“You wanna talk so much?” Dean says. “Then I choose the subject. And we're talking about our kinks.” He grinned. “You go first.”

“I don't have kinks,” Sam says. Their lives are exciting enough as it is. He sure doesn't need to be tied up and spanked when he could get half of that any day of the week, just not in the good way.

“Everyone has kinks, Sammy,” Dean says. “Come on, man. You're screwing your big brother. That's not exactly vanilla, is it?”

Sam's jaw almost drops, because Dean doesn't want to talk about it. Never wants to talk about what they started doing just a few weeks ago.

“I dunno,” Sam says, having composed himself reasonably well. “We haven't exactly branched out. All we do is fuck and then not talk about it. Seems pretty goddamn vanilla to me.”

It's Dean's turn to be surprised. Shock, maybe. Yeah, that's what it is, as all the color drains out of his face and he shows the whites of his eyes. “Yeah, well,” he stammers, dropping his eyes to the floor. “Maybe it's time we did other stuff. Too. As well. I don't mean—”

“You don't want to stop,” Sam says, can hear the wonderment in his own voice. “You know, Dean, that's the most you've said about it since we started. I never knew if you really wanted this or not. Every time I touch you I'm waiting for you to freak out and leave, cos I never knew otherwise.”

Something occurs to him then, something that he really should have realized as soon as Dean brought it up. “Huh. That's why we're talking about kink, isn't it, Dean? You want something from me. Something I'm not giving you.”

Dean just blinks at him. He's twitchy, like he wants to get up and run. “What? No. I just want to know if you—”

“That's bullshit, Dean. You want something? Just ask, for fucks sake. Want me to tie you up or something?” Sam lets a sly smile spread over his face. “Cos I'll do it.”

Dean shakes his head, still as white as a sheet. “You first.”

“You're not tying me up, Dean. That's not my deal.”

“No, I didn't mean—” Dean sighs, scrubs both his hands over his face. “Okay. Look. This is hard for me, okay?” He's talking very fast, the words coming out like he has to force them. “Just might be easier if you go first, you know? You tell me something freaky and it'll be easier for me to say it. Right?”

Sam has to laugh, but shuts it down quick. “Sure, yeah. But, Dean. I'm just not that…” He stops. “Other than fucking my big brother. That's as freaky as I get. I mean, I'm not opposed to spicing things up a bit, and if you want something—within reason—I'm happy to do it.”

Dean bites his lip, eyes downcast. “What do you think about, when you, you know. When you jerk off?”

“You.” Sam doesn't hesitate.

Dean's head jerks up. “Seriously?”

Sam nods. “Since I was sixteen years old, Dean. All I ever wanted to do was be able to hold my big brother down and fuck him. So, you see? I don't need any kinks. I'm already getting my ultimate sexual fantasy.”

“Whoa,” Dean says, and finally, the color starts coming back into his face, starting with his cheeks flushing pink, and it spreads quickly to the rest of him. “Whoa.”

Sam shrugs. “Your turn, Dean. Tell me what you want.”

Dean ducks his head, fights an embarrassed smile. “I dunno, Sammy, I—”

“I just told you I've been wanting to fuck you half my life.”

Dean just gets even more embarrassed, hiding his face, but he reaches out, grabs Sam by the front of his shirt, and he pulls him close. He pushes his face into Sam's throat, breathes hot and damp and heavy. “Let's do that,” he says, quiet and muffled.

Sam's pulse pounds, and his skin heats. “Dean,” he says. “Tell me what you want.”

“Your hands on me,” Dean pants, and he drags his lips up the side of Sam's throat. “Just take my fucking clothes off, 'fore I chicken out.”

There's a small piece of Sam—there always is—that wonders if Dean's just saying it for his benefit, that Dean doesn't really want this, that Sam's pushing too hard. No matter how many times he checks, it's only when they're close, or naked, or when Sam's actually buried inside his brother, that Dean asks for it, that he talks.

Never when they've got their clothes on. This, this is the closest Dean's been to talking. He wants something. But when Dean doesn't want to talk, he doesn't talk. Sam's just got to wait.

And give him what he's asking for, now.

“Okay,” Sam says, and slides his hand up under Dean's shirt, pushes it up. Dean's skin is warm and damp, and he gasps and shivers as Sam pulls his shirt off over his head. Keeps his face turned away, drops his chin and won't look Sam in the eye.

So Sam puts his hand on Dean's cheek, pulls his face around to look into his eyes. He doesn't say a word. It's pointless, Dean isn't going to talk now, not like he is. So he kisses Dean instead, knowing, at least, that he'll get honesty from it.

Dean's mouth can't lie. His words can, but his mouth, his lips, his kisses, they can't. If he's uncomfortable, so are his kisses, sloppy and biting and all over the place. Sam stops if that happens, stops everything.

But if it's what Dean wants, he's all in, throws himself into it with abandon, and yet, times like that, he kisses like a pro, smooth and sexy and perfect.

It's like that now, his lips part to Sam's tongue, and his whole body leans into it, rises up on his knees and wraps his arms around Sam's neck and presses his hips forward.

He breathes quick through his nose, sucks air into his lungs every time their lips, briefly, part. His skin is warm, almost hot, and he's vibrating with excitement.

And maybe it's Sam's admission, maybe Dean needed that kind of confirmation, maybe he's stuck in his head, wondering if this is what Sam really wants.

“I want you,” Sam says, a low, rough whisper between kisses, sliding his hands into the curve of the small of Dean's back, pulling Dean hard against him. “I've always wanted you.”

Just in case Dean needs him to confirm it. He'll keep repeating it, for the rest of his life if he has to. “I'll always want you.”

Dean moans, high pitched and desperate, pushes his hips against Sam, and he's hard, his cock a thick solid shape beneath denim pressing against Sam's belly. The sound has shape, like it should be words, but Sam's tongue is in his mouth and everything's muffled.

“What,” Sam says. “You can tell me.” His hands slide further down, over the generous curve of Dean's denim-clad ass. “I'll give you anything.”

But Dean just rocks his hips, circles them, moves his ass in Sam's hands, and he moans, and he gives a shiver, and Sam thinks, at first, that he's trying to rub off against Sam's stomach, but his cock doesn't seem to be his focus.

And maybe it's Sam's hands on him, but Sam can't know for sure. No matter what, he seems to be getting pleasure from the way he's moving.

If Dean just wants to rub off on Sam, come in his jeans like a teenager, so be it. Sam leans backward, pulls Dean down with him, grips his ass tighter, pulls Dean against his crotch, grinds up as Dean pushes down.

“This it? This what you want?”

Dean lifts his head, blinks down at him. His pupils are big and black and liquid, but there's no recognition there, no indication that Sam's figured it out.

And Sam's just confused. “What, Dean? What?”

Dean leans forward, and he breathes in Sam's ear. “Get in my jeans, Sammy.” Slips a hand between them, and Sam feels the waist of Dean's jeans loosen.

When he slides his hand down the back of Dean's pants, he expects crisp cotton boxers, or maybe nothing at all.

But what he finds punches all the breath out of him at once, empties his lungs completely, removes his ability to breathe, and all he can do is rasp as his heart flips over in his chest and his stomach twists up into knots.

Stretched over Dean's ass, there's lace under Sam's hand, silky, yet rough, and Sam can imagine what the texture feels like on Dean's cock, on his balls.

He's got to find out what it looks like.

He rolls them over, and he pulls back, rises up on his knees between Dean's spread thighs. Flicks his eyes up to Dean's face, very briefly, sees Dean bite his lower lip and swallow hard in what might be fear, but doesn't have time to deal with that right now. He drops his eyes back to Dean's waist, yanks on the zip of his jeans to pull them open.

And Dean's hands are balled into fists at his thighs, shaking a little, like he's trying to stop himself from covering himself.

In the open 'V' of his unzipped fly, there's a spread of delicate lace in pure white, stretched out tight over the head of his swollen cock. His cock is visible through the open lace, and it's damp at the place where the tip is threatening to burst out of the narrow elastic waist.

Sam still can't breathe, his heart pounding like it wants to burst out of his chest, and he can't tear his eyes away.

“Sammy?” Dean's voice is very small, uncertain, afraid.

Sam flicks his eyes up, sees the fear on Dean's face, sees the tension in him. Knows he needs to reassure Dean, can't find the words to make it work, can't keep his eyes on Dean's face when all he wants to do is look down again.

He does. “Fuck.” It's all he can get out, and he becomes keenly aware of how hard his own dick is and how it's straining against the fly of his jeans, how it's starting to hurt. “Fuck.”

Dean lifts himself on his elbows, moving in a way Sam knows instinctively is going to end with Dean running away, and most importantly, hiding this from him.

“No,” Sam says, puts a hand on Dean's belly, slides it upward, and pushes him back down. Dean lets out an uncertain little whimper, and it breaks Sam's heart. He flicks his eyes up. “Beautiful,” is all he can force out, hopes it sounds as reverential as it feels. He slides his hand back down over Dean's belly, and soft, light as a feather, he drags his fingertips over the tip of Dean's lace-covered cock.

Dean whines, and his hips come up off the mattress, bounces as his ass hits it again. Lifts them again, purposeful, and Sam grabs the waist of his jeans and eases them down.

Inch by inch, Sam exposes the lace that covers Dean's skin. It's obscene, how little of him the tiny garment covers, the way the fabric stretches tight over his cock and balls. Sam's cock leaks pre-come, dampens the soft cotton knit stretched over the tip.

“You couldn't tell me,” Sam says. “So, you're showing me?”

“Okay?” Dean's voice is still uncertain.

“Oh, yeah.” Sam yanks Dean's jeans all the way off his legs, flicks them across the room, not caring where they fall. “Is this…a new thing?”

Dean shakes his head. “It's been a fucking nightmare trying to hide it since we…you know.”

Sam can pinpoint a few times that he's approached Dean for sex and been pushed away, wonders if he was wearing them then. “You didn't trust me to be okay with this?”

“What if you thought I was a freak?”

Sam smirks. “Dean. I'm screwing my big brother. I'm not exactly vanilla.”

“True.” Dean licks his lips, and he unballs his fists, slides his open hands over his bare thighs. Hesitant, he drags one palm up and over his lace-covered cock, shivers. A fresh ooze of pre-come soaks the lace.

Sam's got to taste it, slides down and leans over, pulls Dean's hand out of the way, and he drags his lips up the same path it followed. The texture is thrilling on his lips, and the smell of Dean through the fabric is incongruous. Warm and earthy and very male beneath this pretty, delicate fabric that looks as if it could tear so easily.

All the breath rushes out of him at the contrast, and he presses his face into the fold of Dean's thigh, sucks in the heat and damp warmth right where skin meets lace, drags his tongue up the line to taste.

He moans, and Dean moans and squirms, and his cock twitches.

Sam leaps back, tugging at his jeans. Gets them open, off, along with his shorts, kicks them off and then covers Dean's body with his own. “There's a million things I want to do to you right now,” he says. “Can't decide.”

“Do 'em all,” Dean says, wrapping his arms around Sam's shoulders and rocking his hips up.

“Wanna fuck you with them on,” Sam huffs as he thrusts his cock against the rough fabric. “Fuck.” He thinks he gets it, it feels amazing. “Bend you over, pull 'em down just enough and fuck you.” He thrusts again, and his eyes roll back into his head. “Make you sit on my face, Dean. Rim you through them, get 'em all fucking wet with spit.” He finds a rhythm, knees sinking into the mattress, making it bounce with each hard thrust. “Eat your ass until you can't stand it anymore.”

“Fuck, Sammy.” Dean's fingers dig bruises into the meat of Sam's back, short nails breaking the skin, and it just heightens everything.

Sam looks down, watches as his cock drags against the fabric, marvels at the contrast of the angry red of the head of Dean's dick through the white lace. Keeps thrusting, harder and faster. “Suck you through 'em, till you come in your panties, Dean, fuck.”

Dean goes stiff beneath him, and Sam watches as he does exactly that, as thick white come spills up from the tip of his cock, spurts through the lace and puddles on his belly. Oozes up, spreads out over the fabric, soaks it through. Dean groans and shivers, spurts again, come welling up and making him filthy with it. Cries out, the way he does when he's oversensitive.

Sam pulls back, sits up on his knees, still staring down at Dean's come-soaked lace panties. He wraps his hand around his cock, jerks it twice, and the first spurt streaks up Dean's chest, the second, Sam aims it at Dean's cock, adds his own come to the mess.

He collapses onto his back beside Dean, gasping for air, cock still dribbling as it softens. “Wow, Dean,” he rasps. Lifts his head just a little, wants to etch the picture into his mind, lets it drop down to the mattress again, exhausted.

“Yeah.” Dean's voice is quiet, but content. Satisfied.

Sam laughs softly. “You kinky bastard.”

“Shut up. You loved it. Besides. You've wanted to screw your big brother your whole life. A shrink would have a field day with that. Who's more messed up, huh?”

“That's a really good question.” Sam thinks it's him. He's always thought it was him. He pulls himself up onto his elbow, looks down at Dean, and only briefly lets his eyes wander down to the mess of come and white lace covering Dean's softening cock. “A really good question that I can't be bothered finding out the answer to.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Agreed?”

Dean smiles. “Agreed.”

Sam flops back down onto the bed. “I kinda would like to tie you up,” he says.

“There's rope in the trunk of the car,” Dean says, a hint of laughter in his voice.

fin