One Drink and You’re Fucked

Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~4700 words.
Living with Dean is sort of like trying to breathe underwater.

Any day now, Sam will crack. Just blow it. He’s got patience, god knows, he’s got it in spades from a lifetime of dealing with the patented Winchester ways, but he can’t take much more of this.

He can’t figure out what the hell’s going on with Dean. Every time he thinks he’s got an idea, Dean’s mood swings faster than East Coast weather. He goes out cheery and comes back pissed, dips into maudlin after two beers and surfaces somewhere around seething after four.

Once upon a time, Sam thought he had the market pretty much cornered on anything outside horny or obnoxious. These days, he’s got a running bet with himself over which prize will pop out of the emotional Cracker Jack box next.

On cue, the door bangs open, spilling wind and rain and a grinning, drunken Dean into their sparsely-furnished room. He struggles to close the door on the storm, his shirt gaping wide to show the red welts clawed into his belly. It takes Sam a few minutes to puzzle out that the other shapes peppering Dean’s skin are smears of greasy red lipstick.

The tension in Sam’s shoulders eases. After nearly a year on the road with Dean, Sam’s developed a fairly tidy repertoire of short sentences and grunted syllables appropriate for his brother’s post-coital bliss. The rules say the ball’s in Sam’s court, since Dean’s the one coming in, so he starts off with a nice, neutral, “Hey.”

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says, all long, lazy vowels. He shucks his coat, spattering the ugly carpet with water. “Keepin’ the home fires burnin’, that’s m’boy.”

Sam huffs a noncommittal sound and surreptitiously watches Dean weave his way to the bathroom. He leaves the door wide open, the sound of his heavy belt buckle thunking against the cheap linoleum followed by the slosh of water and a long, satisfied groan.

“Best fuckin’ little town,” Dean calls out, long before he’s done. “Bet we could even get you laid.”

“Close the door, would ya?”

There’s a jingle of loose change before Dean leans around the corner, jeans hauled up but the fly still open. His grin is a mile wide if it’s an inch. “You wanna get laid, Sammy?”

Sam hasn’t yet figured out the prescribed response to that question. He glares holes in his book until Dean loses interest and goes back to finish taking a leak.


Dean wakes up the next morning about as sunny as the dark side of the moon.

“Cheap afterglow,” Sam says conversationally, hauling on his boots to brave the flooded streets. “Never lasts.”

“Coffee.” Two of Dean’s fingers make an appearance from underneath the rumpled bedclothes, wavering vaguely before steadying and zeroing in on him. “You, coffee, shut up.”

Dean’s jeans are half in the bed with him. Sam grabs the one visible leg, jerks roughly, and starts pawing through the smoke-laced denim for Dean’s battered wallet.

“Coffee and breakfast coming right up.”

Dean’s thumbs-up is as enthusiastic as a virgin nun.


Two days later, ten miles from the Ohio border, Dean’s come full circle and settled down somewhere near belligerent and a little to the left of antsy. The stuffy summer air is choked with Dean, the car barrelling down the highway barely able to contain all the sideways, shifty looks he’s sliding Sam’s way.

Sam doesn’t bother to look up from the map. “Quit it.”

“Quit what?”

One of these days, Sam’s eyeballs really are going to roll straight out of his skull and it’s going to be all Dean’s fault.

“You find that graveyard yet?”

Sam drops his pen into the pile of papers spread across his lap before he stabs Dean with it. “If I’d found the graveyard, I’d have told you I did.”

Dean squints hard at the sun-blasted road. “Don’t get your panties in a knot.”

“Just,” Sam says, cutting himself off mid-sentence to suck down a calming breath. “Just, don’t ask, okay? I’ll tell you when I’ve got it.”

“Okay. Dude, chill.”

Five minutes later, Sam’s pen goes through the map just north of Pickerington when he catches the tail end of Dean’s next furtive glance.

“You’re buying me a new one.”

Sam’s pretty sure there’s a judge somewhere that’ll buy into fratricide as self-defence.


Dean eases back onto the stool beside the girl and licks his teeth. “You know what we need?”

Three steps into the bar, Sam decided stoicism would get him through the night. He wasn’t doing half bad, either. Practically zen, except for the little tic in his right eye every time the girl–Mindy, Cindy, just once he’d like to meet a Nora or something in one of these places–puffs up her lips and finds another reason to feel up whichever part of Dean happens to be handiest.

“More shots,” Dean says, and the girl claps, flashing a bright, cheerful smile at Sam before her fingers end up tangled in one of Dean’s beltloops.

“Thanks man, but no.” Sam holds up his hands, palms out. “I’m done. Gonna head on back.”

Sam pushes off the stool and waits for his cue; Dean’s hook up is clinched, all Sam needs to know is how long he should make himself scarce. The girl looks a little disappointed, which is good for his ego if not his conscience, considering he’s not even sure Dean knows her name.

Dean eyeballs him, then the few shot glasses and crumpled napkins on the bar in front of him. “One more,” he says.


“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean says, swooping in to crowd Sam’s space, one arm around the girl to tug her close. Sam could count the freckles on each of their noses if he wanted. “Big brother knows best.”

Sam doesn’t trust the way Dean’s eyes light up. He’s seen that look a couple times before, like about an hour before Dean got him wasted for the first time, or two days into their first solo road trip–no hunting, just a quick drive to pick up something for their dad, and Sam can’t remember a thing except music and wind and a thick, gamy taste clinging to the back of his tongue.

“Fine, one more shot.”

“Forget the shot,” Dean says. “Screw the shot.” His fingers curl near the nape of the girl’s neck and she leans into it, watches Sam like she’s knows just what Dean’s up to. And she probably does, because when Dean says, “You need a good tongue-fucking, that’s what,” she leans forward, offering it up.

Sam packs a few decent paragraphs of exposition on why that’s just plain crazy in the word, “Dude.”

“Hey, you were gonna take the shot,” Dean says, “this is way better.” To the girl, who doesn’t need one ounce of convincing, he adds, “He’s good, too. Melted this real artsy chick into a puddle right in the middle of her daddy’s gallery. Bet she’s still steaming.”

Sam’s neck blisters with heat. “Look, I’m- hey, you’re nice and all-”

“Nice doesn’t have much to do with it,” she says.

“See?” Dean smiles so hard Sam listens for the creak of his jaw. “Just do it.”

“Fine,” Sam says, immediately regretting how rude it sounds–it’s not like he’s trying to insult the girl. But she doesn’t care either way, fitting herself up nice and tight to Sam, going up a little on her toes because even with the heels, she’s tiny. Tiny and soft in all the right places, hips, breasts, lips, tongue, nothing tentative, just good. She’s the one who deepens the kiss, makes it wet, and Sam goes with it, enjoys it, blames the tequila and too many rounds with his own hand for making it so easy.

Sam pulls back feeling a lot more drunk than he did about ten seconds ago. The girl smiles up at him, swipes her thumb over the corner of his mouth and rubs the smear of lipstick back onto her own.

“Not bad, Sammy,” Dean says, startling Sam with how close and quiet his voice is. He knocks back another golden-brown shot, eyes on Sam’s mouth over the rim. “Not bad.”

Dean orders another round of doubles. Sam goes with it.


Sam doesn’t try to talk about it. He chalks the incident up to one of Dean’s moods and moves on, promising himself to stay away from the hard liquor for awhile. Beer he can handle. It doesn’t make him do stupid things like make out with nameless chicks while his brother watches.

His lip is still a little sore from where she’d bitten him. He didn’t complain, because hell, it’s tough to say much when your mouth’s full of someone else’s tongue, and it wasn’t like he’d actually minded at the time.

He’s not sure he minds right now, if the way he keeps poking at the nip with his tongue means anything at all.



Dean’s mouth quirks at one corner. “The way you’re gnawing on your tongue there, figure you must be.”

“Shut up.” Sam sinks lower in his seat, knees knocking the dash. “Where’re we going?”


Warily, Sam asks, “What’s in Vegas?”

“Showgirls.” Before Sam can complain, Dean shoves a sheaf of newspaper clippings and printouts at him. “Vanishing showgirls.”

Sam glances over the info, ready to chalk it up to Vegas being Vegas, but even the police reports sound fishy. “Huh.”

“And you thought I just wanted to nail one.”

“You do.”

“Well, yeah, but it’ll all be in the name of the job.”

“Nevada’s a long way from here,” Sam says, shifting through what little history Dean had already dug up–when he had time for that, between hunting and everything else, Sam doesn’t have a clue. “Is there anything quick and easy between here and there?”

Dean gets that look again. That look. “Probably,” he says, oblivious to the knots Sam’s stomach is tying itself up in.


Utah’s never been much of a blip on Sam’s radar. Wisconsin, Maryland, California–those are the hotspots of his life, like other people have the bleachers at third period or weekends in Freddie G’s basement.

“Going out for a drink,” Dean says, hauling off his shirt in favour of a fresh one. He checks his wallet and slings on that old, battered leather jacket, flipping the collar like always. At the door, he tosses off a careless wave. “Don’t wait up.”

Sam listens for the rumble of the Impala’s engine. He’s relieved for the break, the chance to relax and have some space to himself. Living with Dean is sort of like trying to breathe underwater.

A half hour into one of the CSI spinoffs, Sam’s still wondering why Dean didn’t browbeat him into going along.


In one of the cheapest, sleaziest warehouse districts Las Vegas has to offer, when Dean goes out alone for the fifth time, Sam follows.

It only took him a few minutes to rationalise past the issue of invading Dean’s privacy. All he did was change his mind about wanting to go out, that’s all, and it wasn’t like Dean gave him a flat-out reason to stay behind.

“Nearest strip joint,” Sam says. “Girls.” The cabbie nods, flashes him a Colgate smile, and five blocks later, Sam’s paying him with bills swiped from the stash at the bottom of Dean’s duffle.

Inside, broken glass crunches beneath Sam’s boots. The place is packed, a couple girls on stage and a half dozen more mingling on the floor, smiling and laughing and maybe giving a bit more than just a lap dance when a wad of money changes hands. Dean isn’t hard to find, up front with a beer in one hand, some cash in the other, and a slick smile curving his lips.

Sam hangs back, debating. By the time he finds himself at the bar ordering something hard, he knows the choice is already made.

Dean doesn’t startle when Sam slides in beside him, and doesn’t look one bit surprised, either. He grins around his beer, clinks his bottle against Sam’s glass and downs another few mouthfuls. His throat glistens in the bright lights.

“Whaddya think, Sammy?” Hooking an arm around Sam’s shoulders, Dean leans in close and drops his voice a couple octaves, his mouth brushing the shell of Sam’s ear. “Tits or ass?”

Sam flicks a glance at the stripper Dean points to. The whiskey in his glass is thin and cheap, burning like a son of a bitch all the way down.

At the same time Dean says, “C’mon,” Sam says, “Tits.”

Dean hoots, stuffs a fiver between his teeth to offer it up when the stripper swoops close. She smiles like she means it, pink tongue touched to the corner of her red, red lips, pauses less than an inch from Dean’s face and snatches the bill with her fingers instead.

Sam watches her shimmy around a pole, appreciating the strength she’s got to be packing in that small frame, when Dean leans in again. “She’s gonna let you shoot it wherever you want,” he says, like it’s nothing, nothing at all, “tits or ass?”

Sam doesn’t get the game Dean’s playing but he’s tagging along anyway, picturing it, imagining the tight pressure in his balls and the way she’d look at him, bend over or lay back, whatever he wanted. His answer’s still tits, but Dean cuts him off, says, “Go for the face, right here,” and drags a fingertip along the apple of his cheek.

The whiskey’s gone so Sam grabs for Dean’s beer instead. He’s turned on, can tell Dean is too by more than the colour high in his face or the glassy-dark of his eyes. There’s not enough alcohol in his blood or drugs in the smoky air to explain away the dizzying clench in the void his stomach has become.

When Dean breathes, “C’mon,” into his ear a second time and grabs onto his wrist, hauling him through the crowd and out the back, Sam stumbles along blindly. His mouth is dry, throat and tongue sandpaper rough as he works up some spit to swallow.

The door bangs against the stained brick, the stink of garbage and worse assaulting Sam’s nose as Dean drags him down the alley and into the next. Here it smells like baked asphalt and motor oil, sharp and stinging and familiar. The Impala’s parked under a crooked awning and a boarded up doorway that proclaims Vinnie’s, Employee’s Only in sun-faded lettering.

Sam grates out, “Dean, what the fuck,” right before his back slams into the wall and Dean’s up in his face, fingers clenched in his shirt and a fucking knee between his legs.

“Couldn’t help it, could ya, Sammy,” Dean says, smooth and insinuating, so close his breath tingles warm on Sam’s lips. Sam’s brain is still somewhere between table seven and the back hallway, leaving him staring dumbly down at Dean and sputtering for a clue. “Just had to follow me out, see what I was up to.”

“Yeah, ’cause-”

“Yeah nothing.” Dean’s gaze drops for a split-second, his fingers fanning out across Sam’s throat, thumb inched up to press against the soft slack of Sam’s mouth. “Face or ass, Sam,” he says, his tone the same as before, promising and cocksure all at once, “where’re you gonna let me come?”

Jesus,” Sam says, all the breath sucker-punched straight out of his lungs.

“Been thinking about it for awhile,” Dean admits, sounding way too sober and reasonable for a guy who’s stuffing his hand down the front of his brother’s jeans, “a good, long while. I figure you’d be doing me a favour, yeah, finally showing me if you look as hot getting off as I think you do, but I’d be doing you one, too,” and he doesn’t stop there, getting a good, solid grip on Sam’s cock, twisting his wrist to give it a couple short, hard tugs. “I hear you jerking off when you think you’re being quiet, bet you bite your lips and everything. You pinch your tits, too?”

The pad of Dean’s thumb rubs dry over the head and the only thing Sam’s a hundred percent sure about in the world anymore is that his knees are going to give out if Dean does that again.

And Dean’s smile turns feral like he knows it, too.

“Jesus Christ, Dean, what’re you on? You can’t,” and here, Sam’s brain starts sputtering out on him again, because obviously giving voice to what’s happening is worse than the fact that it’s actually happening.

“Can,” Dean says, dragging his hand free, palming the side of Sam’s face so he can smell himself on Dean’s rough skin, “gonna,” and then Sam can’t say anything at all because his mouth is full of the wet, slick heat of Dean’s tongue.

The first thing Sam thinks is holy crap, too much, because maybe he prefers to go a little slow, lick his way into someone’s mouth like a syrupy-thick coil of anticipation. But there’s nothing subtle about Dean, never anything held in reserve, what you see is what you get steamrolling you straight to the ground.

Dean releases his mouth and Sam sucks down air, great gulping mouthfuls of it before Dean’s hand is curved tight to his throat, palm a heavy pressure on his adam’s apple. “Kiss me back,” Dean hisses into his skin, lips dragging wetly over his cheek, “you fucking kiss me back. Know you wanna.”

Dean mouths at his lips and Sam goes with it, opens to the hot flick of Dean’s tongue without thinking, the words still buzzing inside his head. Dean murmurs something like, “That’s it, baby, give it up,” and it slaps Sam back, slams him down to earth so fast his head spins.

He breaks Dean’s grip on his jacket, shoves him stumbling back into the car, but Dean’s grin doesn’t slip so much as an inch. Dean props his hands on the hood, leans back in clear invitation, says, “You wanna drive?”

“No. No, I don’t wanna drive,” Sam snaps, stumbling over his own god damn tongue when he figures out it doesn’t sound like it should, that he was trying to say I don’t want to do anything and what he means is I want you to do it all.

But he’s as much of a stubborn son of a bitch as Dean is, just as competitive and able to cut off his own nose to spite his face. That’s a good a reason as any for why he ends up on his knees in the dirt when Dean gets a tangled handful of his hair and jerks.

He doesn’t even realise he made noise until he catches the back-alley gleam in Dean’s eyes.

“You like that?” Dean asks, and Sam doesn’t think he really wants an answer except he says it again, twists his fingers up tighter and sends electric shocks straight to the base of Sam’s cock. “Kinda always hoped you’d like it a little rough. Bookworm type, y’know, getting off on getting fucked up.”

Another twist and Dean’s dragging him closer, not one flicker of doubt about where his face is going to end up, and just like that Sam has his hands slapped to Dean’s thighs, holding back.

“Turning virgin on me, Sammy?”

“Shut up,” Sam breathes, feeling the flex of strong muscle under his palms, heat seeping through denim to burn into his skin. “God, shut up.”

There’s a long pause, too long, where all Sam can hear is the pound of his own heart and the rasp of his breath. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, why he followed Dean here, what the hell’s going on between them. Why he didn’t try to stop it and why he’s trying now. His fingers dig harder into Dean’s thighs, knuckles gone bloodless white as the tension winds higher, tighter and tighter until it’s going to snap in all the wrong ways.

Dean says, “Know you don’t mean it,” and hauls him in those last few inches roughly enough that he nearly sags against Dean’s legs in boneless relief. Dean’s cock grinds hard into his cheek and Dean’s wide hands cup his face, turn it so his open mouth fits tightly over firm flesh. His teeth dig painfully into his lips and he doesn’t give one flying fuck about it.

More encouragement melts hot and heavy, filthy, into the air between them as Dean eases up to make it a tease, letting Sam know with just the slow rock of his hips that it’s up to Sam to make the next move. The jittery feeling in Sam’s guts loops outward, coils straight down to the tips of his fingers fumbling at Dean’s fly.

“All you gotta do is pull it out.”

Sam bites at the inside of his cheek to hold back the moan he knows Dean’s going to fuck out of him later anyway. He’s not thinking straight, can’t be, because he’s not even considering saying no, or putting a stop to this before it gets that far.

Just the idea of it getting that far ploughs into the words stopped in his throat like a semi into a freeway pileup.

“Go on, Sammy, make some noise for me. Wanna hear it,” Dean says, shoving his boxers down just under his balls as soon as Sam has his pants open, baring the whole package for Sam to stare at. And Sam can’t help but look, really look, noticing what’s the same and what’s not, imagining the prickly-soft skin of Dean’s balls against his lips, the taste of sweat and come on his tongue.

“Shoulda known you’d like to look,” Dean says, voice dropped into a lower register, the one Sam associates with late nights, whiskey and smoke and sex on Dean’s breath. He’s always experienced it on the sidelines, privy to the afterparty but not the main event, left to fill in the gaps between Dean’s lazy smiles and half-lidded eyes. When Dean says, “Really want that mouth on my dick, though, Sammy, want you to suck me so fucking good,” it’s all aimed at him, hits hard and vicious as an old rifle’s recoil, would probably knock him straight back on his ass except Dean’s still holding on tight.

Sam glances up, wets his lips incidentally the first time and deliberately slower the second. The look Dean gives him is more than enough to have him leaning forward, breathing deep and feeding the butterflies slicing up his insides with the heaviness of Dean’s sweat. It’s familiar, tinged with something new but comforting in a way nobody with half a psych degree would ever say is healthy. Long, long drives, sweltering summer nights and the adrenaline rush of a hunt, that’s what Dean smells like.

Dean tastes like skin and salt, feels thick and warm and alive in his mouth. It’s everything Sam expected and everything he didn’t, like each morning is just a sunrise or a lightning storm is just the weather. It’s Dean’s cock in his mouth and his hand pressed hard to the front of his jeans, the inside of his boxers already damp and clingy with precome.

“You gonna moan for me, tell me how much you like it?” Dean cards his fingers through Sam’s hair, grips tight with both hands to pull Sam down a little further, fill him up a little more. “You gonna let me fuck this pretty mouth?”

Heat creeps along Sam’s throat, steals over his jaw where it’s stretched wide, lips gone slick with spit as Dean holds him in place, gives him a few testing–teasing–thrusts. He curls his hands into Dean’s open jeans, feels the zip bite into his flesh as his eyes slip shut, his own quick, hot breaths shunted back in his face as Dean pushes in a bit harder, faster.

“Tongue’s good,” Dean breathes, those two words all Sam needs to hear to shake himself free of the passive bliss burrowing straight into his bones. He’s clumsy at first, lashing awkwardly at the slick slide of Dean’s cock until something clicks and it’s a fresh burst of salted sweetness on the flat of his tongue with every push.

Dean makes enough noise for the both of them, fitting the curve of his palm over the back of Sam’s head with a thready string of curses that turns into something more like reverence when Sam’s cheeks hollow. Sam’s heady with Dean’s gritty pleasure, grinding against his own fist as Dean’s steady rhythm stumbles, jerks into the hard, erratic push-shove of almost there.

Sam doesn’t choke on the first hit of come only because Dean hauled him halfway off, making sure to shoot it straight on his tongue instead. Swallowing doesn’t occur to Sam until Dean thrusts again, gently, still coming and making tiny noises low in his throat about how good Sam’s mouth feels filled up like that.

One hand on the base of his dick, Dean drags himself free, smears a thick line of heat across Sam’s cheek. “Spit if you want,” he says, letting go to rub his thumb through the wet, “but you do and I’m gonna fuck what’s left on my dick right into your face.”

Sam spits on the ground right between Dean’s boots.

Dean grins like the devil, like illicit and wicked packed into human form, but doesn’t get a word in edgewise before Sam’s lurching to his feet, dragging his hand down the length of Dean’s cock. He backs up a couple steps and sags against the warm brick, fingers halfway to his mouth when Dean is there, crowding in close, pressing his hand to his face instead, dirtying it with spit and come.

“Filthy fucker,” he says, grabbing for Sam’s wrists, pushing and shoving and shifting until Sam’s pinned between him and the wall, the sharp jut of his hip slotted tight and perfect up against Sam’s cock. “Finally gonna show me how hard you get off, fucking cream yourself right here for me,” and he rubs his face up against Sam’s, all rasping stubble and tacky come.

“Like this?” Sam asks, voice rough and fucked out, barely there, but Dean jerks and groans, says, “Yeah, yeah, like this, grind it into me, fuck,” as if Sam would be able to do anything but.

It happens too fast, Dean’s hands clawing through his clothes to find bare skin, skidding low down his back to jerk him closer, the frantic bump of half-kisses and grind of their hips, the deep, gasping breaths filling his mouth and nose with the thick smell of come and never enough air. He comes staring at the rusted underside of a fire escape, his hands fisted in battered leather and Dean’s mouth on his neck.

He’s not with it when Dean kisses him; he fumbles at Dean’s tongue like he had the head of Dean’s cock, eager and hoping that alone will be enough to make it good. Dean doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, biting and licking at his lips until they’re thick and swollen, throbbing to the beat of his heart.

Sam’s fingers are cramped by the time Dean pulls back, grinning that shit-eating grin and giving him the same pat on the ass the Impala usually gets. “You know what you need?” Dean says, tucking in and zipping up, thumbing the corner of Sam’s mouth again when all Sam can do is offer up a lopsided, bemused sort of smile. “You need a drink.”

“A drink.”

“Maybe two.” Dean fixes the collar of his jacket, gaze hooking on the bruise Sam can already feel on his throat. “Two should be enough before you let me fuck you in the bathroom, right?”

“Jesus,” Sam mutters, falling in beside Dean, shoulders bumping every other step. Before they duck back inside, the music and the heat rolling out the door and over them like the wind at the edge of the desert, he puts his mouth to Dean’s ear and says, “One drink.”


3 Responses to “One Drink and You’re Fucked”

  1. smallcaps.livejournal Says:


  2. gunznammo2 Says:

    I KNOW that I will read this again and again. So much said in this fic. Was this Dean’s way of getting Sammy to realize that what they REALLY wanted was each other? Dean, so patient, laying trails for his Sammy to follow. Or do I have this all wrong? Yes, I am definitely bookmarking this. Just WOW.

  3. Alexa_Dean Says:

    I am in awe of your writing. I have found my new addiction. BTW which J is the one your partial to?

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