Dean grasps the brand new blade tight in his dominant hand, and he holds the hellhound to the ground with his left. "Fuck," he spits. "Will you just keep...fucking...still."

"Would you?" says the crossroads demon Sam has at knife point. "She knows you're gonna gut her."

"I'm not going to gut her," Dean growls from between gritted teeth. The muscles in his arm are burning as the beast struggles beneath him, snapping at his face with a maw dripping with viscous saliva. "I'm going to cut her heart out."

He can see the dog, thanks to the goggles seared in holy fire he's wearing. But he looks away for a moment, his eyes falling again on the clean lines of the shining silver blade clenched in his first.

And then he brings it down, and it slides into the hellhound like butter. Blood as black and thick as tar spills out of her, and when she finally goes limp he gets his hands in there, breaks open the creature's ribcage, and, again with the new knife, he carves her heart from her body and pulls it free.

It's still warm and beating in his hand. "Urgh," he says. "This is fucking disgusting."

"Say the words, Dean," Sam says, grunting as his prisoner struggles. "Say the damn words."

Dean shakes the goop off his hands. Good thing he had the foresight to commit the spell to memory, because though there's a slip of paper in his breast pocket with the words on it, the moment he touched the paper with this crap on his hands he wouldn't be able to read a thing.

So he says the words, half a dozen in Latin, and then he plunges the blade into the heart of the hellhound, and there's a shimmer of magic.

It's done.

"Did it work?" Sam asks. "Dean, did it work?"

It wasn't much of a shimmer. Maybe it was a fizzle. The spell they found deep in the bunker archives was old, faded. Maybe they messed up the sigils when they carved them into the blade. They're similar, but not identical to the ones on the demon knife they've had for years. The specs of the blade for this spell are different, too. They couldn't just copy what they already had, it might not have worked.

"Only one way to tell." Dean rises to his feet, leaving the carcass of the hellhound on the ground, and he pulls the heart off of the blade and drops it back into the chest cavity.

Then he approaches Sam and the demon he has trapped.

"Just exorcise me," the demon begs. "Send me back to hell."

"Sorry, sweetheart," Dean says, stopping right in front of her, and he gives Sam a look. In that single glance he says 'wish me luck', and Sam gives him a nod.

The demon stiffens and moans as Dean pushes the blade into her chest. Her ample tits rise and fall, and then she starts to spark inside, she starts to sizzle, and an otherworldly glow burns beneath her skin.

Dean jerks his arm back, pulling the blade from her body as her eyes flame red, and then burn out, and then she's gone.

Sam drops the limp body to the road beneath their feet. "Holy shit, Dean," he says. "It worked."

It worked. They made another demon blade. They made a demon blade.

---

They stop for booze and pizza on the way home. This calls for a celebration. Dean's hands are still stained black with the muck that spilled out when he butchered the hellhound, so he lets Sam get the supplies while Dean stays in the car and looks at their new blade.

It's so fucking beautiful, even with the hellhound blood caked into the the sigils they engraved it with. Maybe they're there forever now. Dean has a feeling they won't come clean no matter how diligently he cleans it.

Otherwise, it's shining, glinting in the moonlight through the car window. Solid silver, this will do demons and all manner of other monsters, like shapeshifters, and werewolves, and anything else vulnerable to silver.

Sure, angel blades do a lot of things, too, but they're long, ungainly, and hard to hide.

This will slip easily into the pocket of his jacket, or in the back of his jeans in a pinch.

It was a mess, but it was worth it.

---

Dean had to scrub for ages to get the black blood off his hands, so he's pink and warm when he heads for the library. Sam is already there, the pizza box on the table, a couple of glasses and a bottle of whiskey.

Dean takes the glass from Sam after he pours. "Cheers," he says, and knocks his glass against Sam's, before pouring the entire two fingers down his throat. "Again."

---

The bottle is empty, and they're both drunk. The blade lies on the table between them, and Dean was right. The black didn't come out of the etchings. Before, they faded into the forest of the blade unless the light caught them, now, they're unmistakable.

"It's a beautiful thing," Dean says, gazing down at the blade. He wants to put it on his wall so he can look at it all the time. When they're not on a hunt, anyway. "It's a work of fucking art and it needs to be treated that way."

"Gonna frame it, Dean?" Sam snorts. "Or sleep with it?"

"Of course I'm gonna sleep with it," he says, because when they're not in the bunker, he'd be stupid not to keep it under his pillow at night. He reaches out for it, and he rises—none too steady—to his feet. "But when we're at home, it's going on my wall."

"Your wall," Sam almost slurs. "Why not mine?"

"Pfft," Dean says. "You wouldn't know how to appreciate such a beautiful weapon. Not like I can."

And he heads for the door.

Sam follows Dean down the hall and into his room. Sam's slow, drunken lumber is reassuring and familiar.

There's already a place for the blade. Dean installed a cradle for it when they were still translating the instructions to create the thing, as though he knew the spell would work, knew that it would be worthy of such an honor.

Dean almost topples over as he places the blade into the cradle, but Sam catches him, and then they both stumble. Dean lurches for the bed. "So wasted," he mutters, and collapses, face first, into his mattress.

"Good idea," Sam says, and drops beside him.

---

Dean wakes to the bed moving beneath him. Sam's shifting around like he can't get comfortable, like he doesn't even appreciate the memory foam beneath his oversized body.

"What the fuck are you doing in my bed," Dean hisses, tripping over his tongue, slurring more than sibilant. He's still drunk. "Go home."

"You took my keys," Sam mumbles, his face mashed into Dean's pillow. "I can't sleep in the bathtub."

"What the fuck are you talking about." Dean gives Sam a shove, and it should have been enough to push Sam out of bed, but he barely moves.

He does, however, wake up, lifting his head and glaring at Dean. He's got pillowcase creases on his face, and his hair is a nightmare, sticking up all over and looking like he just slept it off in a barn.

Dean smiles, because it's adorable. No. Not adorable. Ridiculous. "Who made you sleep in a bathtub, Sammy?"

"Dunno what you're talking about." Sam grimaces, like he just ate something gross. "Urgh. My mouth tastes like an ashtray."

"Gotta stop smoking, kiddo. That shit's no good for you."

"I don't smoke," Sam retorts. "You're the one who—"

"Only sometimes," Dean says. "Not for years." He thought it made him look cool, once. Dad gave him a clip around the ears for it, too, tore a brand new pack of cigarettes up and threw it in the trash. 'Don't waste money on something that's just gonna go up in smoke,' Dad said. Dean was so pissed. "Besides, if cancer's what takes me out, I win, remember?"

Sam sighs and drops his head again to the pillow, but not face down this time. He still watches Dean's face. His morning breath, though it's not even morning yet, is kinda sour, but not too bad considering he's drunk, or maybe it's because Dean is drunk, too.

"Nothing's allowed to take you out," Sam says, and his voice is soft, though a little rough, probably from all the whiskey they drank last night. "You're not allowed to die."

"Gotcha," Dean says. "No dying." Sam looks kinda sweet lying there on Dean's pillow, just inches away. Dean can feel Sam's warm breath on his face. Sam's eyes are bloodshot, but liquid, and his pupils are big and black.

"Good." Sam closes his eyes and sighs, like it's a relief to close them against the light. They left it on when they fell asleep. Sam's face relaxes, and he breathes slow and deep, like he's fallen asleep again.

And he does look sweet on Dean's pillow. His lips part as his face softens, and that's probably why he's got dry mouth if he sleeps like that all the time, but it just adds to the look of Sam sleeping that Dean remembers from when they were both kids.

Dean used to watch him sleep all the time. Hell, he still does it sometimes now, when they're on the road and sharing a motel room. Dean watches Sam sleep because sometimes it's the only time he gets to see Sam like this.

Soft. Safe. Relaxed.

That's the only reason he watches Sam sleep. To reassure himself that Sam is safe. There couldn't possibly be any other.

Without thinking—he's still not capable of much thought, his head is fuzzy and thick and feels like it's been stuffed with cotton wool—he leans in, closing the few inches between them, and at first he just wants to feel Sam's breath on his face, but then he wants to feel Sam's lips beneath his own.

Sam's eyes fly open. He's not asleep. He's not fucking asleep, the faker. Dean jerks back as it occurs to him what he's done. "Oh shit," he says. "I didn't mean—"

"What—" Sam breathes. "Oh my— Dean?"

"—didn't mean to do that, shit."

"You kissed me."

"I'm drunk." Dean flops into his back, and then he sits bolt upright. He's still fully clothed, he's still got his fucking boots on, and so does Sam. "We're both drunk."

"You kissed me."

He's probably lucky Sam didn't punch him. "You can leave any time," Dean says, gesturing awkwardly at the open door. "Do me a favor and turn off the light on the way out, it hurts my eyes."

As he's looking for the switch, as though he can will it off, his eyes fall on the new blade on the wall. It shines in the light, and the sigils are still darkened with the blood of the hellhound. Yeah, that shit's never coming out. "We made a demon blade last night. That's so cool."

"You kissed me, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean says. He's wanted to do that for years, but there's a reason he never did. Sam's his little brother. "I'm still very drunk."

Dean looks back at the open door. Sam hasn't moved. His silence now is thick, heavy, and it's almost possible to hear the gears in his head turning. He's not leaving. He hasn't punched Dean yet.

"I wanted to, for a long time." That's not the fucking right thing to say. It's exactly the wrong thing to say. "You're my baby brother."

The bed moves as Sam sits up. Dean doesn't dare look back, even when Sam pulls on his shoulder.

"I'm a grown man," Sam says, and then he actually puts his weight into it, forcing Dean to turn, and with his other hand Sam takes Dean by the face and forces him to look.

And then Sam kisses him.

The tension in Sam's body is insane. He's like a guitar string over-wound, like a rubber band stretched to breaking point, he's like—

Sam is kissing him.

His lips are warm and chapped and firm against Dean's own. There's a hum under his skin. No, that sensation is coming from deep in Sam's chest, barely audible, but definitely there.

Dean recognizes the sound. It's like decades of frustration, like the hum under his own skin when he looks at his brother—

Dean pulls away. "You're my brother." He lifts his fingers to his lips, runs his fingertips over them because he can't believe that just happened. His head is swimming, his guts are swirling. "And you're drunk."

"I needed to be," Sam says, and he lifts his hand, runs his fingertips over his own lips, mirroring what Dean is doing. "Needed to lose some inhibitions."

He says it like he's not even ashamed. Like he doesn't care that they're brothers, like he's happy that he finally got something done that he's wanted to do for a while.

"Shit," Dean says, and he licks his lips, and he realizes too late that it's an invitation, that it's a blatant, shameless invitation, because in the next instant Sam's kissing him again.

But this time Sam has his hand cupped around the back of Dean's neck, and his mouth is open against Dean's, and Dean opens up beneath Sam's lips, meets the tip of Sam's tongue with his own.

They both moan at the same time, moan into each others mouth, and the rumble echoes between them, and it sends a shiver straight down to Dean's cock.

Kissing his brother is one thing. Getting hard while doing it is another entirely. "My jeans are too tight," he says, pulling away and gasping, but Sam just pulls him back in.

Sam's wearing the same jeans he always wears, loose, with lots of room, which he probably needs, and now Dean is thinking about his brother's cock.

It's like every part of him wakes up and takes notice. His insides are on fire, every muscle, every sinew, every drop of blood. His heart races like he's in the middle of a fight, and he's not sober, but he's alert.

What the fuck is happening? There's no trigger he can pinpoint, there's no world-ending apocalypse, no crisis, no we're-gonna-die-so-let's-get-emotional-with-each-other.

They did a spell. Made a weapon. Got drunk and fell asleep in the same bed. A series of events that could have come together any of a hundred times over their lives, but why now? Why this time?

Maybe they're old enough now to not give a shit. What the hell relevance does a social taboo even have to them anymore? Nothing, that's what.

Dean shoves Sam off of him, gasps for the air denied his lungs, and he reaches down for Sam's belt. "Show me your cock," he says. "I wanna see it."

Sam knocks Dean's hands away. "Let me," he says, unbuckling his belt, popping the button open, and then he looks up at Dean. He drops his eyes to Dean's crotch, and he lifts one eyebrow, as if to say 'what are you waiting for?'

"Oh, right," Dean says, and then starts on his own jeans. His cock is so hard, and his jeans so tight that he lies down on his back to get them undone. He sighs as the pressure releases, then he's got his cock in his hand before Sam has even unzipped.

"What the fuck are you waiting for?" Dean asks, acutely aware of Sam's eyes on him. Sam moves, too fast for his condition, almost taking a header off of the bed before he finds his feet at the end.

He starts pulling on Dean's boots. Unraveling the laces, pulling them off, tossing them aside. He grabs Dean's socks by the toes, and they go flying across the room. Then he takes hold of the hems of Dean's jeans and pulls.

"Up," Sam says, and Dean obeys, then he's naked from the waist down, lying back on his bed with Sam hovering over him—still entirely clothed.

"I wanna see your cock," Dean demands, spurting precome into his palm as he strokes himself. "I haven't seen it yet."

"Soon, Sam says, as he crawls up the bed from the foot, parting Dean's legs as he goes, his eyes laser focused on Dean's dick. "Yeah, soon," he whispers, his warm breath hitting Dean's fist, the head of his cock.

Dean shivers.

Sam's mouth is an inch away from the tip of his cock. "Oh," Dean says, and then as Sam opens his mouth and drops an open-mouthed kiss to the head, his tongue lapping up the spurt of precome that comes burbling out, Dean gasps. "Oh."

Sam flicks his gaze up and their eyes lock. Sam pulls Dean's hand away, and his lips slide down Dean's cock. There's a kind of challenge in Sam's eyes, something hard, glittering, something of the rivalry between them that's always been there, along with the love and family and mutual respect that's developed over decades fighting side by side.

"I'm too drunk for your fucking games, Sammy," Dean laughs, and then he rolls his eyes up to the ceiling as Sam's cheeks hollow and he sucks.

Sam must have done this before. Everything he does feels good, the press of his tongue to the underside of Dean's cock, the teasing flick at the base of the head every time Sam's lips slide up Dean's shaft. A hint of jealousy coils in Dean's guts, but he pushes it away. It's Dean's cock Sam's sucking right now, and that's all that matters.

Dean suddenly sees the benefit of Sam's long hair. He threads his fingers through it, gets a good grip on it, and he guides Sam. Gently. Oh, he'd love to hold Sam there and fuck into his mouth, but this isn't some random hook up. Sure, they're drunk, sure, they wouldn't be doing this if they weren't, but this is his little brother.

His baby brother. Sucking his cock. And if that isn't the most fucked up thing they've ever done—

Dean gasps as Sam slides his hands up the inside of Dean's thighs, parting them further. He gets a grip beneath Dean's knees and pushes them up into his chest.

"Oh, shit," Dean moans. Something about the vulnerability of being opened like this, of being spread wide and exposed sets a fire in his belly, lust burning like a need he's never felt before. It sparks up his spine like a shock, and he jerks and his fingers lock into the strands of Sam's hair and Dean thrusts up into his brother's mouth.

Sam pulls off Dean's cock and coughs. "I wanna fuck you," he says, with his eyes still on Dean's face, his pupils almost eclipsing the color of his eyes. He slides spit-slick fingers over Dean's hole, circles with a fingertip, pressure behind it. "Let me fuck you."

"Oh, god," Dean moans, as his body jerks, as fear, and uncertainty, and blind, desperate need war inside him. The challenge in Sam's eyes is there again, and Dean knows what it means now.

It's predatory. It's Sam, wanting in him, daring him to decline like a fucked up incestuous game of gay chicken. Joke's on him, though, because while Dean has never hooked up with a dude before, he's never been opposed to the idea.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Do it."

Sam lets out a grunt and his lips twitch into a tight smile, and then he pushes his fingertip into Dean's ass.

"Oh jesus," Dean says. "Oh fuck." It's overwhelming, and he wants both to shrink away and lean into it. It's not entirely new, a few of the more adventurous women he's been with have gone there—and he liked it—but it's a lot.

So he grabs Sam by the hair again, pulls his brother's mouth back to his cock. "Suck it," he says, and sighs as Sam's mouth again slides down his shaft. "Gotta distract me while I get warmed up."

Sam pushes his long, thick finger further into Dean's body as he sucks Dean's cock deep into his mouth.

Dean's head is starting to clear. There's still fluff around the edges, but all of this is sobering him up. He fights it, because once he's sober he's going to look at this in an entirely different way and he doesn't want it to end, not yet.

So he closes his eyes and he sinks into the sensations. His brother's mouth on his cock, the finger in his ass, the sharp prickling stretch of sensitive skin, and the slow thrust as Sam pushes and pulls.

The stretch fades, and Dean's hips want to move, seeking more, seeking that prickle again. "More," he says, fingers tightening in Sam's hair, eyes opening to lock onto his brother's face again.

A look of determination builds on Sam's face, and he pushes another finger into Dean's body on the next stroke.

Dean throws his head back and moans. Sparks spread over his skin, raising goosebumps. Sam's fingers are thicker than any girls who've gone there, but shit, if Dean's going to take Sam's cock he needs this. He thinks about the glimpses he's gotten over the years—a dropped towel, an unlocked bathroom door—Sam hit the genetic lottery in terms of cock size, but Dean still doesn't know if he's a shower or a grower.

That's why he needs to still be drunk. That's why Sam needs to fingerbang him hard before they even get started.

The spit dribbling down over Dean's balls isn't doing the job anymore, either. Dean can feel the friction, feel the way his insides grab at Sam's fingers as he pushes them inside.

"Lube," Dean chokes, and reaches out for the drawer in the bedside cabinet. He can almost reach it, so he uses his elbows to drag him up the bed. He gets it open, grabs the lube, and shoves it into Sam's face. "Do it," he says, bites his lip as he imagines Sam scooping lube with his fingers, shoving it into Dean's ass. "Open me up, Sammy. Get me all wet so we can get this party started."

Snap. Squelch. And then cold, but slick. Sam's fingers slide into Dean easy, drag over his prostate and he seizes up. "Fuck, Dean," Sam says. "You're so tight, I dunno—"

Dean grabs Sam's arm by the wrist and rides it, fucking down on it while he holds Sam's hand in place lest he pull back. The last thing Dean wants is for Sam to retreat after all this. "Don't you fucking chicken out on me now, little brother." He shudders as he finds his prostate, writhes down on the same place, over and over. "That's it. That's it, Sammy. Fuck."

It's not enough. Not nearly enough. "Oh, I'm fucking ready, Sam," Dean chokes, shoving Sam's hand away, groaning as he's suddenly empty while all he really wants is to be filled.

He pushes himself up and reaches for Sam's jeans, belt still hanging open, button open, zipper still closed.

And fuck, yeah, Sam's got a monster in there. Even in his loose jeans it strains against the fly, and as Dean eases the zipper down and pulls at the waist of Sam's boxer briefs, the full magnitude of what he's in for becomes clear.

"Holy fucking shit, Sammy," Dean chokes.

"We don't have to—"

"We fucking do," Dean says, shoving Sam's jeans and underwear down over his hips, and then taking hold of Sam's cock, wrapping his fingers around it and giving it a stroke while precome oozes from the slit.

His mouth waters and he almost drops his head to lap it up. But he knows, if he does that, that's how it'll end, and he wants more, he wants to be fucked, he wants Sam's cock right up inside him, filling him—

He settles for swiping over the head with his thumb and then shoving it in his mouth. It's sweet, almost cloying, sticking to his tongue, and Sam moans and grabs Dean by the hips, tries to pull him down the bed.

Dean shoves him off. He flips over, gets up on his hands and knees, and he reaches back to take hold of Sam's hip. "Like this," he says, and urges Sam to move up between his parted knees. "Fuck me like this." He tenses as he imagines how stretched he's going to be on his little brother's thick cock. "But like, slow. At first."

"Yeah," Sam says as he lines himself up. And he leans in.

Pressure. So much fucking pressure as the spongy head of Sam's cock forces Dean open. Sam breathes hard and gets a better grip on Dean, a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. Dean whimpers, chokes it off, and then, finally—

His body gives way and the room explodes in sound. Dean cries out, high pitched and helpless. Sam lets out a guttural grunt and his hips jerk like he has no control over them, and he sinks in another inch.

"Oh fuck," Dean says. "Fuck, Sammy." It fucking burns, and fire licks over his skin, spreading fast until even his fingertips tingle. He breathes hard, sucking air, filling his lungs. "You're fucking huge, I can't—"

It's Sam's turn to whimper. "Sorry, I—" He starts to pull back.

"Don't you fucking dare, Sam," Dean says, reaching back, clawing his fingers into Sam's hip to stop him. "Don't fucking stop. Just get it done."

Sam moans and pushes forward again, barely moves, and even Dean can feel the tension in him, the control. "You're so tight," Sam says, sounding like he's speaking from behind gritted teeth. "You're so fucking tight, Dean."

"Yeah cos I never had anything shoved up my ass before, Sam." Why the fuck are they even doing this? Oh right, because they're drunk as shit, and horny, and oh, yeah, Sam said he wants to fuck Dean, and all Dean has to do is remember the way he felt when Sam said it.

"I want you to do it, though," Dean says. "Want you to fill me up, God. I want to be full of you, want you deep in-fucking-side me—"

And his cock, which flagged a little once Sam started trying to split him in half, stiffens up again, and the burn starts to fade as his body adjusts. "Give me some more," Dean says. "Go slow, Sammy, but give me a little more."

Sam pulls back a little, and, oh fuck, that actually feels good. And when he pushes back inside he goes just a little deeper.

"Like that," Dean moans, and he claws his fingers into his Egyptian cotton sheets and even pushes back onto his brother's cock. "Yeah, do it like that, it's good, Sammy. Feels good."

"Oh god," Sam moans, and he does it again, pulling back, sinking inside again. And again. And again.

The room fills with Dean's moans, his cries, pitched too high for him to ever admit to, his desperate whimpers. Sam carves out a space for himself inside Dean's body, inch by inch, until finally, his hips meet Dean's ass.

"Jesus," Dean whines. "Fucking hell, Sam. You're all the fucking way in me, holy shit."

Sam just growls and pulls back again. He fucks Dean slow at first, pulling back a little, shoving his cock back in. And every time he pulls back he does so just little more, until finally the head of his cock catches at Dean's rim before he slams back inside.

Then it's all a fucking blur. Sam's hands lock on Deans' hips, holding Dean tight, and he's probably going to bruise. He's probably going to have bruises on his ass as well from where Sam's hips slam into him over and over again.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Dean says, the words timed with each thrust. His cock is hard, and he looks beneath him and watches as the precome dribbling from his cock traces patterns of wetness on his favorite sheets. "Don't come," he begs. "Don't come yet, I'm not—"

He's not ready for it to end, yet. With every thrust Sam's cock drags over his prostate, but it's too fleeting, too brief, and every time he wants Sam to slow, to drive the head of his cock into that spot, but then it's gone. Dean arches, and then he reaches up, climbs up the headboard, wishes he was closer so he could drop himself over it, because he's so close, it's so close to the right angle.

But then Sam grabs him around the chest, pulls him up, and god, the fucker is strong. Dean forgets that, because Sam will always be his baby brother, and yet he's been bigger and stronger than Dean for years now.

With Dean's back pressed against Sam's chest, the angle changes, and Sam's thrusts are shallower, slower, and yet, god, he's hitting that spot every fucking time, and Dean loses it, starts to lose himself, and he's got to hold onto something.

So he reaches up, back, grabs hold of Sam's hair again—he's never going to ask Sam to cut it again—and he tips his head up, bends his neck, seeking connection, seeking Sam's eyes.

But Sam kisses him. Kisses him hard, and wet, and dirty. It's all lips and teeth and tongue. Dean can't kiss back, can't do much of anything as with every thrust a shudder flows through him, like a shock, like a jolt of electricity.

His balls are tight and his cock aches with need. "Make me come," he begs. "Please, Sammy, please. Make me come."

Sam shifts his hand to Dean's cock and starts to stroke. In time with his thrusts he pulls on Dean's cock and all Dean can do is hold on for dear life, his fingers clawing into Sam's hair, his head thrown back on his brother's shoulder, sharp gasps spilling from his throat as he climbs, higher, higher, closer to the edge.

When his orgasm hits his body seizes, and he comes painfully, violently, his cock spurting over his nice sheets and pillows. He can feel Sam's cock inside him, like he can feel every fucking vein, the ridge at the head.

Then he slumps, heavy, wrecked, wrung out, and Sam pushes Dean forward, back onto the mattress.

Dean's arms can't hold him up, and he collapses onto his shoulders. He's lying in his own come, sticky on his cheek, and he doesn't even care. He's fucking done, wiped out.

"You're so fucking tight," Sam says, taking Dean by the hips again, fucking deep, pulling out, fucking in again. "So fucking tight." Sam starts to fuck Dean again in earnest, with purpose, and all Dean can think about is having his brother's come inside him, about Sam shooting deep inside.

"Do it," Dean rasps, his throat wrecked and sore like he's been screaming. "Come inside me. Come in my ass, Sammy, oh god. You're gonna come in me, my baby brother is going to come in my ass. I want it. I want it, Sam, do it."

Like a trigger Sam starts to grunt and moan, and his thrusts grow jerky, almost violent. He slams into Dean like he's got no control, and then he stills, and he groans, long and drawn out, deep and heavy.

Dean can feel the rhythmic twitch of Sam's cock as he spills, and imagines being filled, Sam painting his insides with come.

Sam drops down over Dean's body, catching himself on his hands. Sam's cock slips out of Dean's ass, and something hot and wet hits the inside of his thigh, then Sam flops over onto his side on the bed.

"Holy shit," he says.

Dean collapses in the other direction. He rubs at his cheek with his hand, and it comes away covered in sticky, cooling come. "Gross," Dean says, and then looks up into his brother's eyes.

Holy fuck. They just fucked. Sam fucked him. Dean got fucked by his little brother.

A chill comes over him as the sweat on his skin starts to evaporate, so he drags at the blankets that at some point were shoved aside, and he covers them both. "I need to sleep," he says, and closes his eyes.

---

Dean's ass fucking aches. That's what wakes him up, along with a rather insistent need to piss.

His head is pounding, too. His mouth is dry, tastes like ass, and there's a burn in his throat that's unmistakably stomach acid.

"Why?" he moans, as he scrubs his hand over his face and rolls onto his back.

And into the worst fucking wet patch he's ever felt.

Everything comes rushing in.

Dean sits bolt upright, eyes wide, but they never got around to turning off the goddamn light last night, and it feels like he's been smacked in the head with a two-by-four.

His eyes snap shut again, and when he turns to see if Sam's still here, he opens his eyes just a sliver.

And there's his brother. Still in Dean's bed after a night of drunken depravity, and he's squinting up at Dean like he's got all the same problems.

Except the sore ass, Dean will bet.

"What the fuck did we do?" Dean whines. "Shit, Sam. What the fuck have we done?"

It's rhetorical, of course. Dean remembers everything. The kissing, Sam's mouth on his dick, fingers up Dean' ass, and then—

"Oh, god," Sam chokes. He sits up and reaches out for Dean. "Don't you remember? I'm so fucking sor—"

"I remember," Dean says. "Don't hurt yourself apologizing. I remember everything." He shifts, trying to ease the ache, but it does nothing. "And if I didn't I would have been able to figure it out because it feels like someone shoved a beer can up my ass, jesus."

"Are you okay?" Sam puts the back of his hand to Dean's cheek—like he's checking for a fever, but then turns it over and drags his thumb over Dean's lips. "Did I hurt you?"

"I'll live." Dean should probably brush Sam's hand away, but maybe it's too late for that now. Instead, he closes his eyes and leans into the touch. "What now?" he whispers. "I mean, we both wanted that, right?"

"I did," Sam says. And then he pulls Dean to him, hand clamped around the back of his neck, and draws him into a kiss.

It's almost chaste at first. Just the soft press of Sam's lips to Dean's, but then Dean parts his lips on a sigh, and Sam's tongue slips inside.

Dean sucks on it and remembers wanting to suck Sam's dick the night before. He pushes Sam away. "Shower," he says.

"Together?" Sam lifts one eyebrow.

"Together," Dean nods. They're going to clean all the muck off of themselves, and then he's going to drop to his knees under the water, and he's going to suck his little brother's cock.