sonofabiscuit77 (sonofabiscuit77) wrote,
sonofabiscuit77
sonofabiscuit77

Fic: Timestamp for All in the Game, yo (Sam/Dean, NC-17)

So, way, way back in 2009, I wrote a fic called All in the Game, Yo which is still one of my personal favourites of all the stuff I've written. It was set in the world of The Wire, which is one of my most favourite things in the world. And then, the most amazing glovered podficced it most awesomely here and she did a fantastic job. Seriously, don't read the fic, go listen!!

Anyway, in honour of that, I dusted off a very old timestamp I had hanging around for this universe and decided to post it and dedicate to the lovely glovered It's totally unbetaed and is mainly porn, but what the hell, here are some more adventures of "we want to be legitimate but Dean won't stop beating up cops" Wire universe Sam & Dean...

Warnings/rating: NC-17, explicit sex, mentions of violence, Dean being restrained a lot



When You Come at the King, You Best Not Miss

“Alex, you gotta get your ass down to the Westside Precinct." The voice of her former partner came over the phone line before Detective Alexandra Fisk had chance to say hello.

She blinked the sleep out of her eyes and glanced at the clock on her nightstand. “Lance, it’s three fucking am.”

“Dean Winchester’s in custody.”

“What?” She sat up in bed, suddenly a lot more awake.

“Yup, sonofabitch’s been arrested.”

“For real?”

“For real. You put Scott on him, right? That was you?”

She hesitated, one hand scuffling across the top of her nightstand as she groped for the light. “Lance, what happened?” She snapped the light on, flooding the dark bedroom in bright unnatural light.

“Shit, girl, you shoulda known. Dean Winchester’s the kind of psychopath who don’t take kindly to a tail. He beat Scott so bad sucker’s in the fucking hospital right now.”

“Shit! Is he gonna be alright?”

“Yeah, he ain’t dead, if that’s what you mean. But he don't look good. Poor bastard’s not woken up yet.”

Alex exhaled heavily and pushed her hair out of her face, her heart hammering double-time in her chest. “So, Winchester’s at the Westside precinct?”

“He is.”

“And his brother?”

“Hasn’t shown. Not yet at least.”

“Right. I’m on my way.”


**

The Westside precinct was in chaos when she got there. The usual Friday night drunks, whores, johns and addicts taking up space in the waiting room; weary, stressed officers passing from interview rooms to desks in an attempt to fulfil the city’s obsessive need to document every damn thing they do.

“Can I help you?” the harassed looking kid manning the desk asked her when she approached. He looked about nineteen years old, a short buzzcut and acne on his face, a uniform shirt that was too big on his skinny frame. He’d obviously drawn the short straw with the Friday night shift.

“Detective Alexandra Fisk.” She flashed him her badge. “Where’s Dean Winchester being held?”

The desk clerk jerked his head towards the back. “Interview room two. Dave will take you back.” He signaled to one of the officers standing and listening patiently to an overemphasizing drunk man. “Dave!” he called out.

Dave turned his head, placing one reassuring hand on the drunken man’s shoulder and giving him a couple of conciliatory pats as he moved away. “Yeah?”

“Um, Detective—“

“Fisk,” Alex filled in.

“Fisk,” the kid repeated. “She wants to see Dean Winchester.”

“He’s with his lawyer,” Dave said.

“What? Why’d you grant him a phone call already?” she said.

“We didn’t. Guy just showed up. Someone must’ve called him.”

She cursed under her breath. She should’ve known. This was the Westside, pure Winchester territory. It would be hard to find anyone around here who wasn’t on the Winchesters’ payroll. Of course someone would’ve informed Sam as soon as his brother was brought in.

“So, Officer Dave…”

“Sergeant,” Dave corrected. “Sergeant Dave Willow.”

“Okay, Sergeant Willow. Have you taken a statement yet? What has he said?”

“Not a lot. Just that the victim had been following him for days.” He crossed his arms, threw her a look. “You got an explanation for that? Was Winchester under investigation?”

“Not exactly,” she said.

“Yeah, well, lawyer’s gonna claim harassment.”

“Just tell me what happened.”

It was all so stupidly simple. Scott had been tailing Dean and doing a pretty shitty job of it. Sure, Alex had wanted Winchester to get rattled, but she should’ve known that he wasn’t going to play nice the whole time. Dean had a short fuse, everybody knew that, and Scott tailing him and his buddies into his favorite drinking haunt had been the spark to that fuse. Dean lost his shit for real when Scott followed him into the men’s room. He came out two minutes later with bruised knuckles and blood on his shirt and told the bartender to call an ambulance. Naturally, no one witnessed the actual beating, but the EMTs found Scott lying unconscious and bruised in a pool of piss on the men’s room floor.

The EMTs called the police. When the police finally showed, they found Dean Winchester sitting calmly on his favorite stool by the bar, sipping top shelf whiskey and waiting to be read his rights.

“What about Sam?” Alex said when Dave was done with the recap. “Where was he?”

Dave shrugged. “Don’t know. Not there.”

She pursed her lips and nodded to herself. Of course Sam wasn't there, because if Sam were there then this would never have gone down. Sam knew how to put a leash on his big brother’s more excessive inclinations. What was surprising was that Dean had been in custody for almost four hours and Sam hadn’t even shown yet.

“How’s the officer?” she asked.

“Well, he ain’t gonna die, if that’s what you mean,” Dave said. “But he’s in bad shape. Broken ribs, fractured skull, concussion, numerous contusions. Not a pretty sight.”

She bowed her head, sucking in another long breath. Scott didn’t deserve this. He hadn’t wanted this detail, but she’d persuaded him into it. He’d been doing her a favor, following Dean around, trying to catch him in the act of doing anything obviously illegal. Of course the irony was that Scott had caught him doing something illegal, given that assault was pretty fucking against the law. She just wished that Scott hadn’t been on the other end of Dean’s lawbreaking. She wasn’t looking forward to explaining to the Lieutenant just why it was Scott had ended up in intensive care. The lieutenant had tolerated what he called her “Crazy-ass obsession with the Winchesters” up till now, but this was probably going to shut down her case - and maybe even her career - for good.

Dean Winchester might be exactly where he deserved to be right now, but she had to face up to the fact that any chance to get any real dirt was blown. Sam and the lawyer would see to that.

“I want to speak to him,” she said.

**

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean greeted her with a wide smile. “Please tell me you’re here to play the good cop. You’re a lot hotter than the last dude.”

He was leaning back in his seat, head cocked to one side, giving all the outward appearance of total relaxation. He was wearing a white dress shirt that had once been pristine and nicely pressed but was now spattered with blood and torn around the neckline, the collar gaping open to show fading bruises around his neck in the shape of fingerprints. They were too old to be a result of the altercation with Scott. Besides, going by the photographs she’d glimpsed of Scott’s injuries, the altercation had been entirely one-sided - which begged the question who exactly had managed to get close enough or been stupid enough to lay a hand on Dean Winchester. Not only was Dean a hot-headed, fists-firsts asshole of the first degree, he’d also been the Westside’s boxing champ back in the day. There was only one person Alex could think of who could ever get close enough to Dean to leave a mark on him and then live to tell the tale.

She could feel Dean’s eyes tracking where she was looking and she wasn’t surprised when he tilted his neck to the side, deliberately baring more skin, the sides of his shirt parting all the way down to his collarbones. He batted his eyelashes at her and smiled coyly.

“See something you like?”

Beside Dean, the lawyer cleared his throat, causing Dean to roll his eyes and sit back in his chair. Alex transferred her attention to the lawyer. He was a middle-aged guy, well-dressed and well-groomed in a neatly pressed suit and tie, a stark contrast to his client and herself. He definitely didn’t look like he’d just hauled his exhausted ass out of bed in the middle of the night. The Winchesters had various lawyers on retainer, all of them highly paid and highly regarded, but she recognised this guy from some of the photographs Scott had taken. Obviously, he was someone they used a lot, and definitely someone they trusted. Sam would never cut corners when it came to getting his beloved brother out of here with the smallest amount of fuss.

“Mr Winchester,” she said, pulling up a chair and taking a seat, “and Mr...”

“Barlow,” the lawyer supplied.

“Barlow,” she repeated. “I’m Detective Fisk.”

“Hey, Detective, what’s with the chains? You got a taste for the kinky shit?” Dean cut in, raising his hands with a clink of metal. His wrists were cuffed, the chain looped around the bolts in the desk. It was standard procedure for someone who’d just committed the kind of offence Dean had been hauled in here for, but maybe not the best idea for someone with Dean’s resources. While it was incredibly gratifying to see Dean Winchester chained to a desk, she knew that she had to face up to the fact that there was very little chance of them ever getting a conviction against him, not with the connections and money they commanded.

Still, for the moment, Dean was stuck here in police custody. She wasn’t going to miss this opportunity. She’d spent too much time staring at his mugshot from his police file: the arrogant punk kid with the pretty face who’d been Little Stevie’s pet enforcer for all those years, the only one who’d made it out of there with all his organs intact. Dean Winchester had taken over Little Stevie’s business after the big guy ended up floating in the Patapsco River, but he and Sam had moved beyond Little Stevie’s Westside dealings years ago and there was no linking them to the corner boys and hoppers who sold drugs on the streets outside of this precinct anymore.

But old sins cast long shadows as they say and the Winchesters’ influence in this neighborhood had only grown since they’d gotten too high and mighty to live here. They owned half the real estate in this part of the city, and if it weren’t for them, all the regeneration projects attempting to gentrify the armpit of Baltimore would never have been given the green light. Their current administration was so in hock to Winchester Enterprises not even Alex could find it funny anymore. There were a lot of people in this part of the city who owed their livings to Dean and his brother. There would be no witnesses and no surveillance footage of what went down earlier tonight in that bar.

“You assaulted an officer,” she said, giving the short answer to his question.

“My client wasn’t aware that the gentleman was a police officer. He didn’t identify himself,” the lawyer cut in.

Of course Scott wouldn’t identify himself, that would give away the entire point of him being a tail – which Dean and the lawyer both knew of course.

“Could you please explain what a police officer was doing following my client?” the lawyer went on. “For what reason is he under police surveillance?”

“You know we can’t do that,” she said, “and frankly, Mr Barlow, that has no bearing on your client aggressively assaulting an officer. Even if Officer Peters hadn’t been a member of the police force, beating someone until they lose consciousness is a very serious offence.”

Dean didn’t blink at that statement, just kept watching her with that same blatant curiosity. “Detective Fisk, will you be bringing charges against my client?” the lawyer asked.

“Yes, we will.”

“Has Officer Peters affirmed this?” the lawyer said.

She hesitated. “Officer Peters is still in intensive care. Once he wakes up and is in a fit state then I’m sure he’ll be pressing charges.”

“And in the meantime, seeing as we don’t know when that might be, my client should be released. We will be happy to post bail.”

“Once the courts open tomorrow morning, you will be able to make an application for bail,” she said.

“Detective Fisk,” the lawyer said with a fretful sigh, “you have made no concrete charge against Mr Winchester. He has been subject to ongoing police surveillance bordering on harassment for no evident reason. We have already been here,” he made a show of looking at his watch, “for four hours. Do you think any judge is going to forbid my client bail? He is a high profile businessman with family in this city. He is clearly not a flight risk.” He tapped his fingers irritably on the table. “Please also be aware that I will be filing a complaint with your superiors for this ongoing harassment.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Of course, that’s your prerogative, Mr Barlow.” She got up from the chair and crossed the room, feeling Dean’s eyes on her back the entire way.

Sergeant Dave was standing outside the room, looking through the one-way window. He hadn’t changed his stance, arms still folded and lips pursed. “We got to let him go,” he said, giving her a sideways look.

“I know,” she said with a sigh.

“No, I mean, we got to let him go. Like, now. The captain’s been on. He’s freaked. We’ve got Dean fucking Winchester in our precinct, the guy’s like best buds with the mayor.”

“I know, fuck it, I know that.”

“Just what were you doing with him? What was the tail for?”

“He killed Stephen Hopkins,” she said flatly. “And God knows who else when he used to work for him. He’s a murderer and he’s never had to pay for it. His brother too, he’s just as bad.”

“Who? Little Stevie? This is about Little Stevie? Hell, this is the Westside, honey, ain’t nobody here ever cried for Little Stevie.”

She bit her lip on that particular lie and kept staring through the window. The lawyer was saying something to Dean who barely seemed to be listening to him, his attention and his gaze fixed on the glass, as if he could see right through it - right at her.

She swallowed and dragged her gaze away from Dean, turning back to Dave. "It’s not just about Little Stevie. They think they’re untouchable. They run this part of town, you know that. All the drugs that pass through here, they’re still getting their cut.”

Dave shrugged. “Maybe. But there's no way you can prove it. It's been years since they were involved in that shit. They've been clean as a whistle ever since. Besides, crime has halved in this district since Little Stevie bought the farm. Why drag all that old shit up? Haven't we got enough to drown in already?”

She pressed her lips together, forcing back the retorts. She’d heard it all before. No one wanted to touch the Winchesters; they were the new Untouchables. They were the success story that their shitty administration could point to and say: see, the American Dream is still possible, the system doesn’t destroy everything, some people make it out. But it was bullshit. Sam and Dean Winchester might’ve beaten the system on their way out of the gutter, but in the process, they’d just become the new system, more corrupt and morally bankrupt than what had gone before.

**

“How much?” Sam said, adjusting his grip on the phone and accepting the cup of coffee from his assistant, Marianne, with a tired nod of thanks.

“Two hundred,” said Ancelotti, “I’m sending Cresson down there with the draft to give to Barlow. We’re all set to lodge a complaint tomorrow. Once you give us the go-ahead.”

“No, stall it for now,” Sam said. “We don’t want to piss them off anymore than we have to. I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Ancelotti said, but Sam was already hanging up.

He tipped his head back against the back of his chair and half-closed his eyes, sighing in exhaustion. It was just after five am. If everything went okay then Dean would be let out at six and he intended to be there to meet him.

He picked up the espresso and drained it in one gulp, smacking his lips at the bitter scalding taste. He pressed the intercom on his desk, Marianne’s voice coming through: “Sam?”

“Tell Dale I want the car ready and waiting outside in 20 minutes. We’ll pick Dean up ourselves. Let Barlow know.”

“Right away,” she answered.

Thirty minutes later they were waiting outside the Westside precinct, the sun just beginning to break over the row of abandoned tenement buildings on the east side of the street. Sam stared through the tinted windows, his vision glazing over as his mind wandered, thinking back to all those years he and Dean spent here. He played basketball with some of the other kids in an empty lot just down this road. Little Stevie, egged on by Dean, got some of his guys to paint out a basketball court and put up a couple of hoops. He gave orders to the corner boys to keep the spot clean, one oasis of neutral territory for the neighborhood kids.

Dean was thinking of his little brother of course, Dean was never that altruistic towards the other kids. Altruism, sympathy and kindness weren't emotions they’d ever been able to afford, too intent on pure survival to think of anything other than themselves. And survival was behind Dean’s insistence on Sam joining those pickup games. Dean was trying to train him at the time, to make his little brother fit and strong and competitive, able to take on kids on his own, without his big brother always there to watch his back.

He was a chubby kid back then, not yet hit any of his growth spurts and with a good 30 or 40 extra pounds around his waist and hips. He hated every minute of those damn basketball games, huffing and puffing his way around the chalked out court. He was going to Chilcott Academy by then, so he wasn't interacting with the neighborhood kids like he’d always done before. For all those reasons he was an easy target for elbows and hip checks and blatant fouls during the games. He scraped his knees, received bloody noses and black eyes, and Dean just stood on the sidelines with his arms folded and eyes narrowed and physically restrained himself from intervening.

He did learn in the end. He slimmed down and shot up, packed on some muscle and some inches in height at long last, and with the boxing training Dean insisted upon, he grew up tough. By the time he was seventeen, he was taller than most of the other kids and he knew how to hustle and use his elbows, no longer the easy target for the other kids. He even scored a few baskets of his own, which were always cheered loudly and obnoxiously by his brother, Little Stevie always beside Dean, chuckling around one of his cigars as he patted Dean’s shoulder with his fat ringed hands. Sam could remember watching Little Stevie watch Dean, how the fat guy’s small squinty eyes would gaze after Dean when Dean jogged up and down the court to follow the action. Little Stevie had always watched Dean too much.

Sam’s phone rang, startling him from his memories. He glanced at the display; it was Barlow, the lawyer.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked.

“It’s done. They’re letting us go. We’re leaving now.”

“I’m outside,” Sam told him.

“Okay, we’ll be two minutes,” the lawyer said and hung up.

It was less than two minutes by the time Dean stepped out of the precinct building with Barlow at his side. Dean was still wearing the suit Sam had watched him put on yesterday morning. It looked worse for wear now, torn and blood spattered, one of the shirttails untucked from his dress pants. He had his suit jacket tossed over one arm and he was looking over his shoulder, watching someone emerge from the building behind them. Sam tracked his gaze, wondering who had captured Dean’s attention. It was a woman, one of the cops by the looks, though she wasn’t in uniform. She looked vaguely familiar to him, standing there with her arms crossed and her coat pulled tight around her. Her expression was wary as she gazed - not at Dean - but at the car, at Sam.

He remembered her now. She paid him a visit at the office about six months ago. Detective Fisk was her name. She asked questions about Little Stevie and a couple of other old homicides – Dean’s work both of them, which was pretty much what she implied during the interview. It took him by surprise, one of the grunts actually showing up at their office asking these kinds of questions. Most of Baltimore’s Finest knew much better than to do that. She obviously had the balls, if not the smarts, to go digging around in things she shouldn’t. He answered her questions, more out of curiosity than anything else. It wasn’t something he took very seriously. The police had better things to do that to waste time on cold homicides of known criminals who were definitely better off dead. He considered putting a call through to one of her superiors after she left, but decided not to in the end. There was no need to draw attention to them. She had nothing solid after all, just bitchy Westside gossip and some circumstances that didn’t exactly add up. And Dean’s reputation of course.

Sam watched his brother stride towards the car, shaking off the lawyer with an irritated shrug as he yanked the car door open. Sam shifted over and Dean got inside, slamming the door shut behind him and pushing out a frustrated breath.

“Jesus, those fuckin’ assholes,” he said, tipping his head back against the seat and closing his eyes. “Fuckin’ chained me to a desk, Sammy.”

“Did they?” Sam asked, his eyebrows drawing together as his gaze lingered on the marks around Dean’s wrists where the handcuffs had dug in.

“You gonna make ‘em pay, yo?” Dean said, rolling his head against the back of the car seat to look at him.

Sam smiled at him. “Count on it.”

**

Sam hung up the phone and stepped into the bedroom. Dean was still asleep, lying sacked out across the bed on his front, cheek squashed into the white linen pillowcase and a patch of drool by his parted lips. He was naked except for the tight boxer briefs that hugged his ass. The mid-morning light was streaming through the blinds they hadn’t bothered to close and it bathed his body in warm yellow tones, turning the hairs on his arms and legs golden and making the sweat glisten in the small of his back and the hollow of his throat.

Sam stood over him and stared his fill, taking in the dip of his spine and flare of his shoulder blades, his muscled shoulders and arms which lay hitched over his head, the metal cuffs around his wrists fastened securely to the iron bedposts. Despite the restraints, Dean’s sprawl was decadent, almost voluptuous, and Sam’s cock was already half hard by the time he moved to stand over his brother, his shadow painting Dean’s body from his head to his thighs. Dean stirred, wiggled his toes and dug them into the mattress as his eyes fluttered open. He tried to roll over onto his back but the chains pulled and went taut, clanking against the iron posts.

He swore softly under his breath and jerked his hand again, the metal clinking once more. He turned his head and raised his eyebrows at Sam.

“Such a kinky fucker, Sammy.”

He looked amused, his gaze half-lidded, and when he rolled onto his back, Sam could see the hard outline of his cock through the tight boxer briefs.

“Someone’s gotta teach you how to behave,” Sam said. “It’s all taken care of, by the way. Officer Peters won’t be pressing charges against you.”

Dean licked his lips, his eyes darkening as they locked on Sam’s face. “That’s my boy. So fuckin’ smart.”

He hooked his foot around the back of Sam’s knees and tugged. Sam lost his balance, falling onto the bed on top of Dean. He knew he should’ve cuffed Dean’s ankles too, but it’d been difficult enough to cuff his wrists without waking him up. He hadn’t wanted to push his luck any further.

“C’mere,” Dean growled and curled both legs around Sam’s hips to pull him in flush against his body.

Sam placed his hands either side of his brother’s face, fingertips in his hair, and leaned back to look him in the eyes. “Hmm, I think I like you like this. All tied up and at my mercy.”

“Yeah, I kinda got that.”

Sam grinned wolfishly and cupped Dean’s cheek, looming over him. He dropped his hands to Dean’s arms, fingers curling around and digging into his brother’s strong biceps. Dean groaned and shifted under him, arching his hips again so their cocks brushed.

“Nuh - uh,” Sam chastised. “You’ve been bad, Dean. Very inconvenient you putting that fuckin’ cop in the hospital. D’you know how much that cost us?”

“We can afford it,” Dean huffed out, craning his head to catch Sam’s lips in a kiss.

Sam jerked away and placed a finger on Dean’s lips. Dean’s tongue came out to brush the pad of his finger. He ignored the swirl of lust in his belly, and kept his gaze hard as he stared back at Dean.

“You gonna suck me, like a good little bitch?” he said.

Dean nodded, pupils so dark his irises were faint circles.

“Good boy,” Sam said, patting his cheek.

He unzippered his pants, wrapped his fingers around the base of his cock and guided it down towards Dean’s lips. Dean leaned up, his expression avid and greedy as his eyes focussed in on the fat red crown.

He pushed into his brother’s mouth with one hand on the back of Dean’s neck, the other braced against the wall. Dean stared up at him with hazy, watery eyes, and blinked, a slow-motion swoop up and down of his long dark eyelashes. Sam felt his stomach duck and roll, a powerful swoop of lust and desire that left him breathless and wanting more.

He thrust his hips, giving Dean more, wanting to fills his brother’s mouth even more, and felt the head of his cock bump against the back of Dean's throat. Dean barely flinched, taking it all without complaint, despite his streaming, watering eyes. Sam’s dick felt painfully swollen, his balls drawn up to his body and aching with need as he thrust faster and faster, practically choking his brother. And still Dean took it, his own cock as hard as steel in his tight underwear.

Sam cursed when he came, his entire body convulsing as he felt his cock pump out his release into his brother’s mouth. Dean coughed, choking, and Sam drew back quickly, come spurting from the slit and spraying Dean's face.

Dean’s face was a mess. His eyes red, lips pummeled and cheeks pink and hot. He was gasping for breath, come streaked across his mouth and chin. But despite all that, he looked smug, grinning up at Sam, like he’d scored a point, still on top despite being chained to the bed and face-fucked to hell and back.

“Hmm, like it when you’re like that,” Dean said. His voice was shot, a pained croak.

“You ain't supposed to enjoy it. Supposed to be a fuckin' punishment.”

“Givin’ me your cock ain’t never gonna be no punishment. You know that, kinky fuckin’ bitch.”

Sam tucked his cock back into his pants and slid up the zipper. He refastened his belt and sank to the edge of the bed. Dean poked his toe into Sam's side and grinned, eyebrows raised: ““You gonna untie me, stud?”

“Nah, was thinking of keepin’ you like this. Waiting for me to get back.”

As if on cue Dean’s cell phone rang, vibrating on top of the nightstand. Sam leaned over and picked it up, glancing at the display. He made a face, held out the screen for Dean to see. “Fuckin’ Doofus.”

“His name’s Dougie,” Dean said.

“Whatever. Doofus suits him better.”

“You gonna answer it? Kinda tied up here,” Dean said, jerking on the restraints so they clanged against the bedposts.

Sam pressed the call accept button and lifted the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”

Dougie – Doofus was a much better name for the stupid kid – started jabbering on in his ear. Sam cut him off sharply and held the phone up to Dean’s ear.

Dean’s eyes narrowed as the kid kept talking. Finally he spoke up, “Yeah, shut up. I’ll be there.” He turned his attention on Sam, mouthing, “Hang up.”

Sam nodded and pressed the off button, cutting off another long tirade from the stupid kid.

Dean sighed and dropped his head back on the pillows. He yanked on one of the restraints. “You gotta let me outta these, man.”

Sam sat back on his haunches and tossed the phone to the bed. “Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Gotta head down to the Jackson project and sort shit out. Fuckin’ mess by sounds of it. Bitches are refusing to work.”

“They’re refusing?” Sam raised both eyebrows.

“Not for much longer,” Dean said grimly. “Not once I get there and kick the shit outta their ungrateful asses. This crap ain't happening on my fuckin’ watch.”

Sam sighed and leaned over to open the drawer of his nightstand to retrieve the keys to the cuffs. He leaned over Dean, feeling his brother’s eyes on him, as he unlocked the cuffs. Dean pulled his arms free with a sigh of relief. The marks around his wrists from the cuffing at the precinct were more obvious now, exacerbated by passing the night in the cuffs Sam had slapped on his brother six hours earlier. Not that Sam felt guilty about it, not when he thought about the small fortune he'd promised Officer Peters to keep his fucking mouth shut.

Dean sat up and shuffled across the bed, swinging his legs to the floor. He stretched his arms above his head, leaning backwards and popping his spine. His face was still sticky with Sam's come and his own saliva. He wiped his hand over his mouth, eyed it speculatively, then sucked on each finger one by one, eyes on Sam and expression lewd.

"You know," Sam said, twining one arm around him from behind and pulling him back roughly into his chest. “I ain’t done punishing you yet.”

Dean pulled his last finger from his lips with a filthy pop and turned his head so he was speaking against the side of Sam’s face. His cheek smelt of their joined scents, of Sam's own jizz and it made his body flush tight, his poor spent cock giving a half-hearted twitch.

“Is that right, Sammy?”

“Damn straight. You cost me a lotta money. Two hundred for your bail, and that bitch you beat up ain't gonna keep his bitch-ass mouth shut for free.”

“But he’s keepin' it closed, yo? He ain't pressing charges?” Dean said.

“Yeah, I told you. We managed to convince him what was in his best interests.”

Dean chuckled under his breath, sounding pleased. “Good boy.” He patted Sam’s hand and pulled away. “A'ight, man, I got shit to do. You can spend all day thinkin’ about my punishment if you like, but I'm fuckin' busy.”

Sam groaned as he watched Dean get to his feet and head for the shower room. “I wish. Got a full schedule today."

Dean smirked. "No rest for the wicked, my brother."

Sam grunted and watched his brother head for the shower. He could do with a nap, but there was no time for it today. He was tired, though, so damn tired. He wasn't used to the all-nighters anymore. He could remember waiting up all night when he was a teenager, waiting for Dean to come home from doing whatever task Little Stevie had set him. He'd seen his brother come back with blood on his clothes more than once, he'd patched Dean up more than once, he'd even gotten calls from members of Dean's crew, warning him that Dean had been taken to the hospital or that he was spending the night in the cells and that little Sammy didn't need to worry, they had it under control. He used to hate those nights. Being forced out of Dean's life by people who thought they knew better rankled with him worse than anything else. As if anyone else had the right to think they knew what was best for Dean, as if he and Dean didn't share everything, as if they weren't everything to each other. Those people had no idea.

“You still lyin' there?”

Dean’s voice startled him from his thoughts. He looked up to see his brother saunter out of the bathroom, one towel knotted loosely around his hips, the other in his hand. He dragged it through his wet hair and tossed it in the direction of the bed where it landed wetly on top of Sam. Sam made a face at him and pushed it away, but Dean just grinned, gleeful and unrepentant.

He unknotted the towel from around his waist so it slipped down his legs to pool on the floor, and Sam took the time to give his brother an appreciative once-over. Dean had turned thirty three a few weeks ago, but in Sam’s eyes he was still as perfect now as he was ten years ago. Dean had to work harder for it now; morning runs around the harbor and an hour every other night on their weights machine. He was a vain sonofabitch too, with his daily and nightly skincare routine that Sam liked to tease him about. Dean didn’t give a shit, just shrugged, saying, “It’s hard work lookin’ this good, man. Not that you would know,” and Sam would push him up against the mirror to kiss him, uncaring of all the crap on his face.

“Quit pervin',” Dean said as he turned his back on Sam and stalked towards their walk-in closet. Sam adjusted himself and climbed off the bed to follow.

His brother had their shared underwear drawer open, and glanced at Sam as he picked out a pair of boxer briefs.

“Hey, let me,” Sam said, taking the underwear from Dean’s hands.

"Such a fuckin' control freak,” Dean said, but he stood there obediently as Sam knelt to pull the boxers up his calves and thighs and tuck away Dean’s not entirely soft cock.

The 360 degree mirror reflected the two of them from every angle. Sam got to his feet and drew closer to his brother. “Look at us,” he murmured. "Look, Dean, look how fuckin’ hot we are.”

There were fading bruises on Dean’s neck and shoulders, mementos of a few nights ago, of when he tied Dean to the bed and fucked him over and over again, giving him his favorite dildo, the one that was a replica of Sam’s own cock. Dean had bared his neck to him, so utterly and entirely submissive, the plea on his lips as Sam’s hands had slid up to cup his jaw. Want it, need it... Dean had begged, and so Sam’s hands had slipped down to encircle his throat, seeing complete and utter surrender and trust in Dean’s face when their eyes met. He choked his brother with his big hands, and replaced the dildo with his own cock as he fucked Dean hard and fast, fingers tight around his throat. The orgasms had hit them both like a 12 bore to the chest.

Dean wore turtlenecks for two days after that.

Sam nuzzled his mouth to the faded marks. “Fuckin’ love you like this. My marks all over you.”

“Such a Neanderthal,” Dean said, but his voice was hoarse and his cock was fattening in his boxers, giving him away.

Sam curled his arm around Dean from behind, pulling him back into his own chest. He splayed his long fingers over Dean’s heart, gazing at the tattoo on Dean's right pectoral, the one that matched his own, the one that meant ownership and belonging. He slid his hand down Dean’s chest and belly, over the defined lines of his abs, to cup his cock and balls, feeling his brother harden under his palm.

“Sure you don’t want me to take care of this before you go?” he said.

"What about my punishment?"

"It can keep till we got time."

Dean swallowed, not saying anything, and that was invitation enough.

Sam smirked at their reflections and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Dean’s shorts. He peeled them over his ass and down his thighs, Dean’s cock snapping up like a switchblade to bob out at a perfect 90 degree angle.

Sam purred in appreciation and curled his big hand around Dean’s fat cock, giving it a considering pull. Dean trembled in his arms, tilting his head back against Sam’s shoulder and letting his eyes fall half-shut.

“No, watch,” Sam hissed, “watch yourself lose it for me, baby. Wanna show you how much I love you.”

He turned his face into his brother’s neck, brushing his lips over the pulse point. He could feel Dean’s pulse quicken under his lips, his mouth so much more sensitive to changes in his brother's pulse than his fingers. He wanted to suck another bruise, to place a bruise on top of the old ones, to keep writing his name into Dean’s skin as permanent as any tattoo. He grazed his teeth, felt Dean tremble and bare his neck further, shifting and going limp in Sam’s arms.

He bit down as he tugged on Dean’s cock, feeling Dean jerk and let out a pained gasp of breath as Sam’s teeth sank into him. Sam released him, kissing over the new livid mark, raising his eyes to meet their reflections in the mirror.

Dean’s lips were half-parted, the color high in his cheeks. Sam watched him swallow when their gazes met, and felt his cock twitch. He rolled Dean’s balls with his fingers, stroked his forefinger between his brother’s thighs, over his perineum, teasing at the cleft of his ass. Dean trembled, and pushed out a choked breath. Sam’s hand grasped his cock again and Dean thrust his hips into it, fucking his cock through Sam’s tight fist.

It wasn’t long after that. Dean’s dick twitched, come spurting over Sam’s fingers and dripping onto the carpet. Sam turned his face into the crook of his brother’s neck, pressed kisses over the bruises and marks - the new ones and the old - and licked up and over Dean’s stubbled jaw until their lips met.

Dean twisted in his arms, hands going up to frame Sam’s face when he kissed him back, as fervent and passionate as the first time, as every single time.

Sam drew back to catch his breath and Dean smiled at him, cupping his jaw.

“My little brother,” Dean said, “look how fuckin’ big you got, look how fuckin’ hot.”

Sam flushed, and kissed Dean on the mouth to shut him up. Dean laughed, breath puffing against Sam’s lips.

“You gonna pick somethin' out for me, big guy?” Dean said when the kiss finished. He batted his eyelashes at Sam, bending to retrieve his boxers. He used them to wipe his cock clean, and tossed them at Sam to wipe his hands, before he picked another identical pair from the drawer and pulled them on. Sam turned to rifle through Dean’s side of the closet, searching through all the pants and shirts and jackets that were tailored to his measurements.

“Shit, I’m gonna need another freakin’ turtleneck,” Dean groaned. Sam turned to look at him, Dean was leaning into the mirror, finger ghosting over the big, mouth-shaped purple bruise. Sam grinned wolfishly at him and Dean rolled his eyes. “Like I said, man, fuckin’ neanderthal, yo.”

Sam selected a dark red turtleneck, jeans and the dark brown vintage leather jacket that was one of Dean’s favourites.

“Dude, I’m gonna look like a fuckin’ seventies reject,” Dean bitched, but he pulled on the clothes anyway.

“Dean, two words--”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, Steve fucking McQueen.”

“Yeah, exactly. You look hot, you know you look hot.”

Dean pushed out a breath, giving him a look with both eyebrows raised.

Sam smacked his ass. “Go get ‘em, tiger. Give ‘em hell from me. Tell ‘em if they don’t get their fuckin’ ungrateful asses back to work--”

“Yeah, I know what to say, Sam,” Dean interrupted.

Sam crossed his arms and nodded. He watched Dean open their weapons drawer and select his favorite Colt. He’d long ago given up on trying to convince Dean not to go around carrying concealed weapons. Dean had been carrying a gun since he was sixteen years old, since he’d first walked into Little Stevie’s yard and demanded a job. He felt naked without one.

He followed Dean out of the closet and into the bedroom. “You ain't gonna eat first?” he called out.

“I’ll pick something up!” Dean shouted back and then the door slammed shut.

Sam sighed and rubbed his eyes. He knew Dean would have this. Sorting out labor disputes was Dean’s thing, those guys responded to Dean in a way they’d never respond to him. It was just like it used to be in the old days when Dean had his own crew. Guys were solidly loyal to him. Loyal enough not to ask twice when Dean demanded that they cap someone and loyal enough to follow Dean and his punkass kid brother and not to ask questions after Little Stevie's death.

Sam unbuttoned his shirt. Dean would have this. It would be okay. That punk-ass cop would keep his fucking mouth shut and the lady detective... well, he was very interested in her. He tossed his shirt into the hamper and headed for the shower. There was a lot to get through today.

End.

And finally... something very awesome and something that really sets the scene for where Sam & Dean are supposed to come from in this universe. This is a great compilation video of the 100 greatest quotes from the Wire, some of these lines still give me shivers.

Tags: sam/dean
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