Part One | Part Two | Part Three
xvi. hookers and lies
It's Sam's fault—both his own stupidity and his stupid kink—that Dean breaks up with him just after his twenty-third birthday. Mainly because he's getting so caught in his own head about it that he buys a hooker that promises to do anything within reason and takes special kinks into consideration and Dean happens to walk into the motel room much earlier than Sam was expecting—consequences of watching Dean flirt and figuring Dean wouldn't really notice when he snuck out the back door—and catches him with her.
She's barely gotten Sam out of his flannel shirt and Sam's belt is unbuckled, but she's wearing only a g-string already and there's no way to play it off as something it's not, so the best Sam can do is stammer something about meeting up with her in the bar and hoping the girl won't tell Dean that Sam hired her, because, well, Jesus. Dean would never let him get over that.
Unfortunately, by the time she's gone, Dean's back is against the door, his ankles crossed and his arms crossed over his chest too.
"Paying for it now, eh, Sammy?" Dean asks, eyes dark with something that could be anger—or lust. Somehow Sam doubts it's the latter.
"Look, Dean, it's not—"
"That is the oldest excuse in the book," Dean says, losing his cool and shouting out the words. "I used that one on Dad when I was still a kid, Sam, let's try and behave like adults, and not pretend like I don't know exactly what it is you were doing. I'm not blind, Sam, and I know a girl that screams 'hooker' when I see one."
"Dean, look, I'm sorry, but—" Sam doesn't know what he's going to say, really, because that's about as far as his short-circuiting brain can get. He's never been good at lying to Dean.
"Sammy," Dean says, lowering his voice again, this time hissing out his name. "What, am I not good enough for you? Do you miss college and the girls that much? Because this was your idea from the beginning, and I don't appreciate being used, Sam. I mean, fuck, I don't know what your game is, but you kissed me and started this whole thing, and when I got you from Stanford, again it was your idea to pick up where we left off, so, what? You just messing with me? Because, fuck, Sam. I'm already gonna go to Hell just for allowing this to happen, and—"
"Stop," Sam says miserably. "It's not like that at all, honest, Dean. I'm not just fucking with you."
"No, you're just fucking me, is all, and then apparently buying hookers for God only knows what reason, because—Jesus, Sam, I've been trying to get you to take an interest in girls all along, figured it was the healthy thing—better than sleeping with me, at any rate—and yet you always turn me down, like I'm really what you wanted, and you know what, I thought—" Dean stops for a moment, almost like he's swallowing back tears of his own. "And now it's like you don't think you can get a date. That's it, Sam, I'm done."
"No, Dean, please," Sam pleads, ashamed of himself for even lowering himself enough to do so, but Dean doesn't respond to that. He just storms into the bathroom and slams the door so hard that Sam's handgun goes skittering off the night table.
Sam goes to bed alone that night, and dreams of Jess.
He dreams of Jess, and their apartment. The washer and dryer combination that he took shameful advantage of whenever she was going to be gone more than a few hours—and even in his sleep, he bites down on his pillow and wonders why, why, why. Why is he like this? Why does he want it, and why does he so badly need to share it with someone else, and why can't Dean just see and understand like Dean sees and understands everything else?
xvii. prison bitch
Apparently Dean can hold a grudge for nigh onto forever, because he doesn't properly accept Sam's apology and let Sam kiss him again until they're in jail together, which Sam suspects is partly to keep both of them from becoming someone's bitch.
In the end it doesn't matter because once they escape, the first thing they do after they go deep to ground is wind up grappling in the same motel bed, doing things to each other they'd never even really tried before.
Even then, though, Sam doesn't have the guts to ask Dean for what he really wants.
xviii. feels like the second coming
Sam doesn't have the guts to ask Dean for what he really wants. Maybe he used up all of his courage telling his father he was going away to college, but he has to piss so badly his hard-on is about ninety-percent desperation-induced, and Dean doesn't even know it; Sam's on his haunches, his jeans stretched taut across his throbbing dick—and Sam has no idea how much of the throbbing is due to Dean being about an inch away from him and how much is because of his little 'problem'—and Dean's right in front of him, also sitting on his calves, back up against the headboard of Dean's bed.
Sam drives his fingers hard into Dean's stomach, toned but still a little rounded—and Sam is in love with that, had no idea Dean looked like that until recently—and listens to the way Dean's breath pushes out of him. He lifts Dean's shirt up more with his other hand and Dean raises his arms above his head, letting Sam tear the t-shirt off. And then Dean's hands are on his shoulders, gripping so tight Sam can feel it practically down to the bone, and Sam bites down on his lower lip and shoves his hand down between their bodies, getting it right up snug against Dean's hard dick encased in forgiving, worn denim.
"Sam," Dean pants, and grinds forward, rocking up and into Sam's hand, and Sam goes punch-drunk at the feel of that hard cock—and all for him—and slides his knee in between Dean's thighs, so that now they're slotted together like one of those cardboard boxes that you fold for yourself, and with his hand still plastered to Dean, he rocks forward too. Manages to skip his hand down to the base of his dick and hang on tight.
The movement drives their cocks right up against each other, and the friction of his cotton underwear, his jeans, and the overwhelming heat of Dean's cock soaking through all of that fabric makes him scrape in a breath. Dean's hands are inside the neckline of his v-neck t-shirt now, his nails cutting into bare skin as his head drops forward and he breathes, erratic and hot against Sam's neck, and Sam lets his head dip back to give Dean more room, and keeps rutting up against Dean's cock, every movement pulling pleasure up and throughout his body.
The urge to piss just keeps getting more intense with every thrust against Dean's stiff cock, and Sam's eyes fall closed and he squeezes his thighs together—or tries to, and winds up crushing Dean's thigh between his, and Dean gasps, moist puff of air staining Sam's skin, and rocks forward again.
Sam is almost delirious with the effort of holding back, of keeping from pissing himself and Dean, combined with the feel of Dean's fucking cock against his own, and that's when he realises—and he doesn't even know how he has any brain cells left to rub together—that Dean's not wearing any underwear.
The thought makes him shoves his own dick forward and up against Dean even faster, trying to get Dean off, because it makes his boxer briefs sloppy with pre-come to think of Dean losing it against the inner seam of his jeans—of Dean having to take them to the laundromat crusted over with his own come, and come that his brother helped put there.
But every roll of his hips, every motion towards orgasm, also pushes him closer to the edge of his control. Sam is still sucking on his lower lip and Dean has managed to yank the neck of his shirt to the side—Sam figures it'll be all misshapen after this—and is mouthing at Sam's neck, and Sam sinks his teeth into his own flesh to keep from just... losing it all over them both. But God, he wants to. He wishes he had the courage to turn his head, slide his lips over Dean's ear, and say, I wanna piss on you, Dean. But he doesn't have it. He reaches for that well of self-assurance and self-confidence he had when he left for school at eighteen and it's not there. It's just gone.
Instead he keeps his head tilted to the other side to give Dean better access and concentrates on keeping the piss in his bladder where it belongs, and hopefully on coming any second now. Dean's getting louder, his mouth dragging wet across Sam's collarbone, and Sam figures, as he cants his hips into Dean's cock, that his brother is getting close.
They haven't spoken, just fumbled at each other's skin when they got back from the bar, drunk as loons from their pre-Christmas celebration and more than ready to just cross that burned bridge—and Sam finally does turn his head, grabbing at the back of Dean's skull and twisting Dean's face up to his, kissing him with a mouth full of saliva and teeth, and Dean falls into it like a drowning man, eating the words Sam can't say out of his mouth, sucking at Sam's lips and tongue driving up behind Sam's teeth and then it's Dean's turn to bite Sam's lip as he comes, his hips jerking against Sam's, the incredible heat of his jizz sweltering against Sam's dick.
Sam can't breathe, really, kissing Dean this deep and feeling Dean's cock spasming against his, but his hand flies up to his belly as if pressing on it will stop the overflow, but just as he's sure he's going to lose it—and Dean's going to be so fucking angry—Sam comes, instead, the feeling ripped right out of him.
His whole body feels raw from the sensation of coming that hard while he still has to piss so bad, and the feel of his heartbeat in his bladder intensifies and he pulls away from Dean, staring at his brother like he's never seen him before.
It was a huge risk to take, but he'd been so full of liquor, and Dean had been sloshed enough to start kissing him before they'd even gotten into the motel room, that Sam hadn't wanted to say, hey, man, I gotta take a leak first. That and he was a coward—he wanted to know what it felt like, to be so full and so achingly turned on, and to get off with Dean while he felt like that... Yet Sam knows he didn't have the guts to ask Dean for that, so he had to be sneaky.
But now that the inside of his underwear is sticky with come, he just has to piss with an ache so deep it burns inside him, and he pushes against Dean again until Dean falls back against the wall, his head lolling against the hard surface, lips flushed and swollen and cheeks flagged with stark red, and Sam gasps in a hasty breath and jumps off the bed, takes off for the bathroom.
"You gonna hurl, Sam?" Dean calls lazily, still sounding completely blissed out, and Sam hollers back,
"No, but I am gonna shower," because he can't admit to it now, either, so he turns the faucets on high before he takes a piss.
It rushes out of him like the rain must've fell during those Biblical forty days and forty nights and Sam can't even believe how much piss there was inside him, or how he kept it there with all that stimulation, but it feels like coming again as he pisses and pisses for what feels like forever. Like Tom Hanks' character did in that movie—what was it? The one with the all-girl baseball league. He finally drains himself dry and pitches forward a little, balancing his forehead on the cool tile, sweaty and spent in so many ways, hand still circled loosely around his dick.
By the time he stumbles into the shower, he barely has the energy to wash the crust of come off his cock.
xix. moment of reckoning
The hunt does not go as planned. Sam wrenches his back, and while he's crumpled up like a pretzel on the ground, sucking at the air like a dying fish, Dean has to take out the monster all by himself. And then, once that's taken care of, he has to haul Sam's heavy ass back to the Impala with Sam barely able to offer any assistance at all, but there's no way Dean can carry him without putting more strain on his back, so Sam just flops against Dean and apologises over and over until Dean finally snaps,
"Oh shut up, Sam, Christ, I know you didn't do it on purpose. And we have at least another hundred yards to go before you can have the painkillers I've got in the trunk."
And wow, do painkillers sound like a sweet idea right about now, so Sam shuts his mouth and works at trying to make his feet move forward instead of dragging obstructively on the ground.
Dean arranges him in the back seat and Sam swallows the pills offered, then closes his eyes and drifts until they get back to the motel.
Once inside—and that was an interesting manoeuvre—Sam falls into bed and takes the muscle relaxants that Dean has scrounged up by rummaging around inside his duffle.
"Thanks," he wheezes through a battered throat—and seriously, what is with monsters and beasties choking him, anyway?—and glides off into dreamland without another thought beyond how floaty and relaxed he feels.
Sam jolts awake sometime hours later, his back telegraphing pain throughout all of the muscles, and blinks fast a few times to clear his vision, then wishes he could move well enough to see the clock.
He no sooner has that thought when he realises he has to piss really bad. But he can hardly move, so he shuts his eyes again and begs sleep to come back and have mercy on him, but it's not happening so he fumbles around on the nightstand while trying not to jar his back until he finds more of the pills Dean left for him. He gulps them down dry and winces at how they abrade his already roughened throat, then lies there motionless, still trying to get back to sleep, but it's not working, and the urgency is only intensifying with every breath he takes.
He doesn't know how long he lies there, but it's evident soon enough that either he has to get up and get to the bathroom, or he's going to piss the bed—and while that might not have worried him if he were alone, Dean's in the other bed. So he scrunches up his face and concentrates on moving in tiny little increments, but all that does is make his back spasm, and he lets out a gasp of pain, and then, to his eternal shame, he also accidentally lets out a little droplet of piss or two, dampening his underwear and he discovers as he manages to force himself upright that at some point, Dean must have undressed him.
He's still hoping for some relief, so he tries to get to his feet, but his body fails him. His arms windmill, he curses under his breath, and pitches forward into darkness.
Dean's Sammy-sense must've been tingling or something, because before Sam hits the floor and re-injures his back even worse, he winds up on Dean's lap, his knees on either side of Dean's torso and his dick pressed against Dean's belly, which is bare. Dean's not dressed in anything except underwear, either, and Sam barely has time to register that fact before he registers that the forward movement has jostled his bladder past the point of repair, especially since his body is still lax with the drugs.
So he's straddling Dean's lap, with Dean on his ass on the carpet, his arms held loosely around Sam's chest to hold him up, and just like that, he's pissing a river into his underwear and it soaks straight through and then it overflows through the waterlogged fabric and up and over Dean's belly.
Sam can't really see Dean's expression in the dark, but he can feel his cheeks scorched with shame as he tries to twist away, which sends pain spiralling through him and he cries out, then grabs for Dean and just hangs onto Dean's shoulders for dear life as he pisses and pisses and pisses and there seems to be no end to it, just the shame of doing it all over Dean and the inability to stem the flow now matter how much he tries.
"What were you doin', Sammy?" Dean whispers into the dark, and Sam's underarms are wet with perspiration from so shamefully losing control—that, and the fact that were this any other situation, it might've been something he'd asked for and he might've just got an orgasm out of it. As it is, he can barely speak, because surely it's obvious?
"I had to piss," Sam says, and Dean's lips are suddenly right there, against his own. "I didn't wanna wake you," he adds, and then Dean drowns out his words kind of like the way Sam is drowning Dean in urine.
Dean doesn't stop kissing him until his bladder's empty, and then Sam's meds begin to wear off a little and he becomes aware that he just pissed himself, Dean, and the worn, scratchy motel carpet. Oh fuckdamn.
"Shoulda woke me up," Dean says, clearly smirking in the dark. Sam's face is still burning, and he knows Dean must've felt that—felt the heat in his cheeks the same way there was no way he could miss the heat of Sam's piss against his bare skin. By this point, Sam can tell that both of their underwear are sopping wet, and just before he tries to wrest himself from Dean's grasp again, something snags his attention. Admittedly, he's still a little loopy from the meds, brain not quite engaged properly, or he would've noticed it sooner: Dean is hard.
Dean is hard against Sam, even after that horrifying, embarrassing display. That excruciating lack of control.
Dean tightens his arms to keep Sam from moving and hurting himself, which is something Sam had forgotten about in his mortification.
"Relax, Sammy," Dean says, his grin still evident. "'s happened to me when I was drugged to the gills on muscle relaxants. The things are fantastic for easing pain but they do have their downside. Think you were at Stanford at the time, and I can tell you, Dad was torn between laughing his ass off at me and scolding me for pissing the bed—'at your age,' I think he said at the time."
"Dean," Sam murmurs. "A shower would be good right about now, and then what are we going to do about the carpet?"
"Sneak out in the middle of the night? Stiff the motel? You think you can stand being in the car?"
"Guess I'll have to," Sam replies. "It's my fault, anyway."
Dean runs his hand up the slope of Sam's naked spine and cups the nape of his neck. "Told ya not to worry about it," Dean says. "Doesn't matter. Come on, I'll help you into the shower. And join you." The leer is in Dean's voice, and Sam's sure that if he could make out Dean's features in the dark, he'd see Dean waggling his eyebrows in the most exaggerated fashion he can muster.
That makes Sam laugh in spite of everything, and they stumble into the bathroom, Dean stashing Sam in the shower and stripping his soaked underwear down his thighs and calves, and then divesting himself of his.
Dean climbs into the shower with Sam, and helps wash him down in much the same way he used to when Sam was a kid, and Sam leans back against the tiled wall, hair dripping into his eyes, and stares at Dean.
Dean's out picking up dinner, and so that gives Sam some time to himself—although this time, he doesn't use it to whack off in the shower, he uses it to boot up his laptop—the computer that Dean uses too—and start looking through the history.
Sam knows that Dean is a pretty good hacker when it comes to finding out illicit information—like police reports and other confidential documents—but he's not sure how good Dean is at wiping the computer's memory of what he used it for, so he's optimistic that he'll be able to find something that will tell him what he needs to know.
It's been about a week since The Incident, as he's taken to calling it in the privacy of his own head, and his back is—thankfully—much improved. His mind, however, won't let it rest. Dean had been hard, dick lining up with Sam's almost perfectly, and there was no way that Sam could've missed that, or misinterpreted that, unless he was more drugged than he'd thought.
So he's resorting to being sneaky and prying into Dean's web-surfing habits even though he knows that he should just ask Dean—but that'll never happen, not without something to fall back on. Something Dean can't lie his way out of. Because it might just kill Sam to be wrong, to ask Dean about his reaction only to find out he's mistaken—maybe Dean hadn't been hard after all, maybe Sam's mind, under the influence of powerful substances, had invented the whole thing out of a terrible, all-consuming desire for it to be true.
Which is why he's backtracking through all of the history on the computer until he starts turning up porn websites—Busty Asian Beauties.com, for example—and then he hits paydirt. The first thing he stumbles across is a website dedicated to gay men, which makes him want to backhand Dean across the mouth for looking at porn about other guys when he has Sam, but he figures he deserves that one after that incident with the hooker, so he moves on.
And finds a website that is all about shaved girls—typical Dean—and just as he's about to click out of it, he sees a little banner that reads, golden showers inside! Sam stares at it for a long moment. Could be coincidence. Could just be that Dean had been on this website for the shaved chicks—who are pretty hot, Sam has to admit, from what he's seen of the samples—but then again, Sam remembers doing his own search years and years ago, and he didn't really stick to websites that offered his kink as a secondary item.
So he navigates to the next page and finds himself on Watersports Palace! Come in and be treated like a king!
Okay, that's pretty blatant. Sam doesn't think there's any way to misinterpret that, really, unless Dean suspects something about him and has been researching it—but Sam doesn't think that's the case. His gut is telling him rather strenuously that Dean wasn't looking at this website and thinking about Sam. Or, not about whether Sam had the kink.
He checks the date that the site was visited, and comes up about three days before The Incident in the motel, with his injured back and his stupid rebellious bladder. He goes back a little farther and finds even more websites that are either exclusively watersports, or have entire sections dealing with the kink, some from as far back as weeks ago.
Sam scours the internet even more, but by the time he looks up from his screen, he realises Dean had been gone a long time—at least forty-five minutes. Suspicious—well, more so than he was before—he stands up and stretches the muscles in his still healing back, and then closes out of the history window and grabs his cell phone off the table.
It would be just like Dean to leave that evidence hanging around on purpose, because he must've known Sam would find it eventually. That means either Dean knows—and therefore those websites were research or curiosity—or Dean suspects and likes it too, in which case those websites were spank bank material. Sam's got a pretty good notion of which one of those three possibilities it is.
He pushes the speed dial button for Dean's cell phone, and his brother answers on the first ring, sounding way too cheerful.
"Hey, Sammy," he says, all upbeat nonchalance.
Sam doesn't waste time with pleasantries or bothering to pretend like Dean is doing. "Where are you?" he asks, instead. "I thought you were getting burgers."
"Well, they didn't have your pansy ass salad that you wanted, so I drove to—"
"All right, cut the bullshit, Dean," Sam breaks in. "I know you wouldn't go to all that extra trouble because it would be much more entertaining for you to get me something I wouldn't like, just so you could have it. When are you coming back? We need to talk and I'm not doing it on the phone."
"I don't know," Dean replies thoughtfully, "maybe a half hour?"
Sam gets the impression that's supposed to mean something else, too, something more ulterior than it does. He grips his phone to the side of his sweaty face and tries to slow his racing heart, to calm down the nerves that are taking over. This has been his entire life, his every utmost personal experience, and he's about to bare it all, heart and depraved soul, to Dean the next time he sees him. The thought makes his hand quiver on the cell.
"Okay, see you then," Sam says, hoping his voice doesn't quaver and give him away. He can actually hear Dean wave, as if Sam could see him, but Sam smiles a little because of course Dean would know that Sam would be able to imagine the gesture without Dean being in the same room with him.
Dean hangs up, and Sam drops the phone on the bed and starts pacing. And keeps pacing for thirty-four minutes until Dean walks in, his hands empty.
"Where's dinner?" Sam asks, but the look on Dean's face suggests he knows what's going. Maybe better than Sam does. Sam suddenly has the disconcerting thought that Dean's been planning this, that he's just been biding his time and waiting for Sam to turn to the same page of the textbook that Dean is already on.
"The car," Dean says. He reaches into his leather jacket and pulls out a bottle of hard liquor though; Sam can't tell if it's whiskey or tequila from this distance. Dean sets it down on the little table in the corner of the room and looks at Sam like he's just waiting.
Sam blurts it out, surprising himself by the fact that he didn't just meander around the bush for three hours: "You've been looking at piss kink websites."
"Yeah," Dean says easily. Confidently. "I have."
It's a stupid question, with the way Dean reacted to that, but Sam asks it anyway: "Why?"
Dean rolls his eyes and gives Sam that Look that means Sam is being a complete fucktard, and sighs heavily.
"Because I like it, dimwit," he says. "College boy couldn't come to that conclusion on his own?"
"You... like it." Sam scopes out Dean, taking inventory of his brother's body, his face, all over again, as if this new knowledge has remade him into something new, a shape he doesn't recognise, skin he hasn't touched in every imaginable place. And then he meets Dean's eyes, which show a tiny flicker of nervousness at the same time that they broadcast the same arrogant confidence Dean has always had. Sam narrows his own eyes. Dean's not actually, in reality, that confident. That's his swagger for everyone else, to hide his true personality. But Sam knows Dean, really knows him, and that gives away more than anything else that Dean is both telling the truth and trying to couch it in a way that will express to Sam that he's not judging him, even though he must've figured it out.
Dean is so very carefully trying to give Sam the space to make his confession, while making a confession of his own so that it will be easier for Sam. This is so much like the Dean Sam does know—the person who always thinks about Sam first, even when he's stomping on his feelings to be funny. Because even then, Sam knows Dean doesn't mean those things—and Dean does it simply because that's who he is. And he likes to get a rise out of Sam.
"How long have you known?" Sam asks, swiping his sweaty palms against his jeans. Dean shrugs with one shoulder.
"Sammy," he says, and comes a little bit closer, close enough to touch a damp lock of Sam's hair, "you never were a very good ninja around me."
"That doesn't answer the question," Sam says, caught up and out and needing to just know already.
"God, Sam, I don't know," Dean says. "For a long time. But I didn't—I didn't want to say anything to you because I knew you'd freak out."
"You chastised me," Sam says, weak accusation, and Dean shrugs again, lets the tips of his fingers linger against Sam's temple. This touching, casual yet so very deliberate, is a little bit unlike Dean. A little too much like a girl might concentrate too hard and attach too much significance. It makes Sam antsy.
"I was—I was surprised. And I'd been thinking about you so much, and then you did—did that thing, and I didn't have a fucking clue why I liked it so much, so I just... I overreacted, Sammy, I'm sorry. I should've said something a long time ago."
Sam probes Dean's eyes as deeply as he can, searching for hidden meaning, for anything that might suggest Dean isn't completely earnest. There's nothing, though.
"My whole life," Sam says, then watches the sentence dangle in the air in front of him. Right in Dean's face. He forces himself to speak the rest of the words. "I've had this weird attraction my whole life. When I was a little kid I didn't know what it was. I didn't really understand it until I was in high school. I didn't figure out that it was a legitimate kink till about then, either. But I still—I still felt like a freak."
Dean echoes himself, whether consciously or not, Sam doesn't know. "I'm right there with you, all the way," is what he says. And kisses Sam right on the mouth, not trying for dominance, not even trying to get inside, just a quick press of lips.
"Dean," Sam says, and the next words surprise him. "Do you remember when I had that fever?"
Dean runs his fingers down along the side of Sam's face, shapes his jawline with them and then leans into another kiss. When he pulls back a little, he replies, "Of course. It's nothing to be ashamed of, Sam."
"That's not what I mean. Or that time—"
"Sam," Dean says with force. It stops Sam's thoughts from circling like vultures in his brain. "I said it's nothing to be ashamed of. It may be considered taboo to other people, or a more extreme kink, but it's just a kink like any other. Sammy, your hair would curl if I told you some of the things I've tried."
"Really?" Sam feels some of the nervousness start to slide away from him. "Like what?"
"Not tonight," Dean deflects, though. "Someday. Tonight we're just going to sit on the couch next to each other like real men and watch a hockey game. And no cuddling."
Sam laughs. "All right, Dean. But I'll have you know it's always you who falls asleep on me first, cuddling and drooling all over my shoulder. Do you know how many of my shirts I always have to wash the drool out of?"
"Shut up, Sam," Dean says, and steps around him, switches the television on.
For the first time in Sam's life, the atmosphere doesn't feel heavy and pressing like the urge to piss himself always has.
Sam has been drinking liquids all day. He's tried to be covert about it, so that Dean won't notice or at least so Dean won't suspect anything, and by the time it's early evening Sam has to piss like he hasn't gone in days. Dean's in the shower, and Sam's been doing research on the laptop for about an hour, which is the last place Dean had seen him before he closeted himself in the bathroom.
Sam sucks down his last bottle of water and gets to his feet, stretches, arms high above his head. His shirt rides up and his belly is exposed, and Sam knows that if he looks down at it, it'll be slightly swollen with the fullness of his bladder. That thought makes him shiver with anticipation.
He's wearing his oldest pair of jeans, the hems frayed, one of the buttons missing on the fly, and a grey v-neck t-shirt, and he's ready now. He's going to have to take the plunge someday, right? And then Sam smothers a giggle—so very not masculine—and thinks about how 'taking the plunge' is a metaphor that deals with water, and so it's scarily apropos.
He can hear the shower pounding against the tiles in the bathroom, and he waits, standing with his feet a little bit apart on the side of the room that houses the little kitchenette, complete with a linoleum floor. He rubs his forehead and drags his fingers through his hair, feeling it fall into his face in tangled strands, and waits. The water hitting the floor of the shower stall is making his need more and more urgent by the second, but he knows he doesn't have to wait too much longer, so he just hangs on, one finger caught in the waistband of his jeans.
And then the water stops. Since they've started this thing between them again, Dean has even less modesty than before: he walks around stark naked while trying to find clothes to wear, and that can take awhile—most of them barely pass the sniff test on a good day. The jeans Sam is wearing now are almost dirty enough to stand up on their own, and so what he's about to do to them is actually more likely to make them cleaner than they currently are.
Dean opens the bathroom door, strides out in all of his nude glory—and Dean Winchester nude? Is a truly glorious sight—and then pauses when he sees Sam, just standing there. Dean's cock is soft at the moment, but Sam knows that won't last long. And Jesus Christ, but Dean's dick is like, halfway down his thigh even when it's soft. It's impressive.
Sam very deliberately and slowly licks his lower lip, then his upper, then unhooks his finger from his waistband and unfolds his hand, gliding it down the front of his jeans, until he's cupping his own swelling dick. He has to be careful—he's still so full he's about to burst—but a little stimulation won't hurt, and it will do things to Dean that Sam is really hoping for.
And in keeping with that, he flicks his gaze down to Dean's cock, which is lengthening and filling with blood and Sam grins, a wicked little smirk of his lips, and then takes the bottom one in between his teeth.
"I've got a surprise for you, Dean," Sam says, and pulls his hand away from his crotch. For the beginning, at least, Sam wants Dean to see it. Dean's eyes are locked on Sam's groin anyway, on the swollen line of his cock through his fly, and Sam draws in a deep breath and works on relaxing all of the muscles necessary to just let it go.
"And what's that, Sammy?" Dean asks, a little breathless already, his dick well on its way to fully hard, almost pressed to his belly with want.
"You said you like this, Dean," Sam says, a last ditch plea to make sure this is all right before Dean does something like ridicule him forever. But Dean just nods, like he's starting to get an inkling of what's coming—and, well, Sam's hoping it will be Dean, all things considered. Himself, too, but that's for later—once Dean's gotten an eyefull. This time, Sam's not going to stop, and he's pretty certain Dean's not going to scold, so Sam spreads his legs just a bit wider and lets out the breath he'd taken.
And piss spurts up out of his dick, just a little at first—it's always like that—and then Sam bears down a little to force more of it out, and Dean's gaze is arrested by Sam's jeans now, by the dark stain slowly spreading outwards, uneven and inescapable. Sam can hear Dean's breath catch in his throat, can see his brother swallow so hard that his Adam's apple jumps.
But now that it's started, Sam is good. He's had to piss so bad all day that this is it, he's gotten over the first obstacle of doing something considered so forbidden, and now it's flowing easily, drenching his jeans and pouring down the legs of his jeans in twin rivers, sticking the denim to his legs in places. Sam looks down at himself, at the wet streams, shiny in the light of the motel room. It reflects off of the piss, and then Sam dares to look up, to meet Dean's eyes.
Dean's not really looking back at Sam, though; his face is slightly slackened around the mouth and his eyes are glazed as he watches Sam, and when Sam darts a glance down at Dean's dick, he can see it's flat to his belly and curved a little to the left, streaking pre-come along the fine, beautiful skin of his stomach.
By this point, Sam's socks are soaked and his feet are hot and wet with piss, and he's almost done, bladder deflating as all of it floods into his jeans, filling in every empty space with liquid. Sam reaches down and cups himself again, presses against the fabric, making a puddle of urine swell out from inside of his jeans, and watches Dean the whole time, treated to the sight of his brother gasping, his hips making a little abortive movement forward, and then he's coming in white creamy streams of his own over his belly.
Sam's been pretty much holding his own breath, but at the sight of that, Dean losing it without even touching himself, Sam's sure, once and for all, that Dean really does like this. He thinks back to all of those things he's thought over the years: Can I piss in your mouth?, Can I piss on you, Dean? and Will you piss on me, Dean?
His breath rushes out of him much like his bladder just emptied, and Sam stands there a little awkwardly as the warmth begins to cool.
Dean finally meets his eyes, and his sculpted face holds an expression like he's just been completely humbled by Sam's trust in him, by Sam's faith that he won't be rejected.
"Sammy," Dean says, but that's it, just Sam's name, and that's all that's really needed.
When Dean walks over, knocking Sam's hand out of the way and flicking open the buttons of his wet jeans, Sam can barely breathe, even when Dean touches his cock for the first time, as if the piss doesn't bother him at all, and starts jerking him to full hardness.
Dean isn't the only one humbled by the experience.
"How bad is it, Dean?" Sam asks, and trails his fingers over Dean's belly, barely touching. Dean's stomach muscles flutter and his brother gasps, body shaking apart underneath Sam. "Come on, answer me," he cajoles, and Dean's eyes are practically rolling back in his head, but he manages to eke out,
"So bad, Sammy. And like—like just about to come bad, it feels so good."
Sam knows the feeling. He plops an open-mouthed kiss over the round swell of Dean's distended belly, his other hand between Dean's thighs, seeking in the humid darkness Dean's hole. He finds and it knuckles his finger inside, careful but at the same time reckless. The lube on his fingers is dripping onto the bed sheet, cold against his knee where he's kneeling on the bed, and he fights two more fingers inside of Dean, stretching him open on the width of his fingers.
He moves his lips without losing contact with Dean's skin, and with his free hand he starts to thumb over the head of Dean's dick, flicking pre-come off of it and onto his belly, and then he pushes one fingernail right up against Dean's slit and ever so carefully widens the tiny hole so that the very tip of his finger can almost slide inside. Dean moans and grunts and Sam can barely keep him on the bed—Dean's hands clutching at Sam's hair, his skull.
He spreads kisses over more of Dean's belly, then lifts his head just a little and shapes his lips around the crown of Dean's dick, fingers sliding out of the way and palm landing heavily on Dean's stomach. Dean curses in a strangled voice and bucks on the bed—Sam presses down more forcefully.
And Dean must remember the way this went before; maybe he even thinks Sam's going to lick at him while he sprays them both with piss again, but no, not tonight—Sam has other plans.
He urges his fingers deeper within Dean, and pushes up against his prostate and puts pressure on Dean's bladder even from the inside. Dean lets out a bona fide scream and his hands tighten to painful claws on Sam's head.
Sam licks the little hole again, tasting pre-come and the slight bitter flavour of a droplet of piss squeezed out of Dean, then wraps his hand around the base of Dean's dick and begins to jerk it carefully, still touching his tongue every so often to Dean's slit.
And then he pulls his fingers out of Dean's ass, wipes them against his own bare thigh and picks up his head to look at Dean, who is flushed so red he's practically glowing, pre-come shockingly pale and shining against his skin, and his cock is pointed towards the heavens. Sam shakes his head until Dean loosens his death-grip from his hair, and slowly runs one finger along the pouty edge of Dean's lower lip.
"Are you ready, Dean?" Sam asks, taking Dean's wrists in his hands and guiding his brother's hands down to his dick. Dean obediently holds it, and Sam lets go, puts both hands on the bed beside Dean's head, knees bracketing Dean's hips, and whispers, "Aim it and go on, Dean, let it go."
His own taut stomach and hard dick are above Dean's now, in prime position for a soaking, and Dean bites his lip and watches Sam's eyes the entire time, from the first spatter against Sam's belly that drops down onto his own, to the sudden surge of piss that shoots up and drenches Sam's skin, his dick, the curling hair at the base of his shaft.
Once Dean gets going, really really letting it all loose, it's like a geyser that immediately drowns them both in piss, and floods Dean's navel and spills over his hipbones onto the bed, pooling underneath him in the crack of his ass.
Sam drops his head down so that their foreheads are pressed together, all heat and sweat, and breathes in Dean's air in staccato gasps at the feel of it, as Dean keeps changing the aim, higher, splashing Sam's nipples; lower, spraying Sam's balls, and then the gush turns to a stream to a trickle to the last few drops, and Dean has completely inundated them both now. The scent of it hangs heavy in the air, thick enough to taste at the back of Sam's throat.
Sam moves his hands down the length of Dean's body, sitting up more now, feeling the piss draining off his skin in hot rivulets. The lube on his hand is watered down now, so he grabs some more from the bottle on the bed—now lying in a puddle—and pours some onto his hand, then fists his dick and strokes it up and down to get it nice and slick.
Dean's panting, body slack against the bed, and Sam knocks his thighs apart, using both hands to bend Dean's knees, and Dean weakly manages to hold them up and apart, and Sam stuffs his thighs underneath Dean's to help hold his legs in the air, then lines his lubed cock up with Dean's hole.
The first press inside is scorching, both the heat of Dean's body and the warm piss saturating his hole, and Sam chokes on his own breathing and tries not to come without even getting inside. This is the first time for both of them—doing this, going all the way. It's weird that in all the years he's been lusting after—and in love with—Dean, it's always been the forbiddenness of pissing himself that bothered him most, far more than the incest ever has. But Dean has taken the stinger out of that wound, removed that thorn. Dean has shown him with just his love and devotion to Sam that this is okay, both the piss kink and the relationship they share, and it all floods Sam's body like the piss had only moments before, as he pushes at the ring of muscle that's holding him at bay. But not for long.
"All right," he says, mostly to himself, and with one hand still wrapped around the base of his dick, he scoots in another inch, feeling Dean's inner walls suck at his cock and swallow him down.
Dean's still breathing like he's being chased by a monster and Sam can hear how loud his own breathing is, feel the sweat dribbling down his temples and his underarms, can even see sprinkles of it hit Dean's chest and nipples as he works his dick the rest of the way inside.
He makes one last drive forward and sinks up to his balls, his cock completely disappearing into Dean's hole. They're both covered in piss, his pubic hair's wet, Dean's ass is wet, and the inside of his body is startlingly hot, like Sam just put his dick inside an inferno or some such, and he starts to move, to rock back and forth, easy thrusts that gradually take on more power and torque, sending Dean sliding up towards the headboard and sending piss sloshing over the side of the bed.
But Sam's not worried about that; all he can think about is how amazing Dean feels, how silky and smooth, and he grips Dean's dick and tugs on it until Dean's as hard as he can get, gigantic even in Sam's gigantic hands and Sam concentrates on moving his hand in counterpoint to his dick going in and out of Dean's ass.
He can feel his own pre-come mingling with the piss and lube inside of Dean's body, making Dean wet and sloppy and Sam's cock by extension, and he angles so that the thick head of his cock scrapes across Dean's prostate, which makes Dean scream again and spill over Sam's hand, body clenching down forcefully on Sam's dick until he can't move. All he can do is jam his hips forward a little and stay mostly in place as Dean's body contracts and flexes around him.
When Dean finishes coming, Sam speeds up, fucking him with even more force, and Dean raises his hips to meet him, splays his legs even wider apart so that Sam can get in even deeper, Dean's body clinging at every inch of Sam. Sam can feel every muscle in his body go taut, knows his head is thrown back, mouth a pornographic 'O', the tendons standing out in his arms and thighs as he loses it finally, slams home one last time and fills Dean up with spunk.
Dean's hands find their way back into his hair, stroking through the perspiration-wet strands, and Sam grunts heavily and pulls out, collapsing half on top of Dean.
The lake of piss on the bed is pretty cold now, but Sam doesn't wanna move, and even though Dean shoves at him once or twice, he's not trying very hard and pretty soon they both subside into a stupor of satiation, limbs languid and heavy, hearts still racing terribly fast—Sam can hear Dean's as it's right next to his ear—and Sam's breath is damp and hot every time it bathes his forearm.
Dean's hands are still in his hair.
"Why didn't I tell you about this kink years ago?" Sam asks, and it's a rhetorical question, but he should've known that Dean either wouldn't get that or wouldn't care.
"I have no idea, dumbass," Dean says, the smile perfectly clear in his voice.
"Can I fuck you again tomorrow?" Sam asks, shifting a little. The entire room smells like a gas station bathroom by now.
"Jesus Christ, Sam," Dean says. "I might need a little recovery time, I was a lily-white virgin and—"
"Shut up, Dean," Sam says.
Even though Dean's answered his question, Sam finds himself still asking it, over and over inside his head.
For the first time, though, he's at peace with himself—with the kink, with the sex with his brother, with the lifestyle that has enough perks now—and he wouldn't change a thing.