.
Dean keens, actually keens, and comes into the tight circle of his hand. Shivering gasps and moans fall from his parted lips as pulse after pulse of hot come coats his fingers. Sam pulls his fingers out while Dean’s still shaking with the last few waves of his orgasm and wipes them on the bedspread.
He’d feel bad about it, but he’s willing to bet his left nut that it’s seen so much worse than a little spit. Sam strokes his back while Dean catches his breath and then goes and gets him a warm, wet washcloth. He helps Dean with clean up, runs the alcohol covered wash-cloth over his ass again for safety reasons and then pries the whiskey out of Dean’s hand.
Dean yawns, a wide, sleepy smirk on his face and smashes his face back into the pillow. The thunderous snoring starts up a few seconds later and Sam stares at his brother in disbelief. Shaking his head, he puts everything away, flicks off the light and then heads into the bathroom for some much needed Sam time.
They learn, about two hours later and in the middle of some choice cuddling, that it was Satanists.
When they burst into the room wearing flimsy black robes and dollar-store Halloween masks, Dean literally laughs himself to tears and just rolls over and goes back to sleep. Sam sighs loudly and crawls out of bed to deal with the 3 misguided, particularly greasy youths.