I’ll Have What He’s Having

(c)2008 Nobody You Know

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Sam/Dean. Silly title, atrocious premise, spur of the moment crack along the same lines as Pillow Talk, although not in that series. ~ 3000 words, strong R for badwronginappropriate behavior and near-pr0n.

Dean messes with Sam until Sam can’t take any more. Dean shouldn’t do that. Or maybe he should.

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I love how you bust my chops

You don’t always feel seen, sometimes

You feel erasable

I cannot reciprocate in my current state

I think we should be careful how much time we spend together...

– Alanis Morrisette, Front Row


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He should have known. Dean could break anybody down with enough time, but he still should have known.


They were rifling through the microfiche at the only library in Clearwater, Michigan because they needed any local records they could get. Nearby Torch Lake was famous for drownings, but no one seemed to notice it was all young males. Granted, young males tended to do things that resulted in drowning more often than girls did, but sooner or later the law of averages dictated that at least one girl would meet with an accident there inside fifty years. Not one.


Sam kept seeing something move erratically out of the corner of his eye, but ignored it for awhile as he scanned obituaries further and further back. When something hit him in the side of the head, he flinched and automatically frowned in Dean’s direction.


Dean was picking up two of the three styrofoam cups that he’d been juggling. He’d weighted them by taping pennies to them. Sam looked at the third, which had dropped to the floor after hitting him in the head.


“Think you could maybe pay attention to this for a little while?” Sam said. “So we could get the hell out of here before somebody else drowns?”


“Loosen up, Sam,” Dean said. “I started some notes.”


“Don’t get us tossed out of here,” Sam said. He went back to the poorly lit screen.


Dean ignored him.


The second time Sam got hit with a penny-weighted cup, he crumpled it in his hand, then crushed the other two for good measure.


“So tense,” Dean said.


“I wouldn’t be, if you’d knock it off,” Sam said.


“You need to get laid,” Dean said.


“Dean, getting laid is not the answer to everything.” Sam got up and headed for the entrance.


Dean gathered their stuff and followed. “Yes it is,” he mumbled.


Sam ignored him.


A short, tense ride later, they found a diner and Sam decided not to argue. It was late afternoon, and they could use a break anyway.


There were maybe ten other people in the place, and Sam watched Dean do what he always did, immediately flirting with the waitress and glancing around, mentally marking the ways in and out, where they were in the building in relation to the car. Sam wondered if he even realized what he was doing.


“I oughta start collecting silverware from all these places,” Dean said as they sat down. “Keep extra forks for take-out emergencies. And if you ever get married, I can give you a whole set.”


“Nothing you do surprises me anymore,” Sam said.


The moment he said it, he knew it was a bad idea. A Bad Idea.


“Really,” Dean said. “Is that so.”


Sam put his menu down. “That’s not a signal for you to up the ante, Dean,” Sam said. He tried to put a warning on his face, but not too much because really, that never helped. Chastising his brother rarely got him the desired results; Dean took it as reverse psychology, or something. He picked up his menu again and wondered why he bothered, since all diners had the same damn things and he was beginning to hate them all.


He heard Dean tapping his fingers along the table and knew there was trouble. Prank-level trouble. He was sorry he’d said anything. Now there would be superglue, or Sharpies, or Nair or something worse involved and he’d have to try and fend off all kinds of bullshit. Sure, something in him looked forward to getting even with Dean twice as hard, but he hated it when it started. He never knew what the first thing was going to be, how embarrassing or sudden or public.


He finally chose a grilled cheese and a cola. Grilled cheese was hard to screw up. Dean had liver and onions, and Sam took that as prank #1 because wow, gross.


“That’s a little far even for you, isn’t it?” Sam said.


“What?” Dean said. “This? It’s delicious. You’re missin’ out.”


“It reminds me of what a shapeshifter leaves behind,” Sam said.


Dean shook his head and took another bite. “Not gonna work. Your heart wasn’t even in that one.”


Sam shrugged. But he began to tense up a little more. The light in Dean’s eyes was familiar. Dean was in a mood. They ate in silence for a couple of minutes, and Sam purposely didn’t look at Dean once.


“You’re just waiting now, aren’t you,” Dean said. The tone of his voice set Sam’s teeth on edge – a gleeful mocking that edged too close to smugness. It always pissed him off.

 

“I don’t feel like starting shit with you,” Sam said. “Not today, huh? Don’t start.”


“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean said with a smirk.


“I can tell just by looking at you that you’re...shit, you know what? Never mind.” Sam took a bite out of his sandwich.


Dean grinned. “Oh, Sam,” he said. “Wanna play ‘guess that movie’?”


“No,” Sam said.


“I do. I’m gonna reenact a scene, and you have to guess the movie.”


“I don’t wanna play,” Sam said between his teeth.


“You’re gonna love it,” Dean said. “Love it. I always wanted to be an actor.”


“You quote enough movie lines as it is,” Sam said, eyes on his plate. “What are you, twelve? You need a new hobby.”


Dean’s plate was mostly clear when he put his fork down. He stared across the table at Sam for a moment, smirk firmly in place. Then he flattened his palms on the table.


“What are you doing,” Sam said, and he heard all the dread he was feeling leak out into his voice.


“Oh, God,” Dean said, trailing off into a moan. “Oh, yeah...yeah...oh, God.”


That last bit was loud enough to get the attention of the tables across and down from their booth.


Sam felt his eyes widening in confusion and horror. “What’re you – “


Dean rolled his eyes back, leaned his head back against the back of the booth, and proceeded to utter the most obscene, over-the-top series of bad porn film soundtrack groans and cries that Sam had ever heard in his life.


Everything seemed to freeze. Sam felt the eyes of the entire place turn toward them and didn’t have to look to know it was happening. He was shocked into scooting further into the booth and leaning as far away as he could get, caught between horror and fascination.


Dean continued to have his fake orgasm, hands gripping the bench beneath as he writhed on it, lips parted and hips bucking into the air, gasping and panting and crying out.


Sam wanted to get up and go anywhere; the bathroom, outside, the roof, anywhere. But he couldn’t, and that was more horrifying than Dean’s display. He couldn’t because he was so damn hard that anybody and everybody (Dean) would see it if he made any attempt to stand. All his available blood had rushed south. He was trapped, and all he could do was sit there and pretend he was completely unimpressed. Except for the award-winning blush he could feel heating his face. He was amazed he had any blood left in his head at all.


It was when Dean began running his hands over his own chest and clutching at his shirt that Sam couldn’t look anymore. He finally rested his forehead against the heel of one hand and braced his elbow on the table.


Dean’s vocal throes of passion tapered off into helpless laughter. He tried to speak but just kept laughing.


When the waitress came over and stared at them, Sam felt himself begin to blush even harder. He hadn’t thought it possible. Dean just kept laughing. She slapped their check down on the table and said, “If it was that good, make sure you tip the hell out of me.”


She walked away.


Dean fell over sideways in his side of the booth, laughing so hard that he finally went silent. Sam hoped he ran out of air for awhile.


The incriminating stares of the other patrons finally began to turn elsewhere. Sam looked longingly at the door.


Dean sat up and tried to catch his breath. “Your face,” he gasped. “Oh, man, your face. Christmas morning, Sam.”


“I hate you,” Sam said.


Dean just laughed some more. Sam kept his face turned toward the window, knowing his breathing had picked up in response to more than just the growing annoyance and mortification. He carefully pressed the heel of one hand into the most inconvenient erection he’d ever had. He could freak out about it, and whatever the hell it meant, later. Right then he just wanted out of there.


Dean paid the bill, still grinning, and when Sam could stand, he went straight for the car and stood, breathing deep. Dean followed a minute or so later.


“Cashier asked for my autograph,” Dean said. “I’ll bet I could do better. Need to practice my technique. Got any pointers, Sam?”


“Don’t you ever do that again,” Sam said. He heard how tight his voice was and didn’t care. “It’s not funny, Dean.”


Dean immediately looked at him with too much awareness. “Hit a nerve?”


Sam clenched his jaw and refused to return his stare.


Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and hummed to himself all the way back to the library.


Sam didn’t talk to him for the rest of the day. He couldn’t look at him. He focused on looking for patterns to the deaths, anything to keep from having to deal with Dean.


Dean made sure he was always just inside Sam’s field of vision. Humming, tapping, waving an invisible red flag. Sam felt the tension across his shoulders coil further.


When they’d had enough research for the day, they grabbed takeout and ate in their motel room. Sam didn’t want to risk another public display.


Sam slept fitfully. He could not stop thinking about the sight of Dean sprawled out across from him, throat bared and arching, panting open-mouthed in ecstacy. The moments returned to him in quick, random flashes, Dean’s voice low and husky in his memory.


Dean had done worse, in the overall scope of their lifelong prank war. But nothing that had caused Sam to want to jerk off in response.


The next morning, he caught Dean glancing at him constantly. He had to be waiting for Sam to get back at him. It was how they worked.


“Forget it,” Sam said as they headed to the car.


“What.”


“I already told you, I’m not playing. I don’t care what you do. So...knock yourself out. Just be careful.”


Dean perked up noticeably. “Yeah? That a threat?”


“You wanna get us noticed by making scenes all over the place, get the wrong attention, make it impossible to get this case figured out, go ahead,” Sam said. “That’s all.”


Dean took him seriously in all the wrong ways. He took him so seriously that he pulled the same thing twice.


In retrospect, Sam realized he couldn’t remember Dean resorting to the same prank twice, ever.


Lunch, in a different diner, and the food hadn’t even arrived when Dean went right into a more histrionic version of what he’d done the day before, reaching up and back to grip the low, square top of the booth, moaning, sliding down and pulling his knees up. He tipped his head and slid his face along one raised arm, eyes on Sam the entire time. It was when Dean caught his bottom lip between his teeth and started whimpering, something meant just for Sam to hear, that Sam got up.


Sam knew Dean tended to forget how damn fast he could be, when he felt like it.


He was around the table and throwing a leg over Dean to slide into the booth and straddle him before Dean could do more than startle.


The place was silent; Sam registered that as he looked down into Dean’s startled face. Sam braced his hands on the top of the booth above Dean’s head as Dean pulled his own down. He was mostly in Dean’s lap, close enough to get body heat off him and feel him breathe, close enough to see that the shock in his eyes had a flash of something else behind it that looked like challenge but darker.


“You done?” Sam said.


Dean glanced down between them, sliding his eyes back up with the beginnings of a smirk at one corner of his mouth.


Sam shoved his hips down onto Dean’s, and the smirk vanished.


Sam got up and walked out. And kept walking.


Dean didn’t come straight after him, so he took that for what it was and headed for the library on foot.


He was careful not to think about anything but the case.


There was nothing left to do but go back to the lake and see if they could find anything – evidence of a curse, something buried in the trees, lack of animal life around one particular beach. It would be easier with an extra pair of hands, but not if those hands were Dean’s. Not for a little while.


No way he could ignore it, and no way to bring it up.


He went back to the motel to see if Dean was there. When he wasn’t, Sam sighed and waited.


Dean finally came back about three, glancing at Sam without comment, but not needing one. The instant smirk on his face had Sam on the defensive before a word was said.


“What’d you do?” Sam said.


Dean shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over a chair. “Checked out a couple miles of beach,” he said.


“By yourself,” Sam said.


“Hey, you’re the one that took off,” Dean said.


“Can’t figure out why,” Sam snapped, standing.


“Me neither,” Dean said, heading for the bathroom, ignoring the fact that Sam was right on his heels.


“You’re like a little kid,” Sam said. “You know that? Except I can’t figure out what you’re trying to get out of this.”


Dean stood in the bathroom doorway and stared at him smugly, and Sam wanted to punch him.


“Figured out what you’re getting out of it, though, huh?” Dean said with a grin. “Kind of hard to hide that.”


Sam felt himself begin to lose his temper.


“Been long enough for you that that’s all it took to get you hot and bothered?” Dean said. That tone was back, self-congratulatory and mocking. “Wow, Sam, I know I’m good, but – “


Sam didn’t let him get past that. He wouldn’t, couldn’t hear the rest of it. He shot his right hand out and got a handful of Dean’s shirt at the shoulder as well as a glimpse of the surprise on his face before he slammed Dean face-first into the wall by the tub and leaned his weight against his back. He heard the air leave Dean’s lungs and then heard him cough out a laugh, hollow in the cold acoustics of the bathroom.


“Why don’t you guess what fuckin’ movie this is from?” Sam said.


Deliverance?” Dean said.


Sam kicked Dean’s feet further apart, far enough to make it hard for Dean to get any leverage. “You always have to take things one step too far,” Sam said. He could feel adrenaline heating him up from inside as his temper rose. He felt reckless, as if he was only following Dean over a line that Dean had already crossed.


Brokeback Mountain?” Dean said. “C’mon, Sam, give me a couple more hints.”


Sam reached around and grabbed a fistful of the denim just to the right of the zipper of Dean’s jeans, and by default, the beginnings of a promising erection. Dean froze.


“How’s that for a hint?” Sam said.


He heard Dean let out the breath he’d apparently been holding. “You’re still being a little vague, Sam,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”


“You get off on pushing my buttons,” Sam said, using his free arm to brace Dean harder against the wall.


You get off on havin’ ‘em pushed,” Dean said, voice strained. He made no attempt to get free. “So what’s that make you, Sam?”


“You’ve been trying to get me to do something,” Sam said. “Is this it? Or does it need to be in public?”


He felt Dean’s cock jump against his palm, and it made the inside of his head feel seven kinds of crazy. What the fuck were they doing?


He pressed in harder without even meaning to, groin tight against Dean’s ass, and goddamnit if Dean didn’t launch into another rendition of his overdone and completely ridiculous pornstar act, grinding into Sam’s hand and yelping against the tiles. Sam wanted to kill him or fuck him or maybe both, and it didn’t matter which one was first because he came right then and there without even really moving. He cursed, lips moving against the back of Dean’s neck, and let go of Dean to slam a hand against the tiles to steady himself when the noise Dean was making got a whole different tone to it and he knew it was real that time. Dean was humping the wall, the goddamn wall, hands spread along the tiles, voice trailing into whimpers when Sam arched into him. Just that one moment of vulnerability, his cocky brother reduced to shuddering, bird-thin cries after days of smirking and thinly veiled invitation.


Sam held them both against the wall for a long moment, unwilling to step away until he knew he could stand.


“Truce?” Sam said. He didn’t know what else to say.


Dean hissed out a laugh against the tiles. “Sam,” he said, “...you don’t want one.”


“You make that stupid goddamn noise in public again, you better be ready for the consequences,” Sam said.


Dean reached back and poked Sam in the ribs. “Promise?”


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