Cedar Mountain, Utah

They'd always believed that Bigfoot was a myth. Everything they'd ever heard had said it: Sasquatches didn't exist, and 'squatchers were crackpots that bore no resemblance to real monster hunters.

Only the last bit turned out to be true. They'd caught wind of a group of 'hikers' torn apart in the Dixie National Forest, and headed to Utah to check it out.

The hikers turned out to be a bunch of goddamn idiots with no business cornering a wild animal that didn't want to be cornered.

After Sam and Dean killed the creature that had come after them when they were checking out the scene—self-defence, of course, because Sam had been all for leaving it to go back into hiding—they took shelter for the night in a cabin they'd passed on the way up.

Dean fucking hates snow.

It's cold, and wet, and when they try to open the door in the morning, it fucking won't. There's snow up to the windows, and they could break one and get out that way, but they'd inevitably freeze to death hiking back down to where they left the car and Dean would rather hole up for a few days than risk it.

There's firewood piled up inside, a ton of canned food, and, best of all, about a years supply of good whiskey in dusty bottles boxed up under the bed. So they're good. Bored out of their minds, but safe.

Dean's working on a three day drunk. A slow, gentle drunk, because he's gonna have to come down eventually, and he'll have to be able to walk when he does. But he's been comfortably numb for going on 72 hours, killing time watching downloaded porn on Sam's laptop (until the battery died), reading abridged Reader's Digest editions, and now they're playing 'Lore Scrabble' and bickering over correct spelling and word scores.

"That is not how you spell Pishtaco, Dean," Sam says, squinting at the board with a disgusted look on his face. "If you're not going to take this seriously—"

"Whatever, man." Dean lifts a half-empty bottle to his lips, and there's not even a burn when the whiskey goes down. "It's not about the spelling, anyway. It's about the knowledge." He tries to tap his temple with one finger, but the bottle's in the way, and he just ends up braining himself and dissolving into giggles.

Sam reaches over the table and grabs the bottle by the neck before it falls to the floor, sinks backward into the worn, sagging couch on the other side of the coffee table. "This is a dumb game, Dean. This whole job was a dumb idea. Your dumb idea. You're dumb."

Sam's only been drinking properly for about a day. He hit it harder than Dean did, which is kind of telling for his level of frustration at being cooped up. Sam's funny when he's drunk, and Dean just grins at him. "I am a very ingellitant invididual." He stands and leans over the game, wrenches the bottle from Sam's grasp. "So shut up."

"Jerk."

"Bitch." Dean steps over the table, catches the edge of the scrabble board with his toes, and sends it flying onto the floor. Tiles are still rattling as he falls into the couch beside Sam. The cushions sink beneath their combined weight, and they roll together, and Dean cradles the whiskey bottle to his chest as he drops his head onto Sam's shoulder.

Sam lets out a heavy sigh as he lets his head fall onto Dean's. "I fucking hate snow."

---

They're still sitting in the exact same position an hour later. The level of whiskey in the bottle is considerably lower, and the only reason neither of them falls off the couch is the fact they're propping each other up. Dean can't remember the last time either of them spoke, and he wonders if Sam's gone to sleep.

Dean tugs the bottle from were it's wedged between Sam's knees and lifts it to his mouth. A sip, and he drops it, props it on his own knee. "Ever tell you about the time I—"

Apparently Sam's still awake, because he groans and slaps a hand over Dean's face. He misses Dean's mouth, and his palm is sticky on Dean's chin. "Don't wanna hear anymore sex stories. You got too many sex stories."

Dean grins as he bats Sam's hand away. "I know, right." Lots of great memories, and he wants to share them, even when all the response he gets is Sam's gross face.

Actually, that's kinda fun. "Tell me your stories, then, Sammy."

"I don't have sex stories, Dean."

Dean jerks up out of the hole in the back of the couch he's sunk into. His back straightens, and the bottle almost goes over, spilling just a few tiny drops before Dean saves it. "What, none?"

Sam straightens a little himself, but he sways a bit, and squints like he's trying to focus. "Nothing I'm telling you." He shakes his head. "Talking about sex with you is weird. Jesus."

"Can't share it with me, who can you share it with?" Dean tips his head to the side, forever amused with the way Sam's avoiding his eyes. "I know you've had sex, man. You can't tell me you've never gotten a little freaky before." He wriggles his butt down into the couch, gets comfortable. "So spill."

"Weird." Sam turns away, drops his head and looks at his hands, shakes his head like he's confused. Then he lifts his head and snatches the bottle out of Dean's hands. He tips the bottle up, damn near drains it before he gives it back. "Way weirder than your stupid girl stories."

Dean finishes the last of the alchohol they've allowed themselves for the night, sticks his finger in the neck and sucks it, and then he blinks. "Wait, what?" The bottle hits the floor, rolls off the rug and onto the wooden boards. "You've got not-girl stories?"

"We drunk all the booze, Dean," Sam says, and covers his mouth with a hand as he yawns. "'M going to bed."

"Hell no." Dean grabs Sam by the arm and yanks him back down as he tries to stand. Sam totters, falls half in Dean's lap, half onto the floor before he rolls off and onto his knees on the rug. "Are there—" He swallows, hard. "Oh my god. Guy stories?" He reaches down, grabs hold of Sam's lapels, and gives him a shake. "Have you done it with dudes, Sam?"

Sam gets a wicked gleam in his eyes, and he fights a smirk. "If I had, would you want to hear all the details, Dean?" He rises up on his knees, and leans in close, close enough that Dean can smell the whiskey on his breath. "Want me to tell you exactly how it feels when you're stuffed so full you can't—"

It's Dean's turn to clap a hand over Sam's mouth. Predictably, Sam licks Dean's palm, just like he's done since he was six years old when Dean's tried to shut him up. "Eww, Sam. Gross." Dean wipes his hand on his jeans, then gives him a shove. Sam rocks back onto his heels. "You haven't done guys. You're bullshitting me."

Sam lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Yes and no." He pushes himself to his feet, sways a little, and then sinks back onto the couch, apparently forgetting that he was on his way to bed. "Still know what it feels like to be stuffed full of dick."

He says it so casually that Dean knows he's not fucking with him anymore. And his head drops onto the back of the couch, and his eyes close, and Dean just stares at him.

Long minutes pass, and Dean's mind is stuffed full of cotton wool and questions that he can't turn into words. He just gapes at Sam until he's about ready to give up.

"'S kinda nice," Sam finally murmurs.

Dean chokes on his tongue, starts to cough. Whiskey burns the back of his throat.

Sam lifts his head, and there's concern in his eyes, and it's weird, because they've just been talking about what they've just been talking about. "You okay?" He leans forward, thumps Dean on the back a few times. "Breathe, man."

Dean gasps for air, flails as Sam hits him a little too hard. "I think my brain just imploded." He's got all these thoughts and images bombarding him too fast for his alcohol fogged brain to handle. "You," he rasps, "dick."

Sam pulls a face. "Jerk."

"No." Dean clears his throat, but it fucking hurts now. "Dick. You—" He looks Sam up and down. "Jesus."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I've never had sex with another guy, Dean. Don't hurt yourself trying to not think about it."

Dean frowns, because it's not making sense in his head. "Then I must be really drunk, because I'm pretty sure you said—"

"I did it to myself."

Dean thinks about it for half a minute, then he bursts out laughing. "Oh my god. That's priceless, Sammy. You fuck yourself with a rubber cock?" It's Dean's turn to roll off the couch, clutching his stomach because he's afraid he might just chuck up the liquid contents, and that'll burn like a bitch coming out.

Sam leans over, peers down at him. "Why would I, when my real cock does the job perfectly well?" He quirks an eyebrow and smirks.

Dean blinks, not comprehending for a good half-minute. His mind works slowly, sluggish, but finally catches up. Sam's eyes, still boring into him, seem to catch the moment Dean catches on, and they crease at the corners when he smiles.

"Bullshit," Dean says. He climbs back up to his knees, and his eyes flick down, very briefly, then up again, because he's so not looking for some indication that his brother is capable of such a thing. "That's not even possible."

Sam presses his lips together tight to suppress a smile. "It's completely possible."

Dean's eyes flick down again. You can't live so close together without occasionally getting a peek at each other's equipment, and Sam's big all over, but Dean's sure he doesn't have the kind of length he'd need to— "We are talking about the same thing, right? You're telling me you can..."

Sam grins. "Fuck myself. Yeah."

Dean chokes on his tongue. "Oh my god." He drags his eyes away from where they're still lingering on Sam's crotch, brings them up to Sam's face. "No way, man."

Sam pulls away, pushes Dean's hands off him. "Whatever. You don't believe me? I don't care." He pushes himself up off the couch.

"Prove it."

The words fall out of Dean's mouth before he's really had a chance to think them through, and he swallows hard when Sam's eyes start to twinkle with amusement. "Seriously?" Sam says. "And how would you like me to do that, Dean?"

Dean swallows hard again, because there's something lodged in his throat that won't shift. "Um."

"You want a demonstration?"

Dean just stares at him for long moments. He coughs and clears his throat, and then he thinks, fuck it. "Yeah. What the hell, man. Gimme a show."

Sam's face splits into a grin, and then he laughs out loud. "Okay, Dean." He turns away, but he doesn't go for the bed. He grabs his bag off the floor, reaches into it, and pulls out lube. Actual lube. Sammy has lube in his bag.

Then he strips off his shirt, and heads for the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

Dean stares at the closed door for a long time. His head is swimming, and he's not exactly sure what he just agreed to, but he suddenly realizes that he chubbed up in his jeans at some stage in recent history.

---

It's a good ten or fifteen minutes later that Sam emerges from the bathroom. Dean's still on the couch, just sitting there. He figures he probably looks terrified, because Sam's looking amused again, but he's kind of flushed and Sam doesn't tend to pink up like that, so it's interesting.

It's not that Dean wasn't wondering what Sam was doing in there. He's pretty much figured it out, since he didn't hear the water running, but he's trying real hard not to think about the fact that Sam probably had his fingers up his ass, because for some reason that seems to make Dean's jeans feel a little too tight, and there's something really wrong about that.

There's a clear line of sight from the couch to the only bed in the cabin, so when Sam heads there, Dean stays right where he is. Sam came out of the bathroom wearing only his black boxer briefs, and it's not like they don't wander around in their underwear from time to time, so big woop. But then Sam climbs up onto the bed, lies on his back, and slowly wriggles out of his underwear.

Dean gets a good look at Sam's ass first. Okay, so again, not something he's never seen before. Sam gets his shorts off his feet and drops them over the side of the bed, and then Dean's watching his brother stretched out on the big bed completely naked.

Sam doesn't look over at Dean. He hasn't said a word since he came out of the bathroom. His knees are slightly raised, and his cock is fairly soft, lying on his belly. And okay, even barely half-hard, there's some length there, but not anything Dean believes would make what Sam seems to think he's about to do possible.

Sam takes a couple of deep breaths, lets them out slow. Then he slowly raises his knees and spreads his thighs apart. Dean's eyes immediately drop, and there's his brother's asshole, shiny and slick and reddened and Dean thinks about Sam's fingers up there again. He gets a bit lost thinking about it, and completely misses the moment Sam touches his own cock.

The next thing Dean knows, Sam's pulling his balls out of the way and pushing his cock, still only half-hard, down towards his ass. It's almost like he's stroking it as he slides his hand over it, once, twice, three times, three fingers seeming to work over the head with just a little more attention.

"Fuck," Dean says, watching in disbelief as Sam pushes the spongy head of his cock into his hole. "What the actual fuck, dude?" He pushes himself up off the couch with no actual thought involved, just the need to see more because he barely believes what he's seeing with his own eyes.

Sam's eyes flick to him, so quick Dean would have missed it had he blinked, then back to the ceiling. "Believe me now, Dean?" he says, just a little bit breathless. His hand is still moving over his dick, slowly stroking down the length, except there's pressure behind the touch, and Dean realizes Sam's pushing, stroke after stroke, nudging the head of his cock further into his ass.

"Yeah," Dean breathes out, as he watches, mesmerized, as Sam's dick thickens, hardens, inside his own ass. "Fuck, Sammy." He takes an involuntary step toward the bed. "How does that even feel?"

As though in response, Sam's hips hitch up off the bed on a gasp. He doesn't answer verbally, but he turns his head, looks right at Dean as he pushes his cock into his ass. His mouth hangs open, and as he arches up again, his eyes flutter closed and he lets out a soft moan.

"Holy shit, Sam." Dean takes a few more steps, his feet taking him toward the end of the bed. He stands at the bottom corner and drops to his knees on the floor, and from his vantage he can see both Sam's cock pushing in and out of his ass, and Sam's face, as he looks back down at Dean. "This is insane."

Sam's got a rhythm now, his hips pumping up into his hands even as he pushes his cock into his ass, and this movement, this thrusting, is so much like sex, and almost nothing like masturbation, and Dean can't even compare the two acts right now. Sam isn't jerking off, he's fucking, but he's not just fucking.

It's like when a girl fucks herself back on Dean's dick as he thrusts forward. God, he loves that. That reflected hunger, the inability to wait, the proof that's he's not the only one involved...

And yet, Sam. Holy shit.

Sam's thrusts, his rhythm, falters. The bed bounces unevenly beneath him, and his breathing has devolved into shaky gasps and grunts. His cock, bent down at the root, is fat and stiff, thick and veined, and his balls, shoved out of the way and held there with the heel of one hand, are drawn up tight.

"You gonna come, Sam?" Dean's eyes flick up to Sam's face, wide eyed, gasping. "Show me, Sammy. Come on."

Sam's eyes snap shut as his head jerks back. Dean looks back at where Sam's shoving his cock into his ass, sees his hips jerk, hard, and pause several inches above the bed as he lets out a long, low groan.

His cock jerks, pulses, jumps as Sam's hands shake and fall away. His cock continues to jerk, pumping into his ass, and holy shit, Sam's ass is contracting, milking the come out of him and it's like a revelation, a simultaneous orgasm every time, and what that must feel like, every jerk of Sam's cock coinciding with the sucking clench of his ass to hold him inside.

Beads of come appear at Sam's rim, then spill out as Sam's cock slips out of his ass, still spurting. It dribbles down over his loose, wet hole, then Sam's hips hit the mattress.

The bed is still gently bouncing as Dean rises to his feet and looks down on the spent and wrecked form of his brother. "Holy shit, Sam," he breathes. "That was..."

Sam opens heavy-lidded eyes and looks up at Dean. His eyes move away quickly, a little coy as he rolls to his side. He bites his lower lip and huffs out a breath. "A little weird?"

Dean's eyes widen and he snorts with laughter. "Oh, yeah. Completely. But hot. Jesus, Sammy."

Sam groans and rolls onto his stomach, then leans over the edge of the bed and snags his boxer briefs with one finger. He pulls his legs up, swings them over the side, and with a grimace, pulls his underwear on. "Yeah that's kinda weird."

Before Sam tucks his dick away, Dean looks at it critically. "You're proportional, dude. Your dick's only huge because the rest of you is. I could so do that."

"Be my guest," Sam says, waving at the bed as he pulls himself up and heads for the bathroom. Before he shuts the door, he tosses something out.

Hunter's reflexes make Dean catch it before he even knows what it is. When he opens his fist, he sees Sam's bottle of lube.

---

Dean hears the shower running this time, and he thinks about what Sam's washing away. He's never going to forget the sight of come dripping out of his brother's asshole, never, and he doesn't want to. That was Sam's own come, he got his cock up his own ass, quite literally fucked himself, and Dean's never ever seen porn that'll top it.

Holy crap. His own brother is now in his spank bank.

Dean sits down heavily on the end of the bed, then collapses backward and grins up at the ceiling. This is nuts, what Sam just did was nuts, Dean watching him do it was nuts, but Dean's hard, so fucking hard, and he's going to have to do something about it, and soon.

The shower shuts off, and Dean looks toward the bathroom. Something cold and wet touches his cheek, and he jerks away, wiping at it with the heel of his hand and letting out a strangled squawk when he realizes it's Sam's come, because gross, and Sam totally should have put a towel down before doing that on the bed.

The bottle of lube is still in his hand and he's staring down at it when Sam comes out of the bathroom, rubbing a towel over his hair. He looks sleepy and sated, and Dean can't help staring at him standing there in a t-shirt and worn trackpants and being a little disappointed because, well, he's seen it all now anyway, and why cover that up?

"Because it's the middle of winter and it's snowing outside?" Sam says, looking amused.

Dean grins and rolls onto his stomach—carefully avoiding the wet patch this time. "Guess I said that out loud." He waves the bottle, almost flips himself back onto his back when he does it. "So how do you go about sticking your dick up your ass for the first time, Sam? Since you're the big expert and all. Gonna give me some pointers here?"

Sam finishes towel-drying his hair and drops the towel onto the floor, then he looks pointedly at Dean's crotch. "You gotta lose the boner first, Dean. No way in hell you're getting it in if you're that hard."

Dean looks down at where the denim of his jeans is strained over his erection and huffs. "No. Yeah."

"Ever had anything up there before?" Sam says, as he slowly moves toward the bed. He lowers himself onto the edge, and his eyes are still on Dean's crotch. "No? Stretch yourself fast enough and that'll take care of it."

Dean thinks about how Sam disappeared into the bathroom and came out with his hole already slick and shiny and loose. "You didn't show me that part." He pops the button of his jeans, lowers the zip, very aware that Sam's eyes haven't moved from his cock. "I got no idea what I'm doing."

Sam's still watching as Dean kicks off his jeans and his boxers, then when Dean lies back, naked from the waist down, his cock arching up over his stomach and leaving little trails of pre-come on his skin, legs twitching uncomfortably because he has no idea what to do with them, Sam leans over and picks up the bottle from where Dean dropped it on the bed.

"Take off your shirt," he says, as his eyes slide up Dean's body. "And turn over. I'll get you started."

Dean's on his hands and knees before he registers Sam's meaning. He hears the pop of the plastic cap, the squelch of liquid as Sam slicks his fingers, and the bed dips as Sam kneels on the end. "What the—?" he gets out, then lets out a strangled squawk as slick fingers slide over his exposed hole. "Holy fuck, Sammy. That's cold. Are you really gonna—?" He chokes on the words as Sam pushes with one finger, circles his hole with firm pressure. "Whoa."

He grunts and falls forward onto his face when Sam just shoves it in.

"What the hell, man," Dean croaks, pressing himself up onto his elbows. The situation is ridiculous, because he's got his bare ass in the air, and his baby brother is behind him with a finger shoved right up there, and Dean's never had anything up his ass before, and this is supposed to be fun? Why do guys do this, seriously? It's just uncomfortable. "A little warning?"

"Gotta get you loosened up if you wanna do this, Dean," Sam says, sliding his finger out slow. It's joined by another, and Sam's pushing with two fingers, tugging and circling and Dean kinda wishes he could see what's going on. "You're trying to get a soft cock into a small hole, and you're tight." He slaps Dean on the ass with the flat of his free hand. "Relax, man." He twists his fingers, corkscrewing them in, slower this time.

Dean lets out a strangled moan as his asshole burns and sparks of pain tingle all the way out to his fingers and toes. His toes curl and he stiffens up all over. Except that Sam was right about one thing, because he's completely lost his boner. "Sam, fuck. This how you get your kicks, man?"

Sam snorts behind him as he starts to thrust two fingers in and out of Dean's hole, tugging at the rim on the way out, stretching it as he pulls his fingers apart. "Stop being such a baby, Dean." He pulls out completely, then what must be three fingers push at Dean's hole and force their way inside.

Dean gasps for breath, his cock hanging loose and soft between his thighs. "Sure, while you're violating me."

"You see any restraints, Dean?" Sam pumps his fingers in and out of Dean's ass. "You want me to stop?"

Dean's leg twitches as a particularly hard thrust makes him burn all over again. "Ugh. Just get it done."

Sam slides his fingers out and slaps Dean on the ass. "Done." The bed bounces when Sam gets off, then he moves around to the side of the bed. "Be easier on your back. You'll wanna do it quick, and don't think too much or you'll get hard again."

Dean stares up at him, panting at the sudden emptiness inside him. It's not pleasant. He flops over, tries to remember what Sam did first, and spreads his legs. His cock twitches, because his mind keeps going back to seeing Sam's dick jerk and jump as he was coming, come spilling out of his hole as it slipped out.

"Come on, Dean," Sam urges, and when Dean just stares up at him stupidly, he reaches down, and he pushes Dean's knees apart. He tips his head to the side, like he's examining Dean's sloppy hole. "Just push it down and pop it in."

Dean reaches for his cock, his neck straining as he tries to look down his body at what he's doing. He flops his dick over, and holy shit, he's starting to chub up already. His heart pounds as he thinks about what he's about to do.

His balls get in the way, there's no way the head of his dick is going anywhere near his asshole, and he grunts in frustration. The bed dips again as Sam kneels on the side, pushes Dean's hands out of the way and takes over.

Dean's head hits the mattress, and he gasps as Sam touches his dick. It gives a jerk, but it's still not completely hard. Sam's hands move fast, tugging his balls aside, pushing Dean's cock down toward his hole. "Tip your hips up a little," Sam says, in the same tone of voice he uses when he's stitching a wound. Dean does, and then, okay, he might have hardened just enough to give him a little more length, because there's something brushing the edge of his hole, sliding in the slick already there, then pressure, and it feels as though Sam's stretching, pulling on his cock, and then—

"Ungh, fuck," Dean says, a breath rushing out of him, his whole body twitching as the head of his cock pops in. It slips out, and Sam curses, but he pushes, and it goes in again, and he holds it there.

All Dean can hear is his own quick breath, and all he can see is Sam's profile, his expression kind of intent and focused. The sensations are confusing, the tight grip around the head of his dick, the stretch and fullness inside his ass. It's different from having Sam's fingers up there, softer, molding to fit instead of the irregular intrusion of Sam's digits.

He moans, and his body gives an involuntary spasm, and with it his ass squeezes the head of his dick, and it actually feels kinda nice having something up there that fits so well. He never expected that, didn't think too hard about it, just considered the idea that here was a convenient hole to fuck when his hand didn't quite deceive him satisfactorily. It's a whole new level of feeling, and Dean has no idea what to do with it, how to process it.

"Feel good?" Sam asks, and he's looking at Dean's face now, and there's this kind of sly smile spreading over his face, and his hand, still on Dean's cock,pushes.

Dean lets out a groan and shudders as his own dick inches further into his ass, and he feels tighter around his cock now, and he's going deeper, and— "Oh my fucking god, Sammy." Dean's getting hard. It happened so slow at first that he barely noticed, but he's getting really fucking hard now, lengthening inside his own body, filling his ass, and he can't even think because it's happening all over and it's not something he's ever had to deal with before. "Too much, too fucking—" He jerks his hips, instinct driving him to thrust his cock deeper, and somehow it works. "Fuck."

"Here." Sam grabs Dean's hands, one at a time, from where they're twisting into the sheets at his hips, and puts them over his own cock, then takes his own away. "You do it."

Sam's voice is shaky and his breath is uneven, and Dean can't tear his eyes from Sam's face as he pushes down on his dick, pushing it further into his ass as he raises his hips to thrust up. He's really fucking hard now, stabbing down into his ass, and he goes kind of jerky and the bed bounces beneath him and Sam's mouth drops open as he watches, licks his lips, bites down on the lower lip. "You're gonna come," Sam rasps, and his hand goes to his crotch, pushes down with the heel of his hand. "Come on, Dean. You're gonna come."

All the weirdness of having his brother's hands on him, his brother watching him, is just gone, doesn't matter, Dean doesn't care, because he's fucking a hole, and he's so full—

Almost not full enough. He wants to get deeper inside himself, but it's not his dick demanding more penetration, it's his ass, sucking at his cock like it can't get enough, clenching down on it like it wants to take it all—

Something streaks up his spine and he goes rigid, hips hovering over the mattress as his balls pull up tight. His orgasm crashes down on him like never before, and he feels it. He feels his cock pumping inside his ass, and he feels his ass clamping down on him, rhythmic squeezes that seem to milk the come right out of him.

Dean's still coming when he collapses back down onto the bed, and his hands fall to his thighs, and he groans as his cock slips free of his ass, keeps pumping out come over his balls and inner thigh. The loss, the clenching emptiness of his ass is almost painful, and he wants to be full again. He chokes when he looks at Sam, because Sam's staring down at him and rubbing his cock through his pants, and Dean doesn't even think before he opens his mouth. "Put it in me." Dean can see the shape of Sam's dick through the fabric, long, thick, and he needs to be full, stretched, needs it deeper than he could get with his own. "Sammy, please."

Sam's eyes flick up to Dean's face, wide and shocked. "What?"

Dean moans and writhes, spreads his legs even further. "Want it deep," he grunts, and pulls his knees up. "Sam."

Sam stares for a second, and then he moves, dropping his pants, almost tripping over them as he climbs onto the end of the bed. He puts his hands on Dean's knees, folds him almost in half as he shifts up the bed. And he just sinks in, Dean's own come slicking the way, and he groans as he goes deep.

Dean flings his head back into the mattress, moans as Sam opens him up all over again. He's thicker than Dean, and his cock is a throbbing ache right up inside.

His cock lies soft on his belly, and as Sam bottoms out, it gives one last spurt. Come dribbles from Dean's slit, he clenches up again, and he can feel Sam, right up inside him, so deep, so full, hitting places he couldn't ever hope to reach on his own. Dean throws his head back again and groans. "You're big, Sammy. Fuck." He writhes up, his body twisting, his knees braced beneath by Sam's large hands, and he drives himself down on Sam's dick.

It's a completely different angle, and the head of Sam's cock grazes over a place inside him that is just pure pleasure, and it makes his whole body sing, burn, and Dean jerks, jabbing Sam's cock in that place all over again, and a sound comes from his throat that he'll never admit to, not in a million years. "More," he rasps, wrecked, wrung out, ruined.

Sam, skin shining with sweat, wraps his arms around Dean's thighs and drags his hips up off the bed, holds him there, muscles bulging, and he drives himself into Dean, over and over, guttural, animal grunts issuing from his throat on every thrust. "So good, Dean," he growls. "So fucking tight. Feel so fucking good."

His thrusts go erratic, irregular. Dean's gonna bruise, Sam's holding him so tight, pounding into Dean's ass again and again. Sam falters, misses a beat, finally jerks Dean hard onto his cock as he starts to come.

He roars, throwing his head back and crying out at the ceiling. He seems to come forever, and everything goes slicker inside, and Sam starts pumping again, gradually easing back to nothing.

He collapses forward, barely catching himself on his hands before he breaks Dean's back, and he stares down into Dean's eyes, wide-eyed and shocked and utterly breathless.

And Dean can do nothing but stare back up at him, mouth wide open and gasping for air.

---

Morning sun spills across the rough-hewn table between them, and the smell of coffee fills the cabin. Dean's palms are pressed to the sides of his head, doing nothing to quell the pounding in his temples.

Slowly, he lifts his head, cracks his eyes open to narrow slits, shades his eyes with one hand, and chances a look across the table. "So," he says, very softly, because anything louder just makes his head hurt. "We did that."

Sam presses his lips together, and swallows hard, nodding his head. "We did."

Dean stares at the worried crease between Sam's brows, at the pinched expression on his brother's face, then he cracks a smile. It hurts, but it's worth it to see the surprise on Sam's face and the tension melt away. "I don't know about you, man, but I had a hell of a time. We gotta get wasted like that more often. Love the way you loosen up with a bit of liquid lubrication."

Sam's face splits into a wide grin, even as he turns away, just a little coy. "You don't loosen up too bad yourself," he says, lifting his eyes and biting at the edge of his lower lip. "Cockslut."

Dean's eyes go wide and he jerks back, wincing as his head pounds. "Whore."

Sam fights a smile. "Shut up." Then he lets go, throws his head back and laughs.

Dean smiles into his coffee cup as he drains it.

fin