It’s like any normal night, at first. They’re sitting at the bar, and there’s a woman on the other end who’s making eyes at him. In the reflection of the wall behind the bartender, he can see two others trying to eat him up. He smirks and downs another shot.
“What do you say, Sammy? Get another apple-strawberry-kiwitini, and get happy.”
Sam gives him a face and leans forward, bent at the waist and crossing one ankle in front of the other as he stands. With his sweaty forehead lowered to his forearms, he almost looks like he’s drunk, but Dean can see his half-full bottle of beer.
“Or maybe some water? What’s wrong with you, kid?”
Sam groans, rolling his head back and forth and stretching his ass away from the bar. Dean lets his eyes follow the movement. Sam groans again. “I hate these places, Dean, you know that.”
“Yes, because you never do what you’re fuckin’ supposed to, Sammy. If you’d drink like I tell you to, this wouldn’t be a problem.” Glancing at the busty blonde on the opposite end of the bar, he adds, “And maybe take someone back to the room for good measure.”
Sam picks his head up and squints at Dean. His back is a long line of muscle now, straight and unyielding, curving gradually into his surprisingly perky ass. “Don’t be a dick.”
“You know I’m kidding. But maybe if you were a little buzzed I might enjoy your company more when we get home.”
Sam taps him sideways with his hip, swinging his torso slightly, and Dean notices motion at the corner of his eye. There’s a bulky chunk of meat sitting in a booth by the window, eyes narrowed and beady as they follow the motion of Sam’s jeans. Dean purses his lips even as he rearranges his own crotch.
“You know some drinks are even good for you. Purple nurples? No better cure for insomnia.”
Sam chuckles low, back shaking gently with the sound, and Dean scoots his own glass toward Sam’s face. “Try it.”
Sam shies away from the drink, and Dean thinks he’s crazy, maybe he’s just completely gone round the bend, because how can Sam put so much ass into every move he makes without knowing that he’s doing it? But there he is, face still bored and whiny, glaring daggers at the violet concoction as his ass waves in the humid, sweaty air.
The chunk of meat moves again, and when Dean sets his eyes on the booth, there’s another one sitting next to him, ten-year-old cap covering his eyes, his greasy gray hair sticking to his fat shoulders. Dean scowls. “Sam, why won’t you sit down?”
“Cause the seats carry infections. Matter of fact,” he mumbles into his arm, “since so many sexual encounters take place in this environment, you have a high chance of catching an STD if you’re a woman who likes to wear short skirts.” When Dean just stares at him incredulously, he laughs, “Or that’s what I like to think. To justify why I don’t find the short skirts sexy. Or something.” His face is red, slightly warmed by the third of a bottle of beer that Sam drank fifteen minutes ago, and Sam’s getting giggly. His hair is sticking to his head, and his long fingers are playing with the lint on his shirt.
Dean grabs the nurple suddenly and swallows it down. With another look at the two disgusting hicks behind them, he slaps a hand down on Sam’s ass and reels him in toward himself. Out of surprise, Sam can’t help being easily guided, and with a quick twist on his part, Dean’s got him standing in the vee of his legs, groins one hot inch apart.
Sam gets as far as gasping, “Wha’s goin’ on -” before Dean slams their mouths together and spreads the coconut rum still swirling under his tongue between them.
While it made him happy to do it, it wasn’t the smartest choice. For the next four minutes, the heated looks they receive from the other patrons are so overbearing, Dean has to drag his brother out and finish what they started in the back of the car.
(via itsbrotherfuckingwincest-archiv)
