Liar

Dean was a liar. He was a very good, very convincing liar and it came as naturally to him as breathing. He could smile and gently flirt with a pretty girl while picture bending her over a counter and fucking her up the, most likely, virgin ass without lube just to hear her beg and scream. He could coax just about any information from people by convincingly posing as various forms of conventional authority; had been doing so since he was old enough to shave.

Dean was also persuasive. He could, and had, talked more than one straight boy to his knees in order to suck Dean’s cock, all with the promise that it didn’t really count or everyone experimented once in their life. He’d sweet-talked his way into a number of innocent girl’s panties and that from even before he could shave.

Most of his talents could be laid at his father’s door, thanks to the training and ‘do what you have to’ mentality with which he’d been raised. Dean didn’t kid himself though; amorality was nothing if not a clear state of being. He knew right from wrong, he just didn’t care nine times out of ten. On the whole, going alone to get along was the way people liked to live and he had no qualms taking advantage of that.

There were different kinds of evil in the world and Dean knew he fell into one of the many categories, though he wasn’t sure yet which. He did save a lot of people and killed as many obviously evil creatures as he could, so maybe that balanced things out.

Then again, maybe killing a skinwalker did nothing to atone for the nearly fatal beating he’d dished out to two kids who’d called his brother a queer. And just because someone else had put the roofie in that one guy’s drink, it didn’t make Dean any less a bastard for fucking him in his back seat. Wiping out a vampire nest probably didn’t make up for that one. On the scale of Good vs. Evil, he sometimes wondered if he worked out to neutral.

The only thing he knew that he’d truly done true and good in his life, for no other reason than he wanted to do it, was bringing Sam up right. He’d done such a bang-up job of it, that Sam had taken those right and wrong lessons completely and utterly to heart, wanting nothing more than to forget the evil they’d seen growing up and focus only on the good. Not that Dean blamed him, not really. He’d shielded Sam from their father’s temper and drinking, willingly taking the brunt of it on himself. Because of that, Sam had jumped ship the first chance he could, fully secure in himself and his arguments and self-determination.

Irony, was a bitch.

The bar he entered was a dive, even by his standards. A quick scan around the one-room joint showed battered and crooked tables, a scuffed, grimy wooden floor, more than one chair that was falling apart and a single bar counter that had mismatched panels, telling of past scuffles that had turned violent enough to destroy part of it. Dressed as he was in leather jacket, faded jeans, and old ass-kicking boots, Dean fit right in. No one gave him a second glance except the bartender, who looked like he’d rather not.

“What can I getcha?” the man asked, hair lank around his face and pale eyes bloodshot to hell and gone.

“Whiskey.”

The bartender nodded and reached below to get the bottle.

Dean ordered, “Leave it,” and slapped a fifty down on the bar.

Lips pursed, the man set down the bottle down and glass before grabbing the cash and sidling away.

When his cell rang somewhere in the middle of his third refill, Dean picked it up to see ‘Sammy’ on the ID. Grinning, he deliberately slurred, “‘S’up, Sammy?”

“Are you drunk? Where are you? Don’t you dare drive the Impala back in that condition!”

Grinning, Dean answered, “Drunk? Me? Naaah.”

“Damn it, Dean! Where are you?”

“Doan worry ‘bout it, Sammy! I’ma fine!” Dean promised, still grinning as he hung up in the middle of Sam’s rant.

It took a lot more than three whiskeys to get Dean drunk, especially since he’d eaten earlier, but he had to bait the trap somehow. An easy mark with money to spare always brought out the scum of the area. He never had to feel bad about unleashing holy hell on whoever jumped him after leaving the bar. Picking up the bottle with exaggerated care, he slapped another ten down on the bar before stumbling outside.

Even during the day, this part of the mid-sized town held a forlorn feel to it; at night, it was positively abandoned and desolate. Dean had actually parked the Impala a mile away in a brightly lit commuter parking lot. There were a lot of alleys and narrow side streets in the area with plenty of hiding places and shadows.

It happened about three long blocks away from the bar, further than Dean expected. Of course by then, even the buzz had started to fade so he was in great shape for what would hopefully be a fight where he was outnumbered. The one-on-one fights just never lasted long enough anymore.

Four guys stepped out of a side street, blocking his path and looking belligerent about it. Dean flashed them a grin and greeted, “Heya fellas! What’s up?”

“Your wallet, watch, cell, and anything else of value you got,” the one in front commanded.

Dean’s grin didn’t fade as he prompted, “What about them?”

Irritation surfaced and the man exclaimed, “Hand them over, bitch!”

“Now why would I do that?” Dean countered. “I like my watch! Like the cell phone, too. My brother’s got great taste in electronics.”

Out came a butterfly knife, the light from a nearby streetlamp catching the blade as it cut through the air to click into position. The man insisted, “Hand them over! Now!”

Dean felt good. His body was relaxed and ready for anything. His mind remained blissfully empty of all the crap that ensnared his daily life. All there was, was the coming violence that would cleanse him of the need to cut into Sam, verbally at least, which was getting harder to do, the closer Soul Day came.

Momentarily holding up a finger, he unscrewed the cap on the bottle and took a swig, swallowing the burn with relish. His other hand reached back to pull out the zippo lighter in his back pocket.

“Enough of this shit!” the leader snapped, striding forward.

Dean took another swig and lowered the bottle in time to lift the lighter, strike it on, and blow 180 proof whiskey at the man. The burst of flame seared into the other’s face and shoulder, causing him to scream and try to put out the fire. Pure exultation lit through Dean as he splashed more alcohol on the man, feeding the flames while one of the other men tossed a jacket over his friend to put them out.

The third and fourth men jumped Dean then, tackling him to the ground. They got in some good punches and the pain sent jolts of satisfaction through him. Not pleasure, exactly, but something that clicked deep inside him and felt right, somehow. He let them bruise and cut him up a little, grunting at the loss of wind, before slamming the bottle on the glass above his head. He brought it forward and down, stabbing into the nearest guy’s back, just below the shoulder blade where it would hurt like a bitch whenever the arm moved. Then he pulled it out and repeated the action under the other shoulder blade.

Dean kicked the now-screaming man off him, landing a blow between the legs before turning his full attention on the fourth. The man’s eyes widened in sudden fear as he realized there was no one to back him up. Unfortunately, Dean hard the other coherent man calling for an ambulance and knew there wasn’t a lot of time left. He rolled to pick up the butterfly knife from where it had dropped a short distance away and then jumped nimbly to his feet.

“Please, mister, don’t hurt me!” the last guy exclaimed.

Dean pretended to think it over a few seconds, pocketing the knife, and then attacked. It was brutal and fast, an efficient takedown taught by one of the best. Dean’s fists slammed into the gut and nose, before his heel cracked down into a knee, dropping the man with a cry of pain.

Just as he brought his foot back to kick the man in the head, someone ordered loudly, in a frightened voice, “Don’t! Don’t or I’ll shoot!”

Putting his foot carefully down, Dean slowly turned to find the man who’d put out the flames standing about three feet away with a snub nosed revolver in shaking hands. Meeting panicked dark eyes, Dean smiled the smile of the innocent and said, “Easy there, tiger, don’t go doing something that’ll get you the death penalty. They do that here in Texas, you know.”

Hesitation wavered over the man’s face and Dean snap-kicked the gun out of his hands. He followed it up by grabbing the fist still in the air, pointed uselessly at him, and spun, twisting to flip the guy over his shoulder so that he landed hard…right in the broken glass.

Dean hummed cheerfully as he moved to pick up the gun and then looked over the scene to see if there was anything left that might have fingerprints. Deciding he could live with this crime added to his rap sheet, no one would die after all, he picked all of their pockets and stole their wallets before jogging away to the sound of sirens coming closer.

* * * *

The drive to their latest hotel was actually a good forty-five minutes and that was after Dean finally walked the rest of the way to the Impala. By then, he didn’t have to fake the soreness from his beating, even as minor as it was in comparison to others he’d gotten over the years. It was almost two in the morning and all the lights were out when he entered the hotel room.

Looking at the bed Sam had staked as his own showed his younger brother fast asleep, but with the laptop still on and still dressed in his jeans; signs that Sam had tried to stay awake and hadn’t been able to do so.

Dean groaned softly and then stumbled a little, making just enough noise to wake Sam on his way to the bathroom.

“Dean? You okay?” Sam asked through a yawn.

Continuing to the bathroom, Dean answered, “I’m fine, Sam. Go back to sleep.”

But, predictably, Sam climbed out of bed and followed him into the tiny bathroom. Hissing in anger when he saw the bruise on Dean’s cheek, he demanded, “What happened?”

“Four of them, one of me, what do you think happened?” Dean grunted.

Sam sighed. “Damn it, Dean. Why do you do this to yourself?”

Dean made a face at his brother and slowly pulled his shirt off before tossing it into a corner. Giving himself a once over in the cracked mirror, he couldn’t help but admire the bruises on his pale skin. He always did color up nice and quick, visible badges of honor.

So to speak.

“At least tell me no one can ID you?” Sam demanded. “I’m assuming, since you’re still standing, that at least one or two of them aren’t.”

No one could call his brother a dummy, and that was a fact. Dean grinned a bit as he unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans while saying, “Nah. They can all ID me, but I got their wallets, so I doubt they will.”

For fear of being revisited with still more pain, or worse, though he wouldn’t tell Sam that.

Sam grimaced, but acknowledged, “That was probably a good idea.”

Dean pushed his jeans and boxers down, hissing in pain when two ribs scraped together unexpectedly.

“Dean? Are you all right?”

“Fine. Just my ribs.”

Straightening up brought him face to face with Sam, the concern in his brother’s eyes warming him all the way to the depths of his cold, generally cruel heart.

A half-smile surfaced and he put a hand on Sam’s bare shoulder, telling him, “I’ve been hurt worse tripping over your crap in the morning.”

“Very funny,” Sam retorted, the worry not letting up. “Dean, you can’t keep doing this.”

Dean squeezed his shoulder and lied, “I’m not doing anything, Sammy. Just a little fun that got away from me.”

Sam sighed again. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Can’t help it Sammy.” And then Dean thought, Ain’t that the truth.

Dean took his hand away, but in a brushing motion that slid partway down Sam’s chest first, skimming over a nipple. He pretended not to hear the soft gasp as he turned back to the sink to splash water on his face. It had been a long, slow trip to bring up feelings that he knew Sam had for him, but denied. Sexual feelings that rocked his brother’s black and white world to its core.

The best thing about the deal he’d made with the crossroads demon, well, the second-best thing, was Sam’s need to be as close to him as possible. If that deal had never happened, Dean knew that Sam would never allow himself to acknowledge the urges that slithered through him. Dean had done his level best in the last few months to put them in as much contact as possible; getting single beds whenever possible so they had to sleep together; working on the Impala together; walking even closer than normal so shoulders and hips bumped more and more often.

Just that morning, Dean had woken first and rearranged them so that his hardon had been nestled against Sam’s ass good and tight. He’d felt the moment his brother had woken, going very still and then, ever so gently, wiggling against Dean’s cock, as if testing the sensation. From the muted groan, Dean knew that it had felt good. It had been all he could do to remain slack and draped over Sam’s back as if still asleep.

“Well here, let me wrap your ribs,” Sam offered, moving forward.

Dean timed it so that he turned and walked into Sam and they stumbled together. He guided them so that his brother’s back hit the wall and one of his thighs landed against Sam’s dick. Chuckling, his hands splayed over his brother’s chest so he could lean on him and apologize, “Sorry. Guess the whiskey’s still roaming around in my gut.”

An excuse, if one was needed.

Sam licked his lips, Adam’s apple bobbing as he whispered, “No problem.”

Sliding his hands down Sam’s chest to rest on his hips, Dean rested full-body on his brother and stared at his mouth as he murmured, “Definitely not.”

With a groan, Sam bent down and kissed him. It was hungry and wet and full-on without pause as he devoured Dean’s mouth. Something he allowed because this whole thing had to be perfectly timed so that Sam didn’t come to his senses. He licked along Sam’s lips, seeking entrance, and pushed his tongue inside when his brother’s mouth opened.

They made out for a long time and Dean let Sam keep the lead for most of it. His thigh moved, though, caressing Sam’s cock through his jeans to provoke a fairly rapid response. Dean had seen his brother naked too many times to count, just as Sam had him, but there was no doubting that this was entirely different when strong, big hands gripped his ass and squeezed with intent.

Oh, I don’t think so, Dean thought. You don’t get to fuck me for a good long time. Maybe as a going away present, but for now, you’re all mine, Sammy.

Breaking off the kiss into small ones across Sam’s jaw to the sensitive skin beneath the ear, Dean rumbled, “You taste good, baby brother. You liked that?”

Sam seemed dazed as he nodded, as if he’d been the one drinking.

Dean pulled back enough to cup Sam between the legs and rub hard, prompting a choked off cry of pleasure. He bit sharply at Sam’s lobe and murmured, “I need you, Sammy. Could you, could you suck me off? Please?”

“Oh God, Dean, we can’t,” Sam groaned.

Resting his head on Sam’s shoulder to hide his annoyance, Dean sighed deeply and kept his voice quiet as he agreed, “You’re right. Shit, I’m sorry, Sam, I must be outta my head. Forget this ever happened and go to bed. I’ll just, you know, take care of business myself. No reason for things to change, right?”

Sam didn’t let go when Dean tried to move away altogether. His grip tightened on Dean’s ass and he whispered, “Look at me, Dean. Let me see your eyes.”

Dean slowly raised his head, thinking only of how much he loved and wanted his brother, which he did with all his heart. The fact that he’d planned it all and had slowly seduced Sam had nothing to do with anything. The fact that if Sam had been roofied, Dean would’ve fucked him bloody and enjoyed it and then comforted him the next morning, also had nothing to do with it. He simply let Sam see all the hunger and need and love that he had deep inside.

And then it happened…Sam slowly got on his knees so that he was staring right at Dean’s hard cock. Holding his breath, Dean waited as his brother took a tentative swipe of his tongue along the shaft. Sam gripped it with one hand and stroked it a few times, the sensations and culmination of all his plans sending a shudder of pleasure through Dean. He groaned loudly and twined his fingers in the thick, soft, sleep-tousled hair, balancing himself with the contact.

It took a lot of small, hesitant licks before Sam finally took the cock into his mouth, at least the end of it. Dean bit the inside of his cheek to not move, to allow Sam to set the pace, the pain grounding him. Sam moved cautiously, taking a little more at a time into his mouth. Technically, it was a very bad blowjob, no style or even very deep, but Dean was too thrilled with who was giving it to care. Plus, a wet hole was a wet hole and he could get off on it without too much trouble.

The things I’m going to do to you, baby brother, he thought silently, groaning aloud. I’m going to make you beg for it. You’re going to hurt and ache and do it anyhow because I love you. You’re mine now, Sammy, and I’m never letting you go.

After a few minutes, deeming that Sam might be getting a sore jaw, Dean’s fingers tightened in his hair and held him in place so that he could come in his brother’s mouth when Sam went down. Sam coughed and made a protesting noise, but Dean didn’t let go, closing his eyes so Sam couldn’t read the triumph as he forced his come down his brother’s throat, making Sam swallow until Dean’s balls had emptied.

Sam fell back against the wall when Dean finally released him, coughing and drawing in gulping breaths. Pure satisfaction infused every part of him as he stood in the bathroom, looking down at his brother, come dribbled over his chin and a little on his chest.

One last thing to finish the deal…

Dean dropped to the floor and engulfed Sam’s dick in his mouth, deep-throating in a matter of seconds. Sam cried out, a shocked sound, and struck feebly at Dean’s shoulders. He rolled Sam’s balls in his hand, adding to the stimulation, and rubbed a finger over his brother’s hole, though he didn’t breach it. Between all three, Sam came like a freight train in less than a minute. Dean was all the way down, swallowing to get him off quicker, and not having to taste the come as a benefit. Not that he objected to the taste, he just wasn’t in the mood for it.

Pulling off, Dean sighed deeply and sat back on his ass, grinning at his brother as he observed, “Well. That was different.”

Sam blinked at him for a few seconds, as if having trouble connecting words to meanings.

“Sammy? You okay, there?” Dean prompted, injecting concern into his voice. He rubbed a hand over his brother’s shin and continued softly, “We don’t have to do that ever again, Sammy. Just, forget about it, okay? We’ll make like it never happened.”

It wasn’t until Dean had stood and started pulling medical supplies from behind the mirror above the sink, that Sam regained his senses. He stood as well and moved right behind Dean, sliding an arm around his waist and resting his chin on Dean’s shoulder to tell him, “I love you, Dean. I want to…if you need anything…all you have to do is ask. Anything, okay?”

Dean met Sam’s gaze in the mirror and replied simply, “I love you too, Sammy.”

And if Sam didn’t notice the gleam of lust or anticipatory air that surfaced the moment he looked away, well, so much the better.