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Porcelain pressed her body flat back to the glass wall, arms outstretched against that broad, clear pane. A bird of paradise with brightly colored plumage stretched from the curve of her left breast until its elaborate tail feathers plumed wild over her shoulder, two equally elaborate tattoos inked elsewhere on her skin. Belladonna kneeled at her feet, tangled blue hair damp on her back and her tongue lapping at Porcelain’s belly button ring, body sensuously close to revealing her partner’s nether lips, waist corseted, a tiny black thong preserving her modesty, both models shoed in outrageously high heels.
The kind of high-fashion alt-pornography that art major Jess discovered before her man.
A shadow fell over the bed. Sam looked up to see his brother looming over him.
“There is no way that CNN.com is that interesting.”
Sam had a split second to jerk the laptop out of Dean’s reach, but Dean piled onto the bed, stripping off the comforter that Sam pushed up between them with his foot.
“Asshole! You’re gonna break it!” Sam growled as Dean grappled for the slim, silver notebook. Dean didn’t seem to care, and Sam relinquished it with a curse before Dean did.
Dean flopped back on the mattress, computer in his lap, and surprise written on his face.
“Hello. What’s their names? Porcelain and Belladonna. Dude, these chicks are kind of hardcore.” Dean squinted at the screen. “What the hell is this? They’ve got little diaries. ‘I turned twenty last week. My girlfriends took me to put on my third tattoo! You can see it in my latest set. I think it turned out really great.’ Looks like it did.” A smile broke over his face, ear to ear. “Dude, Sam, did you pay for this site?”
Sam didn’t dignify that truth with a response, clenched his jaw and sent up a futile prayer that Dean would lose interest.
“Give me my computer back, Dean.”
“Hold on, hold on.” Dean waved him off. Sam suffered in silence as Dean clicked through the page, tongue sliding lewdly over his lower lip. Before Sam spoke up to reiterate his demand, Dean brightened just a little further and glanced Sam’s way. “So, do you ever take the meat out or do you just stare at the girls until the shame gets to be too much and take a cold shower?”
Sam rolled his eyes.
“Like I’d masturbate with you sitting right there.”
“You’re right,” Dean muttered. “Usually I wait until you doze off.”
“Dean…” Sam warned, still half-hard and not in the mood for this conversation.
“But you do spank it, right? I’m a concerned sibling, here.”
“Dean!”
Dean adopted a composure unusual for one of his raggings, and pronounced: “I try to milk the sausage at least once a day, but most days I manage to squeeze out two.”
“Milk the--…!!” Sam sputtered, indignant, cheeks burning and at a loss for words.
“Just came up with that one. Pretty good, right?” Dean’s perverted smile redoubled.
Sam ground his teeth.
“I masturbate all the time, Dean. I’m just not a pig about it like you.”
Dean’s eyes fell back to the girls on the screen, his face lit pale in the bright light of the LCD. Sam could see the deliberation running back and forth behind Dean’s eyes. His stomach sank with the knowledge that whatever Dean said next, he’d have to fight to put him off it.
“Let’s watch some porn.”
“…no.”
“So you get to surf porn sites, and I get…what?” Dean gestured in emphasis. “I haven’t been able to jerk off to naked chicks since you put a password on this damn thing.”
“Every time you use it, it gets loaded up with spyware.”
“…yeah. I don’t know what that means.” The crease in Dean’s brow lightened, he slid the laptop over onto the comforter and he rolled off the bed. He hefted the remote off the bedside table and dropped enthusiastically onto his own mattress, pushing himself up to the pillows and beaming like a six year old at the zoo. “Come on. We’re seein’ what’s on.”
“I’ll be--”
“What? Beatin’ it in the bathroom? Beat it out here.”
“And you’d be…totally comfortable with that?”
“Just two healthy adults usin’ what God gave ‘em.”
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose against the first pulse of a headache in his temples, and heard the television buzz to life with an electric snap. He dragged his molested laptop back over and closed out of the browser before snapping the lid shut.
Dean needed all of thirty seconds to find the pornography on the motel’s channels. No nudity, not yet, but the production values and the shoddy acting promised skin on skin in no less than four minutes. Sam sank back against the pillows, kicking his covers away, abruptly stifled, and determined to display his displeasure until Dean got too uncomfortable to actually masturbate.
If the possibility Dean wanted to escalate it that far existed.
Sam vaguely followed along with the loose semblance of plot, until somebody got in bed with somebody else…and Dean, no attention paid to Sam’s brooding, promptly took his cock out. Sam told himself he should have known. Dean was in his element and at his worst.
Sam had seen Dean naked. He’d even seen Dean hard, morning wood stiff between his legs as he pulled his jeans over his hips. He’d heard Dean beat off before, damp pants in the silence of dark motel rooms when Sam had fallen half-asleep and Dean thought he was sound. The glimpse of Dean shifting a half-formed erection out of his pants hit Sam in the dick like none of those circumstantial minutes.
Sam squirmed awkwardly against the mattress, grimacing as he focused (resolutely ill tempered) on the pornography playing on the old twenty-inch RCA tube television. The feet between his bed and his piggish, horny brother’s stretched into illimitable miles.
The last thing Sam had expected was to even sort of, kind of get into this.
Sam’s cock pressed uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans, and a sudden loneliness overcame him. He remembered Madison’s body in a heap on the floor, blood leaking from her shattered face across the hardwood: eight gallons in a human body, a red floor and her limbs at wrong angles.
It wasn’t that Sam had known her. Really known her, in any personal way. But they recognized the darkness in each other. The darkness that Dean refused to see in him. Madison held the validation of all the fears he’d carried for so long: that a good person could become a monster as easy as falling asleep. And this was Dean’s answer: Let’s go to LA! Let’s watch porn and jack off!
For a few hot seconds, Sam saw red.
Dean’s throaty groan broke through that, another punch of arousal socking Sam in the cock. He bit his lower lip as his fading erection throbbed back to life.
On the TV set, a bottle blonde with firm, just-a-handful breasts was riding a middle aged Caucasian man, her head thrown back, her long neck exposed, and the liquid undulation of her body massaging her lover’s intimate organ. Dean grunted his appreciation.
A sideways glance and Sam could see Dean’s gaze was riveted on the screen, a furrow of concentration in his brow as he palmed a flushed erection. Sam’s cheeks went hot, but his face softened, suddenly. He recognized the security in this. He recognized Dean offering himself at his most unguarded, like he never could in words.
The couple on the screen switched positions, and now the man -- the blonde’s secret lover, Sam was pretty sure, from the few stilted sentences of plot -- was taking the blonde from behind as she shook her long hair out, her breasts (nipples hard) moving with the rhythm of his thrusts, her fingers splayed on the mattress.
To hell with it.
Sam pushed the button through the buttonhole of his jeans, easing the strain on his eager erection. Eyes on the blonde’s plumped, parted lips as she labored to breathe, those breasts, and the soft give of her smooth thighs where her lover’s hand firmly steered her, Sam pulled his zipper down. He eased his flushed cock from the loose, cotton confines of his boxers and into the motel room’s humid air.
“Knew you would,” Dean chuckled lowly, across the room, and Sam ignored him. He pumped his cock with long, slow strikes, the weight of it and the give of its soft skin so familiar in his hand when everything else in this room struck him as so bizarre.
Sam thanked the visceral arousal burning in his stomach that numbed his conflicted thoughts. (He could feel Madison’s cunt warm and slick around him, her body spread out on the bed beneath him, hair messy on the pillows, breasts rising and sinking with her quickening breath -- alive in his so-recent memory.) Sam clenched his eyes shut and chased the memory away. (That failure that felt so damning to his own, kindred soul.) Eyes open, again, he fixed his attention on the blonde on the screen as her lover bumped against her hard and harder, the last frenetic thrusts before he came -- or pretended to come. Spent, he rocked against her slowly.
Sam’s upper lip sneered and he grunted, aroused and unsatisfied. The porn segued into another tacky segment of “plot.” For a minute, the TV droned on, the lines never penetrating the lull of thwarted lust Sam wallowed in.
“Whoa,” Dean’s voice broke through, alien with the husky rumble of arousal. “That’s your sex face?”
Sam’s gaze slid sidelong to glower towards his brother.
Sam caught his breath.
Dean’s voice and the smell of Dean, Dean’s laugh and the way Dean could smile with his eyes made up Sam’s earliest memories, before his father ever became more to him than a gruff, semi-absent shadow that smelled like whiskey. Dean lived as the milestone by which Sam charged his life -- the year Dean made his first kill, the year Dean inherited the car… (Somewhere, Sam knew the roadmap of Dean’s life was made up of markers of him.) Twenty-four years, and Dean, as bone deep in Sam’s body as any soul could be, Dean: face flushed, those full lips parted, recumbent, knees drawn up, and an engorged erection between his thighs, looked nothing like Sam remembered, and everything sex.
Dean’s voice dropped a register, and his smile gentled, brow rising over eyes bright with arousal.
“Take a picture,” he teased. Sam’s cheeks went hot and he glanced away, stomach light with butterflies.
“What we need, is Kleenex,” Dean decided for the both of them, shifting off the bed, one hand holding his unzipped jeans up around his waist. (Sam dared a glance to see Dean’s cock hanging, purplish with blood, from his fly, standing erect with its own fullness.)
Sam exhaled unsteadily, looking down at the erection his hand still loosely grasped. Twenty-four years and Dean having sex at least twelve of them, and Sam couldn’t remember seeing his brother as sexy. Horny? Dean had that covered like a buck in rut. Dirty? Dean got down and that. But Dean’s brand of sexuality remained about the least erotic Sam could’ve conceived of. Until here. Now. In some motel on the border between New Mexico and north Texas, where his brother had graduated from slovenly to sex on legs.
Sam finally grasped what those road stop girls he’d pegged as so easy saw in Dean Winchester. The breath left his body, and could feel the shock and mortification on his face, like a moment in a TV show where a high schooler realized her mom and dad had sex.
Sam could easily imagine John Winchester with a woman far before he could suss out the idea of his brother as sensual -- of Dean making love. (Something he formerly guessed had happened in only the vaguest way.)
Sam schooled the confusion off his face and swallowed the strange, uncomfortable excitement in his chest before Dean came out of the bathroom with a handful of white tissue paper, walking with that same bow legged swagger Sam could recognize a mile off, like his dick wasn’t swollen hard between his legs. He came up beside Sam’s bed, utterly juvenile smile playing on his lips, and offered the tissue out, bursting with pride (in Sam, and in himself). Sam accepted his half of it with grudged gratitude, a hard won smile tugging at the corner of his lip -- until Dean’s eyes dropped straight to Sam’s crotch and Dean mouthed: Wow.
Sam sucked in an exasperated breath and glared death at Dean’s back as Dean climbed back onto his own bed. Sam dragged his eyes back to the television screen, where the blonde and her lover were falling into bed with a tall, tan Asian beauty (nosing her way between the blonde’s thighs). Sam felt more than saw Dean’s eyes on him, a surreptitious glance, making sure he hadn’t pushed Sam too far.
Sam willed himself to relax, angry tension spilling out of his broad frame.
“How many times has that been you?” he teased his brother, his own voice passion-thick, as the girls kissed over the lucky bachelor’s lap.
Sam might as well have given Dean ten years of Christmas gift wrapped with a bow -- the dumb, joyous expression that broke on Dean’s face with that acknowledgement.
“Never enough, Sammy.”
Sam chuckled, finally, really smiling, with his hand gently stroking his dick, just keeping a rhythm going. Warmth pooled inexplicably in his stomach.
The Winchesters lapsed into silence, teeth sinking into lips, calloused hands rough on dry dicks. Sam smeared leaking precum over the head of his erection, lubrication, if not quite enough. The blonde had her lover buried inside her while she ate out her blushing, black haired tryst. Dean came with a wet hitch of breath and a sigh. A lump caught awkwardly in Sam’s throat, a shy look falling Dean’s way to see his brother with his eyes shut and open mouth panting, sweat moist on his brow, catching a leaking spurt of cum in the tissue, cock spasming almost imperceptibly.
Sam focused on the movie, pumping his cock a little harder, running his thumb over the vein beneath it, pulling the skin up around the head and sliding his hand down its shaft to massage his thumb against the base.
“Need a hand with that?” Dean offered, voice breathy with post-orgasmic pleasure.
A tightness knotted Sam’s chest and he came over his hand in sticky ropes of semen, barely covering himself with the tissue in time to spare the sheets.
“Guess not,” Dean said, while some perverse, conjured image of Dean’s helping hands burned on the back of Sam’s eyelids.
“…do you have to be such a jerk?” Sam complained, but in the exhaustion of release, his temper wasn’t behind it.
“Always,” the promise came from Dean’s half of the room.
Sam crumpled the wet tissue in his fist, semen warm against his sweaty palm. He inhaled long and steady and exhaled a shuddering breath. A slow, erotic melody played from the television, and the motel sheets felt too rough against the soles of Sam’s feet. His dick slowly went flaccid against the cold zipper of his jeans, but it was moments before he reached down to tuck it in.
“We gotta spend more quality time together, stud.” Dean’s voice came from the bathroom, and the sink hissed on. Sam imagined his brother washing the cum off of his hands with slender, soapy fingers.
“Or you could go to hell,” Sam called back, raising his voice over the water, but the insult only provoked laughter.
Dean returned to the room, and Sam trudged to the bathroom after him, throwing the tissue away, and washing his own hands, faded arousal dull in his stomach. When he came back, Dean had thrown on a t-shirt and some boxer briefs and had the TV on AMC. Sam didn’t recognize the movie. He recognized Marlon Brando. He flashed Dean a forced smile, shrugging his brow with false enthusiasm. That happened.
Dean only grinned, that pride beaming through.
Sam stripped down to his boxers and crawled into his bed, pulling the covers up over him and rolling onto his side, disinterested in the movie. He didn’t fall asleep. He only stared, dispirited, at the door and grappled with the fact that his big brother turned him on.