sonofabiscuit77 (sonofabiscuit77) wrote,

Anniversary (Smith & Wesson fic - Sam/Dean - NC-17)

Fic title: Anniversary
Pairings: Dean Smith / Sam Wesson
Rating: NC17
Word count: 6227
Warnings: Established relationship, mild bondage, way schmoopier than I would ever normally write the boys

Summary: The Smith-Wessons go away for a ghost-hunting mini-break to celebrate their anniversary. Just a slice of life, domestic Smith/Wesson thing where they salt and burn the ghost, have brunch and Dean gets tied to the bed.

Author's note: Thanks to my beta dear_tiger for your quick once-over <3


“Hello, this is Dean Smith-Wesson.”

“Babe, it’s me. I think we need more rope,” Sam’s voice came over the line, sounding more than a little distracted.

“Kinky much.”

“Shut up,” Sam said, and Dean could practically hear him rolling his eyes. “I’m being serious. We need more rope. Can you swing by that hunting store and pick some up? I’d do it but Fisher’s got me redoing this seating plan again and I’m not going to be able to get away until seven at the earliest.”

“Fine, just email me what you want.”

“Cool, and before you say it, don’t make out like it’s this huge freaking chore. I know how much you love that damn store.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam,” Dean said primly.

Sam chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll be back around seven thirty.”

“Okay, see you later.”

“See you.” Sam hung up and Dean tossed the phone onto his desk, watching the screensaver flash onto Sam’s face, all white teeth and messy bangs and shiny red cheeks. He brushed his finger over the screen, smiling softly to himself, then he sighed and went back to his spreadsheet.

It was Friday so everybody started sloping off around four thirty, calling out goodbyes and exchanging hasty, superfluous conversations about weekend plans. Dean finished up approving the sales bonuses for the month and emailed the spreadsheet over to Finance. His assistant, Carol, poked her head around the door dead on 5pm to wave goodbye and Dean muttered a distracted response as he tried to finish his slide deck for the client presentation on Monday.

He dropped his head into his hands when he was done, platinum band on his third finger digging into his cheekbone. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, sighed, and got to his feet, swinging his hands into the air to stretch out tense muscles. At least this weekend would give them something resembling a real workout, something to get the blood pumping.

He turned to savour the view through the floor-length window of his office as he pulled on his overcoat. The lights of the city were spread out below him, red and yellow blurs of shiny colour edging down the highway out of town and cramming the streets, all those commuters trying to get home to enjoy their weekends. It looked awe-inspiring from this high up, from the twenty-ninth floor, the executive floor, his floor. The thought never failed to make him smile. And this weekend - he felt his pulse jump in anticipation - this weekend would be awesome.

He smoothed down his overcoat and packed up his briefcase. He glanced at his watch: 5.45pm. He had plenty of time; he’d just stop by Fisher’s suite and see if Sam looked like he might be able to get out early after all.He paused outside the glass doors that led the way into the executive suite of Jonathan Fisher, President of Sandover Bridge and Iron Inc. Sam wasn’t at his station, but his computer was still on, his lamp still burning, and Dean could make out his familiar tall silhouette through the opaque glass of Fisher’s private office.

As if sensing his presence, Sam’s silhouette moved, changing into Sam himself as he stepped out of the private office. He was dressed in his executive assistant best, hair slicked back and tie still knotted, such a different look to weekend Sam with his old jeans and plaid shirts. He grinned when he noticed Dean and made an exaggerated face, eyebrows going up and mouth corners turning down. He gestured something that Dean really hoped Fisher couldn’t see and Dean laughed and gave him the thumbs up before he turned and headed for the elevator lobby.


Brown’s Sporting Goods was the kind of old-fashioned store that always made Dean think of his father. It was one of those stores that wouldn’t have looked out of place in an episode of Mad Men or The Waltons, with the polished wood floors and hunting trophies on the walls, not to mention Joe Brown himself, an old dude with a bluff red face, keen eyes and an extensive and somewhat scary knowledge of firearms.

Dean’s dad would’ve loved this place, though he’d certainly be surprised to see his son in it. When Dean was a kid he was never interested in the kind of outdoorsy pursuits that Bobby Smith had loved. Hunting, fishing, hiking - Dean had hated all of that and Bobby had despaired of him. Dean had been much more content inside, playing chess or videogames. If he was forced to do any kind of physical activity, then it was wrestling or swimming or running on a treadmill, definitely something he could do with a roof over his head and protection from the elements. Meeting Sam and getting pulled into monster hunting had changed all of that. Nowadays, he and Sam ran every day, hiked and fished and hunted when they could. He was a different guy and sometimes he couldn’t believe that that prissy kid had been him.

Dean waved at Joe Brown as he browsed through the camping items, picking out a couple of canteens which looked sturdy and dent-free. Their old canteens had been busted up by an angry spirit with a hard-on for throwing him into walls. He’d been off work for a week after that particular adventure, recovering from the bruising. He added a length of rope to his basket and another heavy flashlight. They already had two of them, but Dean had learned the hard way that you could never have enough flashlights.

He hesitated over the firearms, running his fingers over a particularly gorgeous ivory-handled, nickel-plated Colt .45. When Dean was a kid, Bobby had tried to get him interested in firearms, he’d taken him to shooting ranges and forced him on a couple of hunting trips, but Dean hadn’t wanted to know. He’d always considered himself a pacifist, and for a short while in college, he’d been a member of CND. He’d certainly always been on the control side of the gun control debate. Even now, his relationship with the second amendment was somewhat complicated; while still a pacifist at heart, he reluctantly acknowledged that guns were a necessary evil in his and Sam’s second line of work. Despite all that, he’d somehow managed to get a real affinity for the feel of weapon in his hand, the scent of gun oil in his nostrils and a genuine appreciation for a perfect trigger reflex. He was a naturally great shot with a rifle or a pistol or a revolver. It didn’t seem to matter, they all felt at home in his hands.

“You want to feel it?”

Dean jumped, not noticing Joe sneaking up behind him as he gazed at the weapon. He turned to see the old guy’s florid face regarding him, his blue eyes shrewd as they met Dean’s.

“Yeah, okay, yes please,” Dean said.

Joe nodded and reached to take the weapon down from the stand. He handed it off to Dean, and Dean wrapped his fingers over the butt, forefinger grazing the trigger. "How's it feel?" he asked.

"Good. I think," Dean said. He turned to point the gun towards the wall, holding the weapon in both hands and staring down the length of his right arm, body relaxing naturally into a shooting stance. "Really good."

Joe chuckled. "Yeah. It's a classic. Colt 1911 A1, semi-automatic. 45 caliber. But you knew that, right?”

Dean shrugged. He did know a little about guns these days, a fact his daddy would be simultaneously surprised and pleased by.

“It’s a real nice piece. And this one’s kinda special. Guy who had it really loved this gun, tricked it out nicely with the handle, and this is genuine sterling silver plating here.” Joe pointed to the sides of the weapon, the dull glint of the metal that Dean had assumed was nickel. Silver was special though, not just in terms of the aesthetic value but its other properties. There was a whole buttload of monsters who didn’t like silver, and they’d certainly think twice about snatching this weapon from his hands if it were covered in silver. “I got it in an estate sale. You can do a lot worse that this one.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Dean said, lowering his arm and turning to look at the old guy. “What’s the price tag?”


“Hey!” Sam called as the front door slammed shut.

Dean looked up from where he was filling their new canteens with whiskey-laced coffee and straight coffee, one for driving and one for stake-outs. Sam dropped his briefcase onto the dining table and strode into the kitchen. He slid up behind Dean and exhaled heavily, slumping forward and dropping his chin to Dean’s shoulder. He turned his head to breathe all over Dean’s neck, warm and moist mouth against Dean’s skin.

“Hey,” Sam murmured, pressing a kiss to the nape of Dean’s neck before he sighed again and pulled away. Dean placed the canteens onto the worktop and turned around.

Sam looked as tired as he sounded, his hair escaping from its executive slick as it always did at this time of day, the natural wave coming back as his bangs fell across his forehead. He smiled when their eyes met and he leaned in again to nuzzle his lips against the corner of Dean’s mouth.

“Missed you so much today, baby.”

“Missed you too,” Dean said. He parted his lips, taking Sam into a long kiss. Sam groaned and pushed his hips forward, pressing Dean back against the worktop. His hands flew up to rest on Dean’s shoulders, long fingers brushing against the nape of Dean’s neck. Dean shivered and jerked his head back, breaking the kiss.

“Hey, c’mon, as much as I want to, we don’t have time for that,” he said. He reached up to smooth down Sam’s hair and pat his cheek, his hand lingering to caress the bristles that were just coming through. “Go get changed, I’ll finish up here.”

Sam nodded and pulled away. “Did you get the—“

“I did,” Dean said.

“Okay. Okay then. Give me ten.” Dean watched him thunder up the stairs, a ghost of a smile on his face.

The car was packed and ready only ten minutes later. Sam came down the stairs, hair wet from the shower, wearing old jeans and a plaid shirt half buttoned over a ragged grey tee. He paused to grope Dean’s ass as he slung his duffle into the trunk of the car and Dean slapped his hands away, making a face at him.

“What? You look so good, I can’t help it. This week, babe, this week has kicked my ass,” Sam said, groaning, but he was smiling too, all the tension and weariness vanished from his face.

I’ll kick your ass,” Dean said.

Sam leered at him and tossed the car keys up into the air, snatching them back with one big hand. “That better be a promise.”

Dean laughed and slammed the trunk. “C’mon.”

The highway was quiet at this time of night, and Sam drove the entire way. Dean rode in the passenger seat with the road atlas and his pages of research on his lap. The case was an easy one. A series of deaths all centred around one neighbourhood, one street even. It hadn’t taken him long to identify the culprit. The curmudgeonly spirit of John McGregor, taking revenge on all those people he’d thought had wronged him: from the guy at the gas station whom he’d accused of overcharging him, to his brother-in-law he’d accused of sleeping with his wife. It had been easy to track him down as the missing link, just a few telephone interviews, masquerading as a small-town reporter or an insurance guy. Dean was a great salesman and people liked to talk so it was a winning combination. All in all, the research had barely taken two hours. Next time, Dean wanted more of a challenge.

They checked into the hotel quickly, dumping their bags and changing into their fleece-lined hunting jackets and hiking boots. It was midnight by the time they left the hotel again, no moon tonight – perfect conditions for grave desecration.

They worked together to dig up the grave, stripped down to a single layer by the time they hit the lid of the coffin. Dean climbed out of the grave and leaned over the edge to watch Sam smash open the coffin with an axe. It was quite new, not yet rotted away like some of the graves they dealt with, and it took a few swings of the axe for Sam to remove the lid entirely. Dean took a sip of the whiskey-laced coffee and admired how the muscles of Sam’s shoulders and arms flexed as he worked the axe. He was stripped down to just a wife-beater, dirt streaked across the shirt and his toned arms. He tilted his head back and grinned at Dean, the white light of their new flashlight highlighting the dimples in his cheeks, and the dark strands of hair sticking to his forehead and temples with sweat.

“Got him,” Sam said, kicking away the splintered remains of the coffin lid.

“Good work,” Dean said. “I’m kinda surprised he hasn’t—“

He didn’t get to finish the sentence before he was flying through the air, breath slamming from his lungs as he skidded to the ground, tailbone aching at the contact with the solid earth. He blinked, seeing the distorted flicker of McGregor’s ghostly form flash into view.

“Spoke too soon,” he muttered to himself.

“Dean! Get down!”

He ducked his head as a shot ripped through McGregor making him flicker and vanish. He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the twinge in his back, and lurched towards the open grave. Sam was cocking his shotgun, spinning around on the spot, finger poised on the trigger.

“He’ll be back any second. Hurry up, Dean!”

Dean didn’t need to be told. He scooped up the container of salt and canister of accelerant. He dumped the salt out over the body, hearing Sam let off another round, and quickly doused the body with the accelerant. He was fumbling his lighter out of his pocket when he heard Sam yell out. He jerked his head around to see Sam fly through the air, body slamming into an enormous monument, the shotgun falling from his hand.

Sam!” he screamed, but McGregor was there, in front of him, advancing on him with his hand outstretched and mouth twisted into a rictus grin.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dean growled, and he slid his new Colt out of the waistband of his jeans. He fired fast, watching the guy flicker and disappear. It wasn’t rocksalt, but it was iron, and those sonsofbitches did not like iron. He snapped open his Zippo and flung it into the grave. The ghost flickered into view as soon as the flames caught, curling up and folding in on itself like burning paper. The spirit howled, the sound making the hairs on Dean’s arms and legs rise. He swallowed hard and turned his back on it, staggering across the muddy grass towards Sam.

“You get it?” Sam wheezed out.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s gone.” Dean sank to his knees and ran his hands rapidly over Sam’s body. There was no bleeding, though Sam’s face was creased with pain. “You okay, baby? You broken anything?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Okay, okay,” he exhaled in relief. “You gonna get up then?”

Sam gave him a look and clamped one big hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean curled his arm around his back and helped him to his feet.

“Bastard bruised me I think,” Sam spoke through gritted teeth, fingers twitching on the hem of his t-shirt.

“Sit down,” Dean told him.

Wincing, Sam lowered himself down to perch on the edge of another big monument and bent forward, letting Dean pull up the back of his shirt. True enough, he had a large purple bruise forming, running across his upper back and left shoulder.

“Ouch,” Dean said. “Gonna need some ice on that.”

“We got any?”

“In the car. I’ll go get it. Will you be okay here?”

Sam nodded and Dean bent down to press a kiss to his cheek. “Won’t be long. Here.” He reached to snatch up Sam’s shotgun, placing it on Sam’s lap. “Stay safe.”

Sam gave him a faint smile as Dean set off at a jog for the car.

The flames were still burning steadily when Dean came back with the icepack. Sam groaned in appreciation when Dean placed it to his bruised back.

“You’ll be okay,” Dean said.

Sam grunted, “We’re getting too old for this.”

“Speak for yourself. I feel great.”

“Yeah, say that after you’ve filled in that grave.”

Dean made a face and moved to retrieve their duffles. He slid his new Colt out of his pants – hopefully he wouldn’t need it anymore tonight – and carefully placed it into the bag.

“Hey, is that new?” Sam asked.

Dean jerked his head up, looked down at the gun still resting in his hand, then back at Sam again. Caught red-handed, so to speak. “Uh. No, yes. I mean, it’s a Colt. A 45.”

“Yeah, I can see that, babe. Is it new?”

Dean licked his lips, hesitating, and then wondered just why he was hesitating. Sam had often teased him about his growing appreciation for firearms while Dean protested that it wasn’t like that at all, it was for the job, for hunting, that guns were necessary.

“Um,” he said.

Sam shook his head, smiling gently. “How much this time, Dean?”

“It wasn’t that much!” Dean protested, feeling his cheeks stain red. Sam was still looking at him in that fond, indulgent sort of way, like Dean was holding a freaking dildo instead of a classic piece of quality weaponry.

“It’s okay, I’m not judging you.”

“Yeah, you are!”

“Okay, yeah, I am then,” Sam said. “But you’re just so cute about it. How long did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“I don’t know,” Dean shrugged, his tone a shade defensive. “And it’s for the hunt. I just. I had a feeling about it. It felt right.”

“Alright, whatever you say, Charlton Heston.”

“Shut up,” Dean muttered, zipping up the duffle.

Sam chuckled again as Dean straightened. He adjusted the icepack on his back; he shuffled over a little, making room next to him. “C’mere. Sit with me, watch the bonfire.”

“Dude, that’s not a bonfire. That’s a dead body,” Dean said as he took a seat next to Sam.

“It’s still pretty,” Sam said.

“You’re such a pyro.”


Dean exhaled a breath and took the canteen of laced coffee from Sam’s hand to take a swig. They’d have to wait a while for the flames to die down enough before they could start refilling the grave. This part always took a while, and no matter what Sam said about the fire being pretty, it was still an enormous pain in the ass. Maybe he shouldn’t have used so much accelerant.

Sam took the canteen from him, and Dean watched as Sam lifted the flask to his lips, head tilting back as he drank, exposing the long line of his neck, the bob of his Adam’s apple, and the sharp shadows and planes of his profile. The matching platinum band flashed on his finger as he lowered his hand and Dean suddenly thought about the day he’d given it to him, how his heart had beat so loudly and his mouth had gone so dry he’d barely been able to form the words, how Sam had looked down at him and smiled and Dean had felt suddenly like he belonged somewhere.

Sam turned his head, catching him watching. Sam had always had this uncanny sixth sense for him, like he could always tell when Dean was close or when Dean was watching him. Dean smiled at him, caught out again, and Sam smiled back, soft and sappy. He knocked his good shoulder into Dean’s.

“Happy anniversary, babe,” he said.

Dean pushed out a breath, dropped his hand to Sam’s knee, giving it a couple of pats. “Yeah, some anniversary.”

“I don’t know. Kinda fitting, really. Banged up and hurting from some crazy old ghost. Just like old times.”

“I guess. Hey, you remember that first time? Ghost of old Sandover?”

Sam grinned, teeth flashing white. “Course. That was amazing.”

“Yeah, amazing,” Dean echoed. Sam was still smiling, and no matter how many times Sam smiled at him, Dean never got used to it. It always made him feel like he’d been chosen in some special way - just because he was the only person Sam looked at in that way.

“You feel better now?” Dean asked him.

“It’s going to hurt like a bitch in the morning, but I think I’ve got some of those pain meds left over from last time in the trunk. That should help.”

“Just as long as you don’t take too many,” Dean counselled, ignoring the predictable eye-roll from Sam.

It was another half hour before Sam decided it was safe for them to start filling in the grave. Dean did most of the work, keeping his mouth shut on the urge to complain and thinking valiantly about what a great workout this would be. Since he and Sam had gotten together, Sam had put a stop to all his diets and detoxes, insisting on what he called “real food”, which was okay for Sam with his freakish metabolism and ginormo body, but Dean’s body worked differently. Things had been okay for those months when they’d been out on the road hunting, but once they’d moved back to the city and moved in together, Dean had been forced to ramp up his gym routine to stop the pounds from piling on. The daily runs and weekend hunts definitely helped, but he was thirty five now, and maintaining a flat stomach and lean, toned body was hard work. At least after tonight, he could skip the gym for a couple of nights without feeling bad.

Dawn was starting to peak over the horizon by the time they were finally finished. Sam helped him pat down the tightly packed earth on top of the grave. It still looked like it’d been disturbed but there wasn’t much they could do about that. They’d done a good thing here. Three people had died thanks to this bastard. Hopefully, that wasn’t going to happen again. As long as there weren’t any hairs or toenail clippings or specks of blood and saliva hanging around. They should probably stick around for a couple of days just to make doubly sure.


Dean walked through the hotel room door first, dropping their duffle to the floor with a heavy sigh. Sam closed the door behind them and Dean turned, their eyes meeting for a fraction of a second before Sam strode across the room towards him, covering the distance in five long strides. He swept Dean off his feet and threw him down onto the bed. Dean let out a winded gasp of a laugh, feeling the mattress dip and roll as Sam climbed up onto it and moved to straddle him.

“So, you’re feeling better,” he said.

“Mmm, shut up,” Sam said. He leaned back on his haunches, ass plopping down onto Dean’s thighs. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Dean’s jeans, flicked open the button and yanked down the zipper, head bent and eyes dark with intent. He tugged the jeans over Dean’s ass and down his thighs, then swore loudly when he encountered Dean’s steel-capped hiking boots.

Dean craned up onto his elbows and stared down his body. “Works better if you take the shoes off first,” he said with a smirk.

Sam gave him an annoyed look.

“Just saying.”

“Shut up,” Sam growled.

Dean exhaled out an amused breath and waited patiently as Sam fumblingly unknotted the laces and grappled off his boots. He tugged and peeled and twisted off the rest of Dean’s jeans – and really, they weren’t those douchey skinny jeans, it shouldn’t be that difficult – then he flung them across the room in disgust. They collided with a table lamp and sent it crashing to the floor.

Dean snorted out a laugh. “Smooth, real smooth.” But Sam wasn’t laughing, his lips still pursed in annoyance as he surveyed the damage his lusty Neanderthal act had caused. “Baby, hey, look at me. We got all day, there’s no rush. Let’s take it slow,” Dean coaxed.

Sam exhaled out a long breath, but he seemed to calm a little as he let Dean layer one, two, three soft kisses around his mouth. Sam was always like this after a hunt and Dean got it, he understood: the adrenalin, the blood-rush, the near-death experience, the two of them working as a team, having each other’s backs. It was hard not to get wrapped up in it, or to not need to fuck it all out afterwards, glorying in the fact they were alive and together and unharmed.

Sam pulled out of the kiss and stared down at him. His eyes were dark, all pupils, his cheeks flushed, hair falling into his face. He thumbed at Dean’s lower lip, dipped down to drop a kiss to his cheekbone before he drew back again to look at him. Dean reached up and tangled his fingers wrist-deep into Sam’s hair. Sam let out a long breath and turned his head to nuzzle his mouth against Dean’s wrist, warm puffs of air making the hairs on his arms tingle.

“Dean,” Sam breathed.

“I’m here, it’s okay,” Dean told him.

“I can feel your pulse,” Sam said, he opened his mouth, grazed his teeth against Dean’s wrist. “If I were a vampire then I could drink you from here, drink down your blood.”

Dean felt the breath catch in his throat and he swallowed, his mouth dry. Sam’s voice was low, deep, his tone strange and musing.


Sam sighed and twined their fingers together, pulled Dean’s hand away and down to the mattress. “Can I tie you up this time?” he asked. He untangled their hands, dragged his finger down the thin skin of Dean’s inner arm, tracing the long blue vein to the crease of Dean’s elbow.

Dean flinched, that part of his body was ticklish. “Sam—“

“I really want to. Please, Dean.” Sam turned his eyes to him, that soft imploring look that Sam damn well knew Dean was unable to resist. Sam rolled his hips down against Dean’s and Dean felt his cock - wicked, traitorous cock - jump and thicken at the contact. “I know you want to.”

Dean half-closed his eyes, nodded, his voice faint when he finally answered. “Yeah, okay.”

He opened his eyes when he felt Sam climb off him, the mattress dipping as Sam stepped back onto the floor. He shuffled back up the bed and watched Sam get their new rope out of the duffle. He should’ve known what Sam was really planning when he’d told him to get that rope.

“You’re a kinky bastard, you know that, Sam Wesson?” he said.

“Sam Smith-Wesson,” Sam corrected him.

“You’re a kinky bastard, Sam Smith-Wesson.”

“Yeah, and you love it. Take off your shirts.”

Sam was a boy scout, he tied those knots really fucking well as he slid the length of the rope into the headboard. Dean silently congratulated himself on the fact he’d even thought of such a thing when he’d booked the hotel. But he knew his husband and he knew what Sam got like after a hunt. Of course they would need a decent headboard.

Sam shucked his clothes slowly once Dean was restrained; arms shackled to either bedpost, legs sprawled out across the mattress. He watched Sam strip off each layer, methodical and slow. Dean’s eyes lingered over his body as more and more bare skin was revealed, the toned and defined muscles, the endless length of his legs, his long fat cock.

Dean watched Sam get himself ready, watched those clever fingers slide in and out of his hole as Sam slicked himself up for Dean’s cock. Dean ached to touch himself, knew that if he could put his hand on his cock right now, it would be over in a couple of pulls. A couple of swipes over his leaking head and he would come, splatter his belly and balls with his release. The blood was pumping hard in his head, his entire body on fire as he watched Sam’s hand disappearing between his legs, saw the shiny slick of the lube sliding down the insides of Sam’s thighs and smear across his balls and ass.

“Sam, I’m ready, c’mon,” he begged.

Sam flicked him a look, taking in Dean’s pleading expression, his leaking cock, his balls drawn up tight to his body.

“Please, baby, Sam...”

He remembered a time when he used to feel embarrassed by this - by how hard Sam got him, what he did to him, what kind of power he had over him. Dean liked being in control. All his life he’d made sure he was the one calling the shots. He’d always gravitated to the role of leader: as a manager, director and now VP at Sandover. Before work, back in college and high school, he’d captained the swim team and the mathletes. Even when he was a kid, he’d always bossed around his little sister and cousins, directing and leading all their games. Dean Smith liked to be in charge; Dean Smith was a natural leader.

But with Sam…

There was something about Sam that made Dean want to be the one who was bossed around and told what to do. It was a relief to have someone who could take care of him, who knew what he wanted and how to give it to him, who could see through his tightly controlled exterior and into his secret desires. The one person who could let him have those secret desires and never judge him for it. The one person who could love him for who he really was, not just for who he liked to think he was. He’d caught a huge universe-altering break when he’d met Sam. He didn’t think he’d ever stop feeling grateful for it.

He swallowed and felt his heart skip a beat as Sam advanced on him, crawling slowly across the enormous mattress and positioning himself over Dean. Sam placed his hands on Dean’s shoulders and Dean flinched at the sudden contact. One of Sam’s hands slid up his neck, caressed the side of his jaw, his fingertips in Dean’s stubble.

He shuddered as he felt Sam’s fingers close around the base of his cock, positioning it as Sam slowly lowered himself down. A shiver rippled through Dean, his entire body trembling as he felt his cock adjust to the heat and tightness of Sam’s body.

“I’m here, it’s okay,” Sam said. He placed his hands on the wall behind Dean, arms bracketing his head as he began to work himself on Dean’s cock. His own cock was bobbing up and down as he moved, slapping wetly against his flat belly.

Dean scrunched his eyes closed and gave himself over entirely to the sensations. The feeling of Sam all around him, to that epicentre of pleasure that was his own cock in Sam’s body, Sam’s ass muscles clenching and unclenching around him, Sam’s fingers trailing and mapping all over his body.

“Dean,” Sam said, and Dean opened his eyes. Sam was staring down at him, his gaze dark and intense as it bored into Dean. “Want you with me.”

Dean pulled on his restraints, pushed out a trembling breath. “I don’t know, I—“

“It’s okay. Kiss me.”

Obediently, Dean tilted back his head, let Sam lean in and take his mouth in a kiss. Sam’s hands slipped down to cup his jaw and then Sam was kissing him passionately, his breath coming hard and fast as he started to ride Dean proper.

“Oh God, oh God, Sam...” Dean moaned through hard, sloppy kisses. A bead of sweat dripped off Sam’s forehead onto Dean’s face and Dean stuck out his tongue to lap it up, moving in again to take Sam’s mouth in a bruising kiss. He couldn’t take much more, his entire body lighting up from the inside, his balls aching with the need for release. “Sam, Sam, I—“ The words slid from his tongue as he felt his cock shudder and come, shooting his load into the tight heat of Sam’s ass. His eyes fell closed and he panted heavily for a few beats, feeling the tremors and after-effects in every cell of his body.

He licked his lips, tasting Sam’s saliva and sweat, before he opened his eyes again. Sam had climbed off him and was sitting at the end of the bed, watching him through lidded eyes as he jacked his cock.

“Jesus,” Dean breathed. “You, the way you look...” he trailed off, his eyes glued to the place where the fat red head of Sam’s dick was disappearing in his fist. He yanked on his restraints, wanting suddenly to be the one to pull Sam’s orgasm from him, to fasten his mouth around him and suck it all down, to swallow Sam’s come and feel the aftertaste on his tongue for hours.

“Dean,” Sam said, and then again, “Dean.”

He shook and Dean watched in fascination as the tremor rippled through Sam’s body. Sam bit his lip, his eyes fluttered closed as the come spattered hot and white and stringy over his fist and belly. His chest rose and fell for a few beats then he pushed out a breath and opened his eyes. He grinned at Dean and Dean felt his own mouth fold up into a smile.

“Man, I am so damn hungry,” Sam said.

Dean laughed and dropped his chin to his chest. He pulled on his restraints. “Untie me and let’s go get brunch.”


Sam held out his Bloody Mary, waiting for Dean to do the same.

“Happy anniversary,” they said in unison, glasses clinking together. Dean chuckled, watching Sam grin as he took a sip of his drink.


“Yeah, good,” Sam said. “Drink it. Stop thinking about the calories.”

Dean made a face and Sam shook his head at him. “Alcohol, you know, it’s just—“

“Empty calories. Yeah. But it tastes really damn good, and that’s an excellent Bloody Mary. Drink it, baby.”

Dean sighed in capitulation and took a sip of his drink. Sam was right, it was really damn good. He closed his eyes as he savoured it.

“See?” Sam said, sounding smug. “And quit feeling guilty, after all that digging you did before. We saved people, we got the bad guy. Live a little.”

“I guess,” Dean agreed. Still though, it wouldn’t do to let things get too out of hand. He surveyed the menu, exhaling in relief when his eyes alighted on the egg whites omelette.

“Dork,” Sam muttered and Dean kicked him under the table, making Sam’s mouth twitch up into another smile. He raised his eyes from his menu to meet Dean’s gaze. “Love you,” he said.

Dean swallowed, feeling that familiar tightness in his chest, the pressure and pain of it. “Love you too.”

The ride back to the hotel was quiet, the two of them too exhausted to make conversation. Dean felt pleasantly full and a little buzzed, his body aching all over in that worthwhile endorphin way that he only got after a really good workout or really good sex. He glanced across at Sam as Sam pulled up the car in the hotel parking lot.

“Man, I could sleep the rest of the weekend,” he groaned.

“Sounds good,” Sam said.

They climbed out of the car, circling around to the front to automatically take each other’s hands. Sam glanced down at him, raised his hand to his mouth to drop a kiss on the backs of Dean’s knuckles, his expression teasing and soft.

In the room Dean shucked off his jacket and boots and jeans, letting them fall into a heap in a way he never allowed at home. He was too tired today, and they were on vacation. Sort of.

Sam slid his arms around him from behind and kissed the back of his neck. Dean sighed and let his eyes fall closed, revelling in the sensation. He turned around, still with his eyes closed, and felt Sam tug him in, tipping his head back so Sam could layer kisses around his throat and mouth.

He cupped the side of Sam’s face and kissed him once, twice, three times. He opened his eyes.

“I would, but I’m so fucking tired, baby.”

Sam nuzzled the side of his cheek, “I know. Let’s just go to bed.”

“That’s one of the most romantic things you’ve ever said to me.”

Sam chuckled and pulled away. Entwining their fingers, he tugged Dean towards the bed.

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