Dean ran his palm over the soft skin of Sam's ass. Sam pushed back against Dean's hand. "Don't fucking tease me. Come on."
Dean laid a hard smack down. "Bossy."
Richard, the club owner, raised his finger, a strangely polite gesture for the events unfolding before him, and whispered into Dean's ear. Dean listened, and after a moment he smiled. "Yeah."
Richard rose and walked quickly toward the back of the room.
Dean leaned close. "See, Sam, like this, you're right against the wall. Everyone'll have a real nice view of me spanking your ass nice and red, but they can't see your face."
Sam made a needy little sound. Dean's answer was a low, throaty chuckle. "Yeah. Thought so. We're gonna take care of you, baby boy."
Sounds behind them, as several men pulled a long, backless sectional couch close to them, with room on all sides. Dean gathered Sam's clothes and boots and brought them to the couch, leading Sam with one hand.
Without a word of directive, Sam crawled onto the couch and got on his hands and knees, thighs spread wide. Dean walked around, unbuttoning a button on his shirt, mouth twitching like he meant business. He positioned himself behind Sam, slightly to the side.
They were quickly surrounded.
At the first impact of Dean's hand, Sam closed his eyes and dropped his head. Dean tsked, and tangled the fingers of his other hand in Sam's hair, pulling back so his head was forced up. "Missing the whole point of moving you over here, sweetheart."
He brought his hand down again. This time, Sam's face was exposed for all to see the expressions flickering across it.
Dean didn't mess around. This wasn't a tentative spanking. He brought his hand down hard, making Sam's ass quiver with each impact, staining his skin pink immediately. He kept his hand tight in Sam's hair, head up high, for several minutes, then released him when Sam started to really squirm and sweat. He shook his right hand out from the sting on his own skin, and caught side of Sam's belt on the floor.
Rubbing his hand soothingly over Sam's ass, turned a uniform shade of pink, he picked up the belt. Doubling it over, he held it over the back of Sam's neck and snapped it together.
Sam jumped at the loud crack, looking over his shoulder at Dean. His eyes were huge, pupils blown wide, lips reddened from sucking Dean's cock, and biting his lower lip.
Dean's smile was full of love and dark promise.
Sam groaned and dropped his chest to the couch, sticking his ass up in the air and spreading his legs wider.
A murmur went through the crowd.
Dean wrapped the belt around his hand until just the right length was sticking out. He leaned close and whispered in Sam's ear, "This reminds me of when we were teenagers." You messed up, Sammy. Dad said I gotta keep you in line.
Sam writhed on the couch. "Jesus. Gonna die if you don't fucking do it. Now."
Dean rolled his eyes. "So. Fucking. Bossy." With that, he brought the belt down. "Gonna have to beat that right out of you, baby boy." Again. And again. He kept his hand on the small of Sam's back, both of them needing that constant contact.
Sam cried out as the belt striped his ass and thighs, hands scrabbling at the fabric of the couch, grabbing at nothing.
Richard's voice, silky and amused. "He's a puller."
Dean's gaze was suddenly on Richard.
"He wants to have something to pull on. It helps. And it feels good."
Dean suddenly remembered the countless times he'd seen Sam do that in the throes of intense pleasure or the little pain games they liked to play sometimes, scrabbling with his hands, gripping the bedclothes, pulling the sheets off the bed. Something to pull on. He filed that away for future reference and exploitation as soon as humanly fucking possible. But there was nothing for Sam to pull on at the moment. Sam would just have to claw at the couch.
And he clawed so beautifully, arching his back into each lick of the belt, back bowing as the pain flared through him, his cock heavy and hard bobbing between his legs. He was a thing of feral beauty, spread wide for Dean, drinking down the pain/pleasure of it, reveling in all eyes on him, watching him give himself to Dean entirely.
Dean strapped Sam good and hard, just like he promised. Smacked his ass raw, everyone watching slack-jawed as Sam's body jolted when the leather kissed his flesh, listening rapt to every cry and groan and sobbing plea for more, every "Yes" and "please" and "oh god." The pain made Sam even more wanton, kicking his responsiveness into overdrive, chasing off any shred of shyness or self-consciousness. He gyrated his hips under the blows, throwing his hair back, sitting up on his knees and lacing his fingers together at the nape of his neck in a position of surrender.
Dean groaned at the sight, slipping his hand around Sam's chest, pressing his lips to Sam's neck. "So good for me, Sammy. Taking it so fucking good." He rolled his fingertips over Sam's left nipple, pinching hard. Sam arched into it, muttering, "Dean. Dean."
Dean dropped the belt, and caressed Sam's ass, bright red and hot to the touch. Sam hissed.
Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle of lube. He kneeled on the couch behind Sam, squirted some onto his hand and slicked up Sam's cock, pulling Sam tight against him with his left hand on his chest. He worked his right hand on Sam's cock slowly. Sam leaned his head back against Dean's shoulder, closing his eyes, shuddering with pleasure.
"Look at them." Dean's voice was insistent.
Sam opened his eyes, and looked at the men standing before him, watching him. He moaned.
"You like that."
Sam chewed on his lip, and nodded his assent.
"They can't wait for me to fuck you. Look at them. Fucking dying for it. Can't wait for me to work you on my cock until you're screaming."
Sam's breath came hard and fast.
"Come on, baby. I'm tired of doing all the work. Fuck my fist." Dean's voice was soft, loving, but not to be refused.
Sam pumped his hips forward.
"There you go." Dean held his fist steady as Sam thrust into his clenched fingers, pulled back with a groan, lunged forward again. And suddenly Sam was looking into the eyes of each man in turn, feeding off what he saw in their eyes as they watched him, fucking Dean's fist shamelessly, making the most delicious, wanton sounds.
"My pretty little slut. Doing so good for me, baby. So good." Sam gasped, pumping his hips harder, and whined when Dean released his hold. "Shhh… want you to come on my cock."
"Oh god. Oh god. Please."
"Please fuck me, oh god, please, need your cock in me so bad, oh god, please, Dean, please fuck me…"
The most beautiful sound in this or any world was Sam Winchester moaning Dean's name in that soft, broken voice.
Dean turned Sam around, claimed his mouth in a kiss that left Sam breathless. Then he lay Sam down on his back.
Sam spread himself open to Dean, thighs wide apart, huge eyes locked on Dean's, mouth slightly open. So open. So vulnerable and exposed. Giving himself entirely to Dean, holding nothing back, letting everyone see.
Sam shook under his touch.
"You really love this, don't you. People watching us."
Sam brought his hand up to cradle Dean's face. "We've had to hide this our whole lives."
Dean closed his eyes. He understood now.
Suddenly Dean felt ashamed. Ashamed that he was still fully dressed. That he'd asked Sam to give him everything, and that he'd given so little in return.
He undid his shirt and tossed it to the floor. He stood and removed his boots and socks, just like Sam had done, and tugged off his jeans, standing naked in front of God and everyone.
Another murmur from the crowd. Sam stared up at him in surprise.
Dean knelt on the couch, stroking his hands slowly up Sam's thighs, exquisitely slowly, as if the feel of Sam's skin on his hands was intensely pleasurable. Because it was.
He stroked Sam everywhere, slowly, branding every inch of his skin with love, love for what Sam had just done for him. Giving him this unexpected gift, when here, he'd thought he was doing this whole exhibitionism thing just to please a wicked little kink of Sammy's. The gift of bringing their relationship out of hands and mouths exploring in the dark under the sheets, of playing it straight all day and only touching in the red-and-blue light spilling through yet another motel window. Of no one ever seeing. Ever knowing.
Dean felt the wealth of eyes on them like a desert that long ago forgot the taste of rain drenched in a powerful storm.
Dean brought his hands down between Sam's thighs, curled under his ass, gently lifted him up until he was up on his shoulders, ass in the air. He brought his thumbs together, stroking Sam's tight rim, and spread Sam open.
"Oh god," Sam breathed.
Dean lowered his mouth, brushed his lips against Sam's center.
Somewhere, someone in the crowd moaned.
Dean parted his lips, those perfect lips, and licked a stripe over Sam's hole. Sam shivered. Dean licked across his entrance again, looking into Sam's face with such love it brought tears to Sam's eyes.
Sam brought his massive hands up, gripped his ass cheeks and gently spread himself open for Dean. Dean pressed his cheek against Sam's inner thigh. "Love you so goddamn much, baby boy." He licked into Sam again, deeper, lapping at him until the outer ring opened, revealing the beautifully pink, impossibly soft flesh just beneath. He sealed his mouth over Sam and sucked gently, tonguing at him, blinking his long eyelashes, his green eyes searching Sam's face, taking in every sign of pleasure.
Dean licked Sam open as though it was his first time, and he wanted it to be perfect for his baby. Long, soft strokes of his tongue, driving shivers and gasps and needy sounds out of Sam.
And oh, the sounds Sam made. Sam was noisy. But this was different. These sounds rose out of Sam like water from a newly dug well, spilled out of him like he would burst if he kept them inside. Soft moans, almost feminine in pitch. Helpless whimpers. Sounds that tried to be words but died, language failing. A surprised laugh, as if Sam didn't know that this plus that could feel so good. Rough groans that said in pure sound, "I can't believe what you're doing to me right now." Staccato cries as Dean's tongue grew bolder, drove deeper, licking inside him, eyes still locked on Sam's. Long sighs, Sam lost in the sight of that mouth of Dean's sealed over his entrance, those drop-dead gorgeous eyes watching him over his spread thighs, that tongue that Dean swiped over his lips a thousand times a day probing inside Sam's most intimate place—while people bore witness.
Dean lowered Sam's hips to the couch. Sam gripped Dean's shoulders and pulled him down, kissing him deep, showing everyone there was nothing Dean could do with Sam that was too much or too far.
"I need you, Sammy." This phrase, so hackneyed, overused into pale nothingness, had weight and fire and truth, in Dean's mouth.
The energy of the crowd was shifting, heightening, as they began to realize that things had swung from just a kinkybeautiful exhibition to something much deeper unfolding before their eyes.
Dean anointed himself, getting his cock slick. He didn't bother with working his fingers inside Sam. Sam didn't need it, already soft and licked open, and wanting Dean inside him so badly.
He moved between Sam's legs. He knew Sam's body so well, he didn't need to hold his cock steady with his hand so he could get just the right angle to enter Sam. He simply lined himself up, leaning over Sam, brought his lips to his brother's and slipped inside.
Sam's mouth fell open, pure wonder lighting up his face. He opened to Dean without a twitch of resistance, opened to Dean like he was born for this, born for Dean, like his body was Dean's refuge and he would never be refused entrance.
When Dean was all the way inside, he just stayed there, unmoving, lost in Sam's eyes. It was only when Sam made the softest of sounds that he stirred, rolling his hips, staying deep inside Sam, as though he was loathe to have even an inch of himself outside of Sam.
Sam rocked Dean inside him, holding him close, but gently. Dean moved inside Sam, every nerve ending alive. The gaze of the spectators felt like being bathed in light, dripping through their skin, lighting them up from the inside. Time skipped a beat, got lost, got drunk in a bar and stayed out all night.
Just Sam and Dean. Dean in Sam. Two bodies born of the same mother and father, so close to being the same flesh. Two souls originally one, able to see itself and explore itself once split into two, trying to fuse together again.
The men in the front stepped back, as though the heat of what they were witnessing was too intense.
After a moment without measure, Dean began moving faster. Sam cried out at the slow slick slide of Dean's cock inside him, thick and long, scraping against that secret pleasure center with each thrust. His cry sent a shiver through Dean, and suddenly Dean wanted to make his Sammy fall apart for him, wanted everyone to see the glorious sight of Sam coming for Dean.
Dean didn't speak. Couldn't speak. Not words in human language. He spoke in sound and touch, in what shone through his eyes. And Sam understood. He spread his strong thighs wider, cradled Dean's ass with his hands, urged him on with groans and panting breath and hungry kisses. And when Dean began to shudder, just about to tip over the edge, it was Sam who spoke. "Dean. Come inside me."
And something huge and important broke loose inside Dean, came roaring out of him, spilling not only out of his cock but his mouth and eyes and fingertips and chest, light and sound and air and pleasure and love and everything. Everything.
Sam shuddered beneath Dean, clenching around him, pushing up to take Dean inside him as deep as he could, powerful arms holding him tight as though trying to fuse his body into Dean's. The orgasm came from someplace deep inside, someplace so primal it had never been tapped before, not located in his cock alone, but everywhere. He came with his entire body. His entire soul.
The crowd stood, hushed and reverent, at the joining of the two men before them, shaking and gasping, past even the point of being able to be expressed by sound.
Finally, almost mercifully, the pleasure crested and ebbed.
Dean gave out a sob. Sam just trembled. They did not separate willingly. But eventually Dean's flesh cooled and contracted. When it slipped free, Sam whimpered.
Dean lay on his side and pulled Sam into his arms, stroking his hair.
No one made a sound.
Richard stirred, tears streaking his face. He walked quietly to a cabinet, and came back with a blanket. He shook it out and laid it over them with incredible gentleness.
A silver-haired man drew near and simply laid his hand on Dean's head, ever so lightly. Then he walked to the door and passed through.
Another man approached, touched Sam's shoulder, gently, almost reverently. Then he too left.
Not everyone dared to come near, to touch. But some did. Others simply touched the blanket covering them, like it was the hem of a holy man's garment.
A young man stood at their feet and signed the words, "Thank you" to them before he too left.
Eventually, there were only two men left. Richard, and a rough-faced man in working man's clothing.
Richard brought them a pitcher of water and a pint glass. Dean sat up and drank, and made Sam drink some too, and then sank back down into his arms.
"You can stay as long as you like. Until you're rested or sober enough to drive."
Dean frowned. He couldn't sleep. Too dangerous. But he still had too much bourbon in his system to drive, and he damn well wasn't going to leave Baby behind until he sobered up.
The sound of someone clearing his throat. "Give us a minute?"
Richard raised his eyebrows, and went out to the main club.
When Dean got a look at the man, he flinched.
"You remember me."
Dean stared. It was a hunter. Rayland something or other. One he remembered from a hunt several years back, when they'd teamed up with some local hunters to take out a nest of vampires. A really solid bunch of guys. Good people. Trustworthy hunters.
Rayland knew who they were. Knew they were brothers. Knew they were Sam and Dean Winchester.
Thankfully, Sam was still floating in a blissful haze, entirely trusting of Dean to keep him safe.
"It's ok. I'd never breathe a word of this to a single soul." Rayland rubbed his mouth. "See… this thing between the two of you? It's not as rare as you'd think."
Dean looked at Rayland steadily. Remembering that hunt. Rayland and his older brother.
Rayland nodded. "Me and Jesse." He blew out a breath. "Christ that feels good to say out loud."
Dean and Rayland looked at each other, something passing between them.
"Most people wouldn't understand. But… you can't help who you love." Rayland gave a shy little smile.
Dean closed his eyes, almost undone by the wave of relief that hit him.
"I'll stand watch. Until you're ready to head home. All night if you need it. You saved Jesse's ass. Kept that vamp from eating him. I owe you."
Dean hardly knew what to say. "I'd appreciate that."
Rayland went through to the main club, and came back a moment later. "We're good. He'll stick around, let you out when you're ready. He'll leave us be in here." He rummaged behind the bar, and emerged with a box of rock salt. He laid down a thick line of salt at the door, then took up two pillows from the plush couch and brought them to Dean. "Figured this would help you sleep a little better."
Dean shook his head. Such a strange life they led. Someone must be looking out for them—at least sometimes.
He pulled Sam, warm and pliant, close and breathed in the scent of his shampoo, and settled a pillow under his head. The other pillow nestled under his own head, he pulled the warm blanket close over them, and allowed himself to drift into sleep.