Warning: This story contains explicit male/male sex. If this kind of thing isn't to your liking, if you're underage, or if m/m sex is illegal where you are, please don't read this story. Life is far too short to be upset by things you read on the internet.

Notes: Written for Wintermute_LJ's pr0n challenge over on LiveJournal

Disclaimer: Not my sandbox, I'm just playing in it. Thanks to all involved in making Chuck such a fantastic show.


"Why is it every place we stay only gets five channels and three of those are bad porn?" Chuck complains, tossing the remote onto the sticky top of the cheap nightstand and lying back on the lumpy motel bed.

"Why is it every place we stay you find something else to bitch about?" Casey asks in return, carefully piecing his gun back together.

Chuck rolls his eyes. On the TV screen, a woman, lying on her side, holds up her hand and speaks in soft Spanish, then a naked man steps forward and pushes his dick into her ass. She tries to look as though she's enjoying it.

Casey finishes up his task and packs away his cleaning kit, stows his gun in its holster and stuffs that beneath his pillow. He goes into the grubby bathroom and Chuck hears him washing the gun oil off his hands. When he comes back out, he says, "Shut your eyes."

Chuck sits bolt upright. "What? No! Last time I did that you cuffed me and bleached my hair."

The big man shrugs. "Only way you'd let me."

Eyes narrowed in annoyance, Chuck says, "I don't have the coloring for blond hair! I looked stupid."

"All right, shut your eyes please," Casey says, sitting down on the edge of his bed and unlacing his boots.

"Tell me why first," Chuck says stubbornly, watching the ex-spy's every move.

Casey sets his boots together beside the bed, right where he'll be able to find them if for some reason he needs to pull them on in the dark. They haven't had run in the middle of the night for months now. Chuck isn't sure if the government has lost interest in them or if they've genuinely managed to drop off the radar.

Then Casey undoes the fly on his black jeans and stands, pushing them down his long, lean-muscled legs.

"What are you doing?" Chuck asks nervously. "Casey? John?"

Casey shakes his head. "I told you to shut your eyes. Turn the TV off."

Chuck hurriedly complied, keeping his gaze averted as Casey continued to strip. "John…"

"You're bored. I get it," Casey says from right beside Chuck's bed, making him squawk in surprise. "You can't call up your sister or any of your little nerd friends, you can't go play computer games online and sometimes bad porn is worse than no porn at all and the only other channels are news and farming."

Chuck swallowed hard. "What… what are you going to do?"

Casey sighed. "Stop you being bored. If this doesn't work, I'm going to turn you over to the government or shoot myself. I haven't decided yet which would be less painful for me."

"Okay?" Chuck squeaked uncertainly.

"Lie down," Casey said. "On your front."

"Casey, look… John, I like you, I do, I mean, you saved me from, well, from everyone, but I'm not sure I'm ready to go there with you. You're a buddy, I mean-" There's a brief sensation of movement, then Chuck registers the pillow underneath his cheek. He's lying flat on the bed, arms pinned at his sides and Casey's straddling him. "Get off me!" He panics briefly until Casey snorts, his version of an evil amused cackle, and large, strong hands dig into the tense muscles of his shoulders and neck.

Casey doesn't stop until Chuck is a boneless heap on the bed. Chuck's peripherally aware he's lost his t-shirt at some point, along with his trousers and socks, but Casey broke out a bottle of honest-to-god massage oil and Chuck kind of lost track of things.

"Guh," he manages, lifting his head with Casey's help and drinking the glass of water that's held to his lips. He doesn't think his back has ever been this loose, and as for his hands and feet - who knew they could carry so much tension? And though he really hates to admit it, the physical contact was… nice. Really, really nice. He's missed contact, touch, skin-on-skin. Not that he's ever had much of it, but he still got hugs on a regular basis from his sister and Captain Awesome, from Morgan, even from Sarah.

Casey's hands are callused, strong, competent. They're also deft, capable of gentle precision. They're warm, comforting - arousing. Chuck realizes he's half-hard and he's lying on his back. There's no way Casey could miss it. But in a surprising display of tact, the talented masseur retreats to his own bed.

"Want the bad porn back on?" Casey asks, amused.

"I, uh… 'M fine," Chuck slurs, still feeling a little disconnected from reality. "Just, 'm not gonna… you know." He turns his head to look at the big man sprawled on his own bed, looking eminently, gorgeously at ease, like a lion at rest.

"Not bored any more?" Casey asks, smug.

"Er, no. Thank you."

A week and three small back-country motels later, it's Chuck's turn to offer up a massage, with lots of stammering and avoiding eye contact. Amused, Casey takes him up on the offer, and gives him helpful advice throughout. "Lower, idiot! And do it harder, push your thumbs in. I thought you nerds were supposed to have well-developed finger muscles! Slower, moron!"

The next day when they're checking out, the guest from the room next door pauses in loading his case into the trunk of his beat-up sedan. As Casey strides ahead, the guy gives Chuck a knowing smirk with a side of sympathy. "Pushy bottom, huh? Some guys should just stick to topping."

"Huh?" It takes a second for Chuck's brain to translate, then he goes bright red. "Oh! No, no, it's nothing like that, I was just giving him a back rub, honest! Lot of driving. Road trip, you know?"

"Hey! C'mon, we've gotta get moving if we want to make Grand Forks by dinner," Casey calls, naming a city in the opposite direction from the one they're traveling in.

The guy grins. "Have fun with those massages!"

Chuck's still red by the time they pull onto the road.

"What was all that about?" Casey asks after a while.

"The guy in the parking lot? Oh, he, uh… He heard us last night and jumped to the wrong conclusion," Chuck says, blushing all over again.

"Yeah?" Casey sounds amused.

A little pissed, Chuck says, "Yeah. He said you were a pushy bottom and you should clearly stick with topping." To his annoyance, Casey doesn't look in the slightest bit embarrassed.

"Depends on the guy," Casey says casually, as though he isn't turning Chuck's world on its head yet again. "If he knows what he's doing, there's no need to say anything. Someone like you…" his voice trails away meaningfully.

"A guy like me what?" Chuck asks. He's getting more angry, gearing up for a fight. "You mean a guy who hasn't been through the armed forces, a guy who hasn't been to seduction school? A guy who hasn't spent twenty years getting intel out of people by any means necessary? I'm sorry I'm not that kind of guy, Casey!"

Casey rolls his eyes. "I meant a guy who knows what he's doing when he sticks things up my butt, you dumbass."

"How, how, how do you know I haven't, huh? How do you know me and Bryce didn't experiment back in college?" Chuck asks with righteous bravado.

Casey laughs. "First off, you aren't Bryce's type, and second, the little hetero freakout you just had because some random guy thought you had gay sex last night. Not to mention your other little hetero freakout last week when you thought I was going to jump you."

"You might have been going to!" Chuck argues for the sake of arguing, although he already knows he's lost this fight before it even really gets going. "You just said you had gay sex!"

"So? I've had straight sex too, but I'm not going to jump the waitress at the next diner we call into." He thinks for a moment. "Not unless she's really hot."

"God, you are disgusting!" Chuck fumes for the next hundred miles, but after that he can't muster the enthusiasm to continue sulking. By the time they actually do end up in a diner, being waited on by Marissa, who looks at least fifty but is probably only thirty-five, Chuck's talking to Casey again. He manages to touch on at least a dozen different topics without requiring any kind of a response from the former agent, but when they climb back into the car and Chuck takes a breath to continue, Casey looks at him with an unreadable expression and Chuck shuts up and turns on the radio.

They drive until nightfall to the strains of Ry Cooder and lonely steel-stringed guitars and spend the night in silence. They stay two days in the twelve-room motel. Four other guests come and go, single men just passing through. Chuck plays on his DS-lite until he's sick of it, until he wants to throw the handheld toy against the wall. Instead, he goes for a walk, but Casey comes too and he finds himself standing by a thin, crappy river and panting hard with the effort it's taking not to scream.

He picks up a handful of stones and hurls them into the water, one after the other. Casey stands a few feet away, a constant watchful, brooding presence that makes Chuck's skin prickle. He throws stones for almost an hour without once speaking to his bodyguard, then turns and marches back to the motel.

"Feel any better?" Casey asks.

Chuck shrugs.

Casey sighs. "Back rub it is, then. Unless you want bad porn."

Wordlessly, Chuck strips down to his trunks and arranges himself on the bed. Before long, he's relaxing under Casey's skilful ministrations, but he's more aware of the sheer size of the man kneeling over him, of the weight and power held in check and used in precise ways to loosen all the knots that have built themselves up over the past ten days. Chuck's aware of the way his skin tingles in the wake of those warm hands, of the way he's already half-hard when Casey nudges him to turn over.

By the end of the massage, he's still a boneless pile of jelly ready to ooze off the side of the bed if only the carpet wasn't so disgusting, but he's also well on his way to sporting a full-on erection and is feeling distinctly confused. He spends the rest of the evening listening to Casey clean his guns and sharpen his knives and trying to work out what's going on in his own head.

If he was home he'd call up Morgan, tell him there was definitely something odd going on between him and Mister Scary, let Doctor Morgan click his pen and hum and stroke his beard and give him sage advice. But he isn't and he can't imagine what advice Doctor Morgan would have for him in this situation. Or maybe he could talk to Devon about Stockholm syndrome, but he hasn't been kidnapped, not really, and he's free to leave Casey any time he feels like getting caught by the government and shot in the head or stuffed in a bunker for the next fifty years.

Chuck thinks back to when he thought it was possible to have a normal life even with the Intersect in his head. He'd snapped at Casey, told him the government clearly wanted him never to get laid again. Now the government simply wants him never to breathe again, that'd suit them just fine, and getting laid is so far off the scale of possible that it doesn't even register.

In the small hours of the morning as he lies awake listening to Casey breathe, he wondered if he should tell his dick that. With nothing to watch but bad porn or weather reports, it stubbornly refuses to take advantage of either the porn or the weather girls and rise to the occasion. No, it waits until Casey's got him next-to-naked and gives him an Olympic-class massage, or it ambushes him first thing in the morning, and Chuck's pretty sure that last is simply force of habit.

Casey, big, scary, former government assassin and spy, a Major, special ops, black ops, kill you with a toothpick, about as far from womanly or feminine as it's possible to get - this is who his dick is choosing to respond to.

He'd been right, all those months ago. He's never getting laid again.

Proving he's more stubborn than sensible, or maybe he's simply developing a streak of masochism, Chuck offers Casey a back rub a couple of days later. He remembers at least some of the things Casey's taught him and there are distinctly fewer barked commands this time around. He even coaxes a deep groan out of the big man and he's pretty sure it's pleasure, not pain.

Touching that tall, muscled figure, Chuck gains a new appreciation for the life Casey's lived; his muscles are incredible from two decades of hard training and harder missions, missions which are mapped out on his body in the pale, taut skin of scar tissue.

Retreating back to his own bed with an erection and an inferiority complex, Chuck consoles himself with the thought that it doesn't matter whether or not he's straight, gay or bisexual - Casey is a god, at least physically, and would obviously never want to sleep with him even if they were the only two survivors of a world-wide zombiepocalypse.

They work their way through small towns, staying away from big cities and cameras, keeping moving and out of trouble. Every few days they trade off back rubs and every time it's harder for Chuck not to press himself against Casey's nearly-naked body. Hands aren't enough, nor are knees pressed either side of his hips or his legs straddling Casey's thighs. He wants to feel those muscles pressed against him from head to toe, he wants physical contact so badly he wakes up in the middle of the night whimpering softly to himself. He's aware on an intellectual level that he's going ever so slightly crazy, but what does it really matter if the only person around to notice it is the person he's going crazy over?

In the end they're someplace just outside of nowhere, a little larger than the towns they normally stop in, and right next door to the motel is a bar and grill. Next door to that, adjunct to the bar, is a liquor store. Chuck has a steak and fries for dinner, Casey has a full rack of ribs. A couple of beers later, Chuck's on his way back to the motel room and Casey's playing pool. By the time Casey gets back to the room with the fifty bucks he's just hustled, Chuck's worked his way down most of a half-bottle of bourbon.

Chuck grimaces in advance of each swig, but at least he's past the coughing fit when he swallows. He's leaning back against the headboard with a pillow stuffed behind his back. At some point in the last half hour he's decided it's definitely too warm to wear a shirt. It's too warm for jeans as well, but probably not too warm for underpants and socks. He's staring at the bad porn on the crappy little TV and shaking his head sadly.

"Wrong, that's all so very, very wrong," he says to himself. "Don't you think so? I think so." He's addressing the bottle, which isn't answering back, but at least it isn't arguing with him or, you know, making him question his sexuality, so that's good.

"Great, drunk nerd, just what I need," Casey scowls. "Don't expect me to pick your sorry ass up off the bathroom floor. And don't puke in here."

"Hey! Cut me a little slack here," Chuck protests, slurring a little more than he thinks he should. "This's all your fault!"

"Really," Casey says, his voice dangerously level. "I guess I should apologize for saving your life, then."

"No, no, no, no, no, not that," Chuck waves a hand. It isn't the one holding the bourbon, which is good because he suspects he'd have hit himself in the head with the bottle. "You, you, the back rubs! With all the hands and the touching! And god, I haven't had sex in, well, in a very long time and this porn is terrible! My, my, my dick hates it. But not you, nooo, mister I-have-muscles-on-my-muscles! All those muscles and I haven't got any. I'm skinny and, and scrawny, and, you know, other s-words."

"Sloshed?" Casey suggests, fighting to keep a grin off his face.

Chuck pouts. "No!" He thinks for a moment. "Well, yeah, but it's all your fault!"

"Yeah, yeah, come on, Romeo. Hand me that for a minute," Casey says, reaching out a long arm.

Chuck finds his bourbon mysteriously appears in Casey's hand. "Figures," he says sulkily to the bottle. "You prefer him too." He turns those kicked-puppy eyes on Casey. "I might as well just hand you my dick, I have no use for it any more. And it likes you. I don't always like you, but you aren't as scary as you try to make me think you are. And I like you sometimes. But my dick likes you all of the time and I'm never going to use it again, so you can have it."

"Shoot me now," Casey mutters, hauling Chuck off the bed. The sudden change in altitude makes the room swirl and loop around the inebriated nerd in new and really un-fun ways. His stomach joins in and seconds later he'd be cursing if he could just stop throwing up long enough to catch his breath. He has enough brain left to think This toilet is gross! and then I must chew my food more and then all he can think is that his stomach hurts and his head hurts and he really, really doesn't like Casey any more, at all, ever.

The next day is painful. Chuck pulls down the brim of his baseball cap, wears his sunglasses, and drinks a lot of water and juice. Casey is scarily cheerful, putting on the radio and singing along with country and western songs. He does buy Chuck a large greasy burger for lunch which, though unappetizing, settles the worst of his hangover, so Chuck guesses he won't hate Casey forever after all. Even if he's found the only radio station in the entire US playing nothing but Garth Brooks and Johnny Cash.

Casey's a gentleman and doesn't say a word about Chuck's foray into binge drinking, and Chuck's kind of hazy on what he said while he was wasted, so when the subject's finally raised a week and three towns later, it comes as a total surprise. They're both stripped down to their boxers, partly because the room's heating is either on full blast or off completely and it's too cold out there now to have the heating off, and partly because it's Chuck's turn to give Casey a back rub.

Casey waits until Chuck's halfway down his back before he rumbles, "So your dick is mine, huh?"

"What?" Chuck blinks, and then the words sink in and acquire meaning and he falls sideways off the bed in his hurry to climb off him. "Where, where did that come from?" he asks, although he's terribly afraid he knows the answer.

"Apparently it likes me more than bad porn. And it likes me more than you do, but you like me anyway, at least sometimes."

Chuck can't look at Casey, but he has to know if Casey's simply tormenting him, as usual, or if there's something else going on. He can't tell from his tone of voice, but then again, Casey's been trained to withstand torture, to tell people anything they want to know. Even if it doesn't look like Casey's laughing at him, how can he really tell?

Casey rolls his eyes. "Because I'd be laughing at you. For a bright guy, you're slow sometimes."

Oh. Apparently he said that last bit out loud.

"What?" Chuck says again, stupidly. His brain has stopped working; he feels slow, sluggish, he knows there's something fundamental he's failing to grasp.

"You want me to spell it out for you?" Casey asks, rolling onto his side. Oil glistens on his shoulders in the room's low light, but Chuck hasn't started on his front yet. He fights the urge to rub oil over those pecs, feel Casey's nipples pebble underneath his thumbs.

"I think you'd better," Chuck croaks. Despite his choking embarrassment, he's hard.

"I want to have sex with you," Casey says slowly and clearly. "I don't care that you aren't a muscleman. You were worth tanking my career for. I'd like to nail you through the mattress and give you the chance to do me. That clear enough for you?"

"I thought you said I was straight!" Chuck protests feebly.

Casey grins, open and amused. "Straight guys don't strip off to give back rubs."

"Oh! I must have missed that class," Chuck says. He gives a helpless shrug. "What if I freak out again?"

Reaching one long arm down, Casey takes his hand and hauls him up onto the bed, pulling him to lie flush with him, chest to chest. "Then we'll wait until you stop freaking out and then we'll try again," he rumbles, mesmerizing Chuck with those incredible blue eyes. He leans in and brushes a kiss over Chuck's lips. His lips are thinner, harder than the girls Chuck's kissed, the skin not as soft, nowhere near lush. For a moment Chuck thinks dry, warm, then Casey does it again, a little harder and wow! Lightning strikes.

Electricity shoots from his mouth to his groin, leaving his nipples hard and his skin tingling. Chuck moans and leans into the kiss, his mouth opening automatically. Casey pushes his advantage, tilting his head to fit his mouth to Chuck's, his tongue invading, plundering, feeling so right that Chuck sucks at it to keep it there.

Those incredibly muscled arms wrap around Chuck's back, holding him in place as he's thoroughly ravished. From a distance, Chuck registers long, low moans and dimly he realizes they come from him. Every point at which he's touching Casey feels amazing, incredible; his skin is coming alive, a desert after the first rain in a hundred years. He's wrapped around the big man, couldn't let go if someone held a gun to his head.

Chuck never imagined Casey would be a good kisser, a great kisser, a world-class kisser, but if there was an Olympic event for kissing, they'd hand him the gold medal and tell everyone else not to bother. Chuck's never experienced anything like this with anyone he's ever kissed before. Casey kisses him until he can't think any more, until Chuck would let him do anything, absolutely anything at all. He lets Casey turn them so that he's blanketed by all that warm strength, hands stroking, exploring the shape of his skull, his sides, his hips, all things that Casey knows already from so many back rubs, but in this context they are new, unknown. Chuck's own hands slide up and down that broad back, feeling smooth skin over solid muscle and bone, reassuring and arousing all at once.

Then Casey rolls his hips, thrusting gently against Chuck's thigh. His hip, his thigh rub against Chuck's erection and suddenly Chuck's desperate for more. He wants to come, wants to rub all of himself against Casey, against all those muscles, wants to feel Casey lose control with him. Something of that must transmit through nerves and sweat and skin, in the tension of his neck and the clutch of his hands, because Casey's rumbling something, pulling away for just long enough to tug down their shorts to mid-thigh, then he settles back between Chuck's legs even though there's barely enough room, his shorts pull his legs back together, but oh, there's Casey's cock on his, there's Casey's hand holding them together, and there's no grace at all, but Chuck rides out Casey's thrusts and in an embarrassingly short time, he's coming hard, all over his belly, over Casey's fist, over Casey's cock, and then Casey joins him.

They lie sated, exhausted, passing open-mouthed kisses between them, sloppily aimed but heartfelt, until at last Casey rolls to one side and doesn't fall on the floor. He tugs off his shorts the rest of the way and uses them to mop them both up, then finishes stripping Chuck and manoevers him over to the other bed, where he arranges them, his chest to Chuck's back, one long leg in between Chuck's and a muscled arm over his ribs, holding him close.

Chuck doesn't wake up in the middle of the night whimpering for contact; he wakes up whimpering in the morning, whimpering for more contact because he's on his back and Casey's scooted down the bed, lying between his legs, blowing softly over his wet cock. His cock is wet because Casey's suckled him to hardness, and very shortly his mouth is wrapped around it once more. His hands stroke Chuck's thighs, his balls, his stomach. Chuck gives himself over to the sensation and by the time the fingers that are massaging his perineum move further back and rub over his opening, he's too far gone to freak out. The fingers rub and coax, leave and come back slick, breach him slowly, gently, with the deftness he's so admired, and all the time Casey's giving him the best blowjob Chuck's ever had.

By the time he comes, he's moved on from whimpering to whining, with a side of writhing thrown in. His legs are splayed wide and he's clutching the sheets so hard his fingers hurt, not that he's feeling any pain right now. As he comes down, Casey moves away for a moment, then up the bed, catching Chuck's knees in the crook of his arms. Chuck bends, loose and pliant in the aftermath of his orgasm, feels Casey snub the blunt, hot tip of his cock at Chuck's opening, feels him push, hard and slow and he relaxes into it, gives way as Casey slides into him.

It feels like coming home.

Chuck is owned, possessed, filled, fulfilled; Casey bottoms out, his balls resting against Chuck's ass. He groans, deep, low, as Casey grunts. Long, slow thrusts fill and empty his ass, rubbing across his prostate, making him pant with renewed arousal. The world spins around him, meaningless, as Casey claims him, fucks him, takes him. It's timeless, it lasts forever and all Chuck can do is lie there pinned in place by Casey's blue eyes as much as by the bigger man's weight. It's weird and strange, that feeling of fullness, Casey's hard cock thrusting in, pulling out, but it's rubbing over his prostate with every other stroke and the sensation builds and builds until Casey changes position, leans in closer and fucks into Chuck hard and fast and Chuck comes again, long and hard even though he's almost dry.

Casey bares his teeth in triumph, speeding up until he's coming too, buried as deep inside Chuck as he can get, and Chuck can feel his cock pulsing through the tight-stretched muscle of his ring. It's the oddest thing ever, and it's incredible.

After a few seconds, Casey eases Chuck's legs back to the bed, pulls out slowly, careful to hang onto the condom, which he rolls up in a tissue and drops onto the floor. He settles back on top of Chuck, who smiles.

"Not freaking out," Chuck says softly. He dredges up a little coordination from somewhere and manages to lift his hand and stroke the back of Casey's head, running his fingers over the short sweat-damp hair there. "It was good. Really good. Good enough to do it again. Probably quite often. Maybe even every night. Or, you know, every morning. And every night."

Casey grins. "I think we can work it out."

Back on the road again, Chuck shifts in his seat. He doesn't hurt, but he can certainly feel what he's been up to and it makes him smile. He chatters happily about a hundred and one things as Casey drives them down back roads and through almost deserted countryside until at last they fetch up in another small motel in a nowhere town and Chuck flops onto one of the beds and flicks on the TV.

"Anything good on?" Casey asks, dropping the bag beside the other bed and shrugging off his jacket.

"Nope," Chuck says happily. "Just the weather report and bad porn."

"Guess we'll have to make our own entertainment then," says Casey.

With a laugh, Chuck begins stripping. "I guess we will. Thank god for bad porn and back rubs."