This sooo wanted to be a story, but porn just snuck in and then ate all the sense and plot.
It's probably not the worst birthday he's ever had, and isn't that the saddest fucking thing?
It's not even the worst since his Dad died, leaving him with a younger brother to take care of and a book full of monsters to hunt.
Dean is 21 today, and he already feels half dead. He can count the scars that ladder his legs, back, stomach, and he knows there's a real chance he won't make it to 25. He'll die in the cold somewhere, at night, under a wendigo or surrounded by strangers with black eyes.
He slumps on his motel bed, despite Castiel's suggestion that maybe they could do something for his birthday. Dean tells him to shut up, that he really doesn't want to celebrate. Castiel sits on the bed next to him, hands him the remote and a sets a bottle of whisky and a six pack between them
And for that Dean has to concede that he loves his brother, for right now, for the past few years of silent tolerance of Dean's foul moods and worse cooking. For living out of motels and the trunk of the car, dropping their real names somewhere along the way. For never once saying that Dad wouldn't have gotten hurt, Dad wouldn't have gotten them in danger, or run out of cash or gotten them chased out of town.
It was true, but Cas never said it.
So for once it's nice to stay indoors, get drunk and watch TV.
"Don't mention it. Now move over." Castiel makes himself comfortable on the bed, bare feet propped up on the frame. Dean notes that his jeans are washing out, his grey T-shirt sporting holes, and mentally calculates the cost of a couple more bags of thrift shop clothing. That plus food, motels and gas equals a couple more nights of hustling pool, maybe a few blow jobs passed around out side the next bar he sees. Fucking awesome.
They lie side by side as Dean flicks through the channels, they make serious inroads into the beer and whisky, watching half a football game, part of an episode of a hospital drama that Dean is too drunk to explain properly. One by one the channels fuzz out, broadcasts ending. Castiel is lolling on the bed, eyes half closed with drink and sleepiness. Dean flips over onto a new channel.
"There is a God."
Castiel groans as the Casa Erotica music starts to play.
"It's my birthday, you don't like it you can sleep in the car."
Castiel grumbles again, but keeps his eyes closed and nuzzles further into the bed. Dean turns his attention to the movie on screen and after a while Castiel stops trying to sleep over the moans and squeals and opens his eyes.
The light from the television plays over them, a mixture of white and red, flickering shadows and the ecstatic sounds of the woman and the two men, tinny and fake.
It starts because Dean pushes the heel of his hand into his crotch, he's so hard it hurts, eyes not leaving the screen as he does it, feeling the zipper pressing into his palm, the rigid weight underneath. His fingers curl and he palms himself, hissing at the initial reprieve, groaning as another pulse of blood heads south.
He really hopes Castiel is asleep, it's not like he hasn't done this within earshot before – thin walls and shared rooms and practically living in the car the year their Dad died, they got pretty used to each other. Still, Castiel is younger, more normal than Dean could ever hope to be being raised on the John Winchester code of hunting, so he hopes...
Castiel gasps, and through the fog of alcohol and want Dean registers that he's doing something not quite right, turns to his brother ready to laugh it off, hand already moving away. He sees Castiel's face first, taught and hungry and focussed on where Dean's hand is squeezing. His own fingers, long and pale, are tracing his erection, maddeningly soft and slow, pressing through his pants. His eyes meet Dean's and he sighs, head hitting the pillow, eyes back on the screen.
And Dean isn't one to rock the boat, especially if it means he can jerk off in the warm bed and not the moulded, scum caked bathroom.
Castiel's other hand rises from the bedspread, fingers finding his zipper, pulling it down. His eyes stay glued to the cheap porn playing out on screen, and Dean's own attention wanders back to the TV before the first rough pull of skin on skin begins.
Time kind of stretches out, warm and loose like dripping syrup, and when Dean next checks in with his body, it's to find his own cock in his hand, dripping and aching with the need to come, and Castiel is still stretched beside him, whimpering and thrusting into his own fist.
They're both past the point of no return, no longer registering the porn, only the tightening of their thighs, the convulsive shudders of their skin, Dean rolling the heaviness of his balls and hissing out his pleasure.
"Oh" Castiel mewls and arches, jacking quicker, tightening his fist and going for it with every ounce of strength he's got. "Ohh...fuck...uh..." His body seizes up and he twitches once, hard, like his own orgasm has surprised him. Curling in on himself, on his side as spends over his fingers, pullinghimself through it until he hisses and jerks again.
Dean clenches his teeth, closes his eyes against the sight of his brother, come slicked and lazy, finishes himself off with a few good pulls and a full body shudder. He can be silent, living in close quarters has done that.
Without speaking he picks up the remote, flicking off the porn and casting the room into sudden darkness. He gets off the bed and kicks off his pants, stripping his shirt and using it to clean himself up before tossing it aside and getting into his own bed.
He lies there and listens to Castiel collect himself, strip off his own clothes and settle down to sleep.
The next morning neither of them mentions it.
Dean has a kind of 'what the fuck?' moment when he wakes up with the hangover from hell and a few streaks of come on him that he'd managed to miss the night before. Then he notices Castiel asleep in his own bed and he remembers what happened.
He consoles himself with two things, the first is that it's not like they had sex. The second is that he was drunk, with a bonus third being that it's not exactly a new thing from them to jerk off in the same room. Well, for Dean anyway, Castiel is some sort of sexual camel who can go for months without getting any and be perfectly fine.
Castiel twitches awake and sits up, looking down at himself and frowning slightly at the sensation of dried semen on his belly, his gaze travels to Dean and a slight flush hits his cheeks as he quickly looks away.
"You take first shower." Dean rasps, his mouth feeling dry and fuzzed over. Castiel eases out of bed and walks the short distance to the bathroom door. Dean only realises he's staring at his brothers naked body when the door cuts off his view. "Fucking co-dependency shit." He curses to himself, tugging the sheets back over his head and trying to still the dull throbbing in his temples.
The shower starts up with a splutter and Castiel steps into the grungy tub.
He feels the water soak his hair, layering the dark spikes down over his scalp before running down his body. He turns the heat up as high as he can stand it, lathering his stomach with cheap white soap before washing his hair and underarms.
He'd jerked off in front of Dean.
Embarrassment flares through him and he closes his eyes, holding his face under the stream of water. He can't help it, if there's one person he doesn't want to compare himself with, it's his brother. Dean's older, taller, stronger, pretty much bigger in all ways Castiel cares to observe, and has done thanks to their practically boundary-less lifestyle. He gets more women, more appreciate looks full stop, and he's a better hunter, better at everything.
And now Castiel knows that Dean's seen him come.
Great, just fucking...His palm hits the wall with a wet slap and he rests his head against his extended arm, willing the gut churning embarrassment to drain away.
Dean bangs on the door.
"You ok in there princess?"
"Just perfect thanks." Castiel yells back.
"Whatever, if you use all the hot water you don't get breakfast."
"Still not done Dean."
Castiel turns off the water and steps out, grabbing a towel and slinging it around his waist. He opens the door.
"Can I not have just five minutes without you..."
Dean's not standing by the door. He's flat on his back, hands under the bed sheet and when Castiel stormed back in he'd frozen.
"Ugh...you're incredible, you know that?" Castiel scowls, grabbing his jeans and slinging his wet towel at Dean in one movement.
"No, tell me why." Dean's legs shift a little further apart and he doesn't look like he's going to stop anytime soon. Because that would mean he was embarrassed, which would mean he thought what he was doing was wrong – and Dean was never wrong, even when he was.
"You've done this in front of me twice in less than eight hours." Castiel yanks his jeans up and on over his recently discovered underwear. "Go and find a girl, you jackass." Dean's eyes are half closed, hands still moving, Castiel takes in the sight and glowers. "You're...are your fingers..."
Dean shifts down suddenly and moans.
Which Castiel guesses answers that question.
"You're the one watching." Dean grits out, before his features shift and he gasps, moving in earnest. "Feels fucking good though."
"If you like fingers up your ass." Castiel tugs on his shirt, scratching his stomach lightly. "I'm going to get breakfast...when you're 'done' I'll be at the diner down the street."
"Prude." Dean squirms another finger inside of himself, and it's kind of hard to be embarrassed or even very coherent with three fingers stretching him open and a fair bit of pressure on his prostate. Castiel looks at him for a minute, then snatches up a corner of the sheet, tugging it to one side and exposing Dean to the crisp air of the motel room.
"What the hell!" He jumps at the cold, rocking down hard and pumping with the other hand and Jesus Christ – that'll get you there is the last thing he has time to think. He comes hard over his fist and flops back onto the bed with a groan. "You...son, of a bitch..."
Castiel looks at him with raised eyebrows, his throwaway gesture of mild irritation having had more effect than he was prepared for. He's expecting Dean to throw something at him and maybe curse him out of the room, but his brother just clenches his jaw, shifts his hand and whimpers, fingers searching out his prostate and massaging hard.
Castiel's kind of frozen because he's never had this happen to him before. He's been in the same room, at night, with Dean under the blankets of a different bed shuffling himself off the edge and into orgasm with as little fuss as possible. Even last night's drunken exhibitionism wasn't totally off the mark for Dean...but he's pretty sure they're both sober now.
"Dean?" his throat is irritatingly dry.
"Shut. Up." Dean's eyes are scrunched closed and for the first time Castiel wonders if this has something to the depressing reality that is their lives, that was Dean's birthday. His older brother gasps, dick twitching at the relentless stimulation.
Castiel's transfixed, can't help but step a little closer to the heaving, sweating body of the man on the bed. His fingers close around Dean's ankle and his eyes fly open. Castiel swallows and slides his hand up Dean's calf, pressing into the tense muscle underneath his skin. Dean closes his eyes and lets his head fall back, nodding slightly.
"You want me to..."
"Fuck, just...yes, already...come on."
It's the closest either of them have come to voicing it, this thing that happens when they're unguarded, the moments after attacks when Castiel's franticly shaking his brother's still form, or sewing him up, or curled into him on the back seat of the car while they sleep through another cold night without a room.
One night of drunken self abuse, a couple of situations that should have been awkward but weren't.
Castiel wonders if this would have happened if their Dad had lived, if they were normal brothers without all the demon chasing and unhealthy co-dependent bullshit that dragged them along together.
He kneels between Dean's spread thighs and strokes the flaccid softness between his legs. He realises after a few minutes that he's humming in the back of his throat, watching Dean harden under his patient fingers.
"Yeah..." Dean fingers himself hard, arching into the weight of Castiel's hand. "Baby..."
"Call me baby again and I'm going to stop." Castiel squeezes him tightly and nudges one of his fingers in alongside Dean's.
"That'd make you...kind of a tease."
Another finger and Dean shouts hoarsely.
"That makes me more than a one night stand." Castiel points out. "Don't you forget it."
Dean shakes his head mutely, gasping in a rush of air.
Castiel hums in agreement, lowering his mouth towards the head of Dean's erection. His brother almost sobs at the contact.
A couple of fairly ardent licks later, Dean's comes hard for the second time in under an hour, feeling strung out a raw.
"Fuck..." he pants, grunting a little as Castiel withdraws his fingers and then working his own free. "Where the hell did you learn...that."
Castiel nuzzles his spent dick and traces his tongue over it.
Dean can kind of guess anyway – it's not like Castiel doesn't sometimes produce money he shouldn't have, couldn't have without a job or a sideline as fucked up as Dean's own methods of blow jobs and pool.
Castiel pulls off of him reluctantly, pupils blown and cheeks flushed beneath a layer of stubble. Dean rolls onto his side lazily.
"That was amazing." Is all he can manage, he can't say sorry, sorry that they're this fucked up, that Castiel has undoubtedly taken a guy like that before, for cash. Sorry that Dean hasn't done a better job of protecting him.
"Nothing says thank you like reciprocation." Castile flicks the buttons on his own jeans open, slipping them off and kicking them off the bed, he tugs off his shirt and spreads out, hand knotting itself into Dean's hair. "Whenever you're ready."
Dean lets his lip curl into a smirk, because all the fucked up shit he's dealt with since his Dad died? It's kind of worth it for mornings like this.
I've said it before and I'll say it again – there needs to be more incest for their pairing.