Title: Openness
Author: kbk
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine, more's the pity.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Summary: Actions speak louder than words. Or, Winchesters are uncommunicative bastards who don't talk shit out.
Wordcount: ~3500
Notes 1: I think it's the same universe as Deception but it doesn't have to be, so you don't need to read that one. But it's shorter and pornier and kinkier than this one, so you might want to.
Notes 2: I hadn't written anything in a couple of weeks and was starting to worry about it. So I made myself porn. It got bigger than I meant it to. Maybe now I can go write the stuff I've been meaning to write.

When Sam gets back to the motel, he's surprised to see the Impala sitting stately outside. Dean's night out has obviously been cut even shorter than Sam's.

He's less surprised when he hears the sound of heavy breathing filtering out of the window. He's also somewhat annoyed, so he goes in, letting the door slam behind him.

"Hey, Sam," says his brother, who is sitting on the near bed, perfectly composed apart from the one hand pressed over his crotch.

Sam blinks for a few seconds. Then he hears a moan, and a very masculine, "That's right, take it," and follows the noises to the TV.

"Dean," he says. "You're watching gay porn?"

"Those are some keen observational skills you got there, Sammy." Sam doesn't need to look away from the screen - where a pretty blond youth with a gag in his mouth is getting fucked by two guys at once - to know that Dean is raising one eyebrow. Probably his right. But he does want to see the reaction to his next question, so he tears his eyes away from the tangle of naked male flesh to focus on his brother - who is, now that Sam's actually looking, prettier than the guy in the film.

The way Dean's eyes are fixed on the screen answers a few questions, and Sam scrambles for another one. He hears himself say, "You ever been fucked?" and immediately blushes.

Dean flushes a little as well, and his eyes flicker towards Sam, but his voice is calm when he says, "Just once. It was good, though."

After that, Dean starts talking crap about how he couldn't possibly deny his fabulous gorgeousness and amazing skill in bed to a full half of the population without even looking at them, so Sam has to smack him upside the head, and by the time they're done with the tickle-fight, the scene is over. So is the discussion.

Two weeks later, Dean has a sprained right wrist, an aching head, and a bad case of cabin fever. He stamps out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, dripping water everywhere, and proclaims, "I can't even jerk off properly!"

Sam sighs, but he knows that if he doesn't pay attention, Dean will start talking about how he fucked up his wrist pushing Sam out of the way of danger - which is true enough - and then will get angsty about putting Sam there in the first place - which isn't.

"Dude," Sam says, "you're ambidextrous." They both are, more or less - they were trained that way.

"Yeah, but..." Dean pauses, squinches his eyes in a way that Sam knows means embarrassment.

"What is it?" Sam asks in his you-can-trust-me voice, the one Dean made him learn from afternoon talk shows way back when.

Dean glares at him, lips pursed, hands on his hips drawing attention to the bulge beneath the towel. "I like fingers up my ass."

Sam blushes, and Dean grins a tight obnoxious grin before turning and stalking back into the bathroom.

The mental image of Dean leaning against the shower wall with one hand on his cock and the other pushing between his legs is more than enough to get Sam hard. And he knows the sounds that Dean would make; has known those sounds for years, in fact, because an adolescence of shared motel rooms didn't leave much space for privacy.

It's only because Sam's thinking about it, half-listening for the breathy gasp that usually drifts out a couple of minutes after Dean starts the shower running, that he hears the low growl of frustration. And Sam has an idea. It's probably a bad idea, and if Sam was doing all his thinking with his upstairs brain he'd probably dismiss the idea out of hand.

Instead, Sam puts down his book, stands up, and walks across to the bathroom. He opens the door and pokes his head in. "Sorry," he says. "Was I supposed to offer you a hand?"

Dean pulls back the shower curtain - yellow ducks on a mostly-transparent blue that doesn't hide much - and frowns at his brother. "You offering now?"

"Yeah, come on out."

This time, when Dean walks out of the bathroom, he's using the towel to swipe off the worst of the water, and his hard-on is bouncing with each step. Sam's too busy swallowing back his initial reaction - something along the lines of "holy jesus, you're hot" - to comment on positioning, but Dean apparently thinks the same way as he does. He lies down with his back to Sam and his left leg crooked up for easy access, then glances over his shoulder.

"You got stuff?"

In reply, Sam holds up the two fingers that he's liberally smearing with hand lotion. Dean winks, then wriggles a little, settling himself a little more comfortably. Sam strokes his dry thumb down the crack of Dean's ass and across his hole, and watches the shiver travel up Dean's spine. His cock pulses inside his jeans.

"OK," says Dean, "the teasing can just stop right now."

Sam takes him at his word, and pushes one slick finger slowly, inexorably inside, enjoying the way Dean clenches around his finger and then the sound of the ragged breath that Dean takes as he relaxes.

"You, uh," Dean falters as Sam starts to withdraw his finger, slow, so slow. "You got long fingers, there. And a better angle than I can..."

Sam sits straighter and leans forward a little, and he can see Dean biting his pouty bottom lip, his eyelashes fluttering, his hand unmoving on his cock. Sam pushes in again, feels hot and smooth inside Dean, and is suddenly very conscious that this is the only contact between them; that his other hand is propping him up, his mouth isn't busy tasting his brother's skin, their bodies are held carefully apart. Hell, Sam's still fully dressed, sitting on the bed next to his utterly naked brother. He has to groan, just a little.

"You OK, Sam?" Dean asks, and Sam moves his hand faster in an attempt at distraction. He doesn't want to talk about this, doesn't want to put it into words even inside his own head.

Dean raises his head and tries to turn, and Sam knows that - much as his brother may hate discussing emotions or anything that matters - he'll ask questions if he thinks Sam needs to answer them. Sam pushes in two fingers, this time, and hopes that's enough of an answer. It seems to be, because Dean's head falls back to the pillow, and his hand finally starts to move on his cock, a visible working of muscle all the way to his shoulder that tempts Sam's tongue.

Dean sighs out a "yeah, good," and Sam sets a steady pace, gaze flicking from where his fingers disappear into his brother's body to the intent frown on Dean's face, the bruises on his face and neck, the subtle arch of his spine. Every few strokes, Sam crooks his fingers to brush across Dean's prostate, and that gets a tiny gasp each time.

Sam feels like his cock is about to burst the zipper on his jeans, but he can't bring himself to move, because this is about Dean. And then Dean squeezes down tight, making it difficult for Sam to force his fingers through the ring of muscle, and then, with a prolonged shudder and a low drawn-out "fuuuuuck," Dean comes.

Sam waits for a good few seconds after Dean stops shaking before he pulls his fingers out. He doesn't know what to do next. He should probably be horrified at himself, and at Dean, but he wants to grab the hand that Dean's wiping on the sheet and lick it clean.

Dean mutters, "Thanks, bro," and rolls onto his back, eyes closed, obviously half-way to sleep already.

"No problem." Sam stands up and moves away. As soon as the bathroom door closes behind him, his jeans are around his ankles, and seven or eight rough strokes later, Sam is coming on the tiled floor.

Once his knees are back in working order, Sam cleans that patch of floor, then washes his hands thoroughly. Back out in the room, he pulls the duvet over his nude sleeping brother, then strips down, switches off the lights, and gets into the other bed.

Unusually, Sam falls asleep easily and quickly. He doesn't dream.

The next night, Dean locks the bathroom door before jerking off in the shower. Sam takes the hint, and concentrates so fiercely on his book that Dean has to tap him on the shoulder to get his attention.

"Sleepy-time, dude," says Dean, ignoring Sam's startled flinch.

"Just let me finish the chapter," Sam bargains like he has a thousand times before, and Dean rolls his eyes and gives in. It doesn't really matter when they sleep, after all.

A couple of weeks later, they're hunting again, sitting in a diner with a pile of newspapers again, and Dean's flirting with the waitress again. She flirts back, though, and after a while Dean leaves Sam at the table and follows the girl through the Employees Only door.

Sam gets another coffee and scans through the obituaries again. He doesn't think about what Dean's doing, doesn't think that she'll be the first person to see Dean come since the time Sam did, doesn't grip his pen so tightly the plastic cracks all along its length.

That night, Sam is in the shower, hot water on his shoulders and his hand on his dick, trying to wash away the tension that's been following him around all day. Dean walks in. That isn't exactly unusual, but it isn't commonplace, especially when Dean starts to strip.

"What's up, Dean?" Sam watches the blurred form of his brother pause, then bend over, pushing down his jeans.

Dean pushes back the shower curtain, cheeky grin firmly on his face. "You have been pissy all day. You need to get laid," he says matter-of-factly, stepping into the spray so that droplets of water gleam on his golden skin. The curtain rings rattle as he closes it again, and the shower seems very small, far too small to hold the pair of them.

Sam wants to hide from Dean's appraising gaze, but the heat of those eyes running over him makes his cock twitch, and Sam figures he's pretty much doomed.

"And I owe you one," says Dean, and sinks to his knees in front of his brother. He trails his lips up the side of Sam's cock, one hand steady around the base, and then opens his mouth wide.

To Sam, the sight of those sweet lips closing around his cock is almost as good as the feeling, for the first few moments, at least. Then Dean begins to move, and the feeling is overwhelming. All Sam can do is say, "oh my god, Dean," and brace himself against the wall as his brother sucks his brains out through his dick.

It's an effort of self-control which Sam would classify as "heroic" to stop himself from thrusting into Dean's mouth, to hold his hips as still as he can and keep his hands fisted by his side instead of in Dean's hair. He wants... He wants, and the flutter of Dean's eyelashes on his cheeks, the way his eyes flicker open to glance up at Sam's face, the movement of Dean's hand on his own cock; all those things just make Sam's wanting more intense.

Dean's wickedly sinuous tongue frays Sam's control, and he barely manages to choke out "fuck... gonna.." before he comes in his brother's mouth. Dean doesn't seem to mind, licking his lips and jerking himself faster. Then Dean slides the hand that was on Sam's cock down behind his own back and presses at his entrance. Sam watches with glazed eyes as Dean comes, fluid quickly washed away by the swirling water.

Sam pulls Dean to his feet - the tiles can't have been comfortable on his knees - and then steps out of the shower, leaving Dean to wash his hair.

The feeling of Dean's mouth on his cock comes back to Sam at odd intervals over the next few days. He finds himself wondering how many times Dean has done that, how many men have had Dean on his knees at their feet, because he certainly seemed to know what he was doing.

The third evening, they're in another nameless bar, and Dean's hustling pool again, Sam settled in a corner with a beer and a newspaper that he's already read through twice. Sam's eyes stray to his brother more often than usual, and he notices an extra sway in Dean's hips, a self-conscious tilt to his smile. It's only when Dean leans in close to his opponent that Sam realises Dean is flirting.

It might be genuine - the guy is fairly attractive - or it might be part of the hustle, but Sam doesn't like it either way. So when Dean struts over to the table and takes a swig from Sam's beer, which means he's done with work for the night and Sam can take the cash back to the motel if he wants, Sam grabs his brother's wrist.

He puts his mouth close to Dean's ear and mutters, "You liked getting fucked."

Dean chokes on thin air. His pulse kicks under Sam's fingers. Sam holds on and waits for Dean to catch his breath.

"That one time, yeah," Dean says, looking at Sam's left ear. He isn't blushing, but his expression is a deliberately bland one that Sam's seen practised in front of a mirror.

Sam tightens his fingers on Dean's wrist, leans in closer, and breathes, "Wanna do it again?"

Two minutes later, Sam's pushing his brother face-first against an alley wall. The smell of fried chicken from the bar's kitchen is almost enough to cover the stink of piss and trash, and the clatter of a dishwasher should hide the noise of their coupling.

He presses the length of his body against Dean's back and reaches around to open his jeans and get them out of the way. One of Dean's hands is already there, but Sam smacks it out of the way. He doesn't hear Dean gasp, but feels it in the hitch of his brother's body against his own.

"You like that?" he whispers, swaying his hips back for just long enough to push material out of the way and leave Dean bare-assed before Sam snugs his denim-clad erection in the cleft of Dean's ass.

Dean moans, and pushes back. Dean pushes with his whole body, but Sam knows that Dean could get away easily if he wanted to, and it takes skinning his knuckles on the brick wall for Sam to work out just what Dean's problem is.

Sam steps back slightly, takes the opportunity to open his fly while Dean situates himself with his cock at a safe distance from the rough surface. Then he's pressing up against Dean again. He can feel the heat of Dean's body through their clothes, but that triangle of skin-on-skin, his cock against Dean's ass, is summer-hot and sweat-damp, and he has to thrust just a little, can't not.

Dean takes one hand off the wall, scrabbles in his jacket pocket and brings out a sachet of lube, and one of tomato ketchup. They both laugh a little. Dean tosses the lube over his shoulder for Sam to catch, shoves the ketchup back in his pocket, and then braces himself more firmly against the wall.

Sam tears open the packet and lets some of the thick sticky slick ooze onto his fingers. He applies it directly to the area in question, biting back a grin when Dean yelps at the chilly intimate contact. Sam twists his wrist and pushes, just the tip of his finger slipping inside, and he can feel the heat of his brother, stark contrast to the cool night air.

He knows that if he waits, reassurance will come in the form of an insult, but he's plenty sure already. He fucks Dean with one finger, and Sam remembers doing this before, his brother spread out naked before him, and wants to do it again, wants to make him shudder and sweat and beg for fingers, cock, anything. So hot, so good, so tight, and it's difficult to push a second finger in, but it makes Dean whine and pant and drop his head forward. Sam's only getting started and already he wants to do it again, because next time he might have the patience to take it back to their room, to get naked and take his time, to taste...

He bends forward with that thought, sets his lips at the vulnerable nape of Dean's neck.

"Dammit, Sammy," Dean growls. "Just do it, if you're gonna."

It's kinda funny that Sam thought he was going to be in charge of this. Between Dean and his own need, Sam's control is fraying very thin. He bites down, not quite hard enough to break the skin, and twists his fingers viciously inside Dean. Then he pulls away for a few long seconds to squeeze the last of the lube over his cock.

Dean's tight. So tight. It takes a solid push to get past the first of the resistance, and then Sam has to clench his hands on Dean's hips to keep his brother still. The ring of muscle clamps tight under the head of Sam's cock, and if it's hurting him, it must be hurting Dean more.

Sam drops his head forward to rest on Dean's shoulder, praying for patience. He wants it to be good - knows it could be so good for both of them - but he doesn't think he can wait, because even now his hips are jerking forward in the tiniest of thrusts. He can hear Dean cursing brokenly, breathlessly.

Fucked up, it's/they're so fucked up, but that's nothing new, smell of sweat/leather/Dean nothing new, flex of Dean's strong body against his nothing new, and he has to...

"I swear to God," Dean grits out through clenched teeth, "if you wimp out now I will kick your ass, bitch."

And Dean has relaxed around his cock, not much but enough, and Sam fucks his way inside, short jerky thrusts that are as close to controlled as he can make them. "I dunno, Dean," he says, striving for casualness. "I think..." Another thrust, and it feels like the only words in his head are god yes good dean yes fuck hot yes. "Technically speaking." Sam draws in a long breath, and another thrust has him balls-deep in his brother, pressed as close as can be. "You're the bitch."

Dean's quiet laughter vibrates through both of them. Then Sam moves again, pulls back and thrusts in again, not roughly but definitely not gently, and both of them moan.

A few minutes after that - neither of them sure exactly how many - Dean comes.

Sam follows suit after only a few more thrusts.

An hour or so later, back in the motel room that's home for the night, they're sitting on their separate beds, pretending to watch TV. Dean shifts his weight, and hisses.

"OK," Dean says, "I gotta ask. What made you..."

Sam has the feeling his brother is blushing, but he can't actually bring himself to look over and check. Anyway, Sam's blushing more. He considers and discards a number of answers. Eventually, he says, "You were flirting with that guy."

For a very long few moments, Dean is silent. Then he huffs out a breath that isn't quite a laugh. "Wait," he drawls, "you were jealous?"

Sam blushes harder, and clears his throat. He really doesn't want to answer that one.

"Aw, you know you're the only one I..." Dean trails off. He forces a cough. "Y'know," he mutters.

Sam turns to look at his brother, who is looking fixedly at the screen. Sam grabs the remote from where it lies by Dean's side, and switches the TV off. "I know," he says.

"You want this?" Dean's eyes flicker around the room, but he doesn't so much as glance in Sam's direction. "Want, y'know, us?"

Sam could really do with a vision, but things don't work that way. He crosses his fingers and hopes that getting this far means something, then he reaches out and caresses Dean's cheek. "Do you?"

Dean nuzzles into Sam's palm, pink tongue flicking out to taste him. He glances at Sam with a gleam in his eyes that Sam knows to be wary of. "If you want me to stop hooking up, you're gonna have to keep me entertained."

Sam curls his hand round the back of Dean's neck and pulls him forward. "I think I can do that," he murmurs, then he closes the gap between them and, for the first time, they're kissing.

Technically, it's not a very good kiss.

Sam's lips are dry, Dean's chapped, and neither of them can stop smiling, and they're leaning awkwardly across the gap between their beds, and they're going to have to stop in a minute or one of them will fall over. But it's them. And it's perfect.