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tebtoscaTitle: Kissing in the Blue Dark
Pairing: Sam/Dean/OMC, established Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3700
Warnings: outsider POV, double penetration, current S8 canon but no real spoilers
Summary: Rick's not quite sure what to expect when he goes home with a couple of hot strangers.
Author's Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sonofabiscuit77 for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_j2_xmas exchange using the following prompt: Sam and Dean pick up a guy one night for a threesome, they have lots of good sex and he figures out that they're brothers some way or they tell him! Should be from the guy's POV
I waffled between three different stories before settling on this one (because outsider POV is fun) but if I get around to writing the other two someday, I'll dedicate them to you! Happy holidays and hope you enjoy ♥
Thanks to my darlingfiercelynormal for the speedy beta
There are a few things that Rick Mayberry knows.
One, Dora’s apple pie is better than her pecan, and it has everything to do with the cinnamon.
Two, the Redskins will always suck as long as the Cowboys exist.
And three, it takes subtlety to pick up a guy in a bar in small town, Texas.
Rick tips his head at George behind the bar, and the old man slides another shot of Patron towards him. He takes it, clicking his teeth against the slight burn as it goes down and shaking his head a little to clear it.
There’s a fellow at the end of the bar. Worn leather jacket and too many layers. He’s got a glass of Jim Beam in his hand and to most folks it would appear that he’s just another country boy out for a drink before heading home to his lady.
But Rick did two tours of duty in Iraq before a bum knee sent him back to the homestead, and he knows what a man looks like when he’s assessing the scene around him.
Leather Jacket’s eyes crinkle up at the corners when he looks around the bar with his peripheral vision, and Rick takes a moment to appreciate how handsome he is, even if it’s the type like worn-down velvet that’s been rubbed too much to ever be mistaken for new.
Rick’s not an idiot. His hometown is more don’t-ask-don’t-tell than the Army ever was, and he’s been cultivating the art of cruising for possible hook-ups since senior year of high school when Donnie Hannigan blew him behind the bleachers for a pack of Marlboros.
But then those shrewd eyes fall on him, and just for a moment they let themselves track Rick’s face and upper body in a way that Rick knows is appreciative. Rick knows he’s attractive; he keeps his beard trimmed and his hair neat and just on the flipside of regulation. His knee still aches when the first burst of winter hits, but weights are a godsend and he knows that his upper body could rival any cowboy in the joint.
Rick lets himself preen for a minute, tossing a handful of peanuts in his mouth and tilting his head back to swallow long and mildly obscene. He tips his chin back down and chances a look back at Leather Jacket.
Who is looking back, face still blank, but with fingers turning white from hanging too hard onto his glass.
Rick grabs himself a couple of beers from George, who is fortunately too busy flirting with Dora’s baby sister Marlene to notice Rick moving down the bar towards Leather Jacket. Rick plops one on the scarred up wood of the bar and slides it towards him, hand still lingering on the glass.
Rick’s just about to open his mouth and see if he’s reading the situation right when another guy comes up from the side of them. Leather Jacket goes still when he sees him, but doesn’t look like he considers him a threat.
“Dean,” the new guy says, exasperation in his voice, and Rick sweeps his eyes up his body to check out what is obviously the competition. He’s massive, a good four or five inches taller than Rick himself, with shoulders that tell Rick he could probably bench press both him and George the bartender at the same time. His hair is long and messy, the type of hair that Rick's Sergeant would have an aneurysm over, and it puts a smile on Rick’s face at the thought.
“Sammy,” Leather Jacket says back, but he’s still looking at Rick, and there’s a curl of a smile overtaking what Rick is coming to appreciate as one fucking luscious mouth.
“I don’t want to interrupt anything,” Rick says, nodding at the giant one. His hand is still curled around the bottle that he slid over to Leather Jacket—Dean—though, and the condensation is dripping over the pads of his fingertips.
Dean reaches out for the beer then, his fingers sliding past Rick’s as he takes it from his grasp. The wetness on their fingers make the glide smooth and Rick thinks there might still be promise there.
“Nothing to interrupt,” Dean says, with a shrug. Rick can practically feel the giant one flinching, and if Rick wasn’t such a sucker for a hot guy with a pretty mouth, he’d probably be back at the other end of the bar saving Marlene from George’s further advances.
“Just moving on,” Dean adds, and his eyes finally flicker over to the giant standing next to them. Dean’s shoulders are loose, his upper body fluid, but there’s a glimmer of something dark in his eyes and Rick finds himself half-hard in his jeans because of it.
Rick doesn’t expect what happens next, however.
The giant leans down into him, just close enough so that only Rick and Dean will hear him talk. His face is that same stoic blankness as Dean’s was before, and there’s something to that familiarity that Rick can’t quite place.
“Wanna come back to our room with us?” the giant one says, just loud enough, and the flare of Dean’s nostrils is the first sign all night that he’s been caught off-guard.
Rick kind of likes that look on him.
“Sure thing,” Rick answers, because, hell, why not? He’s been to war, what can these two jerks do to him except hopefully give him a few orgasms? “Sammy, is it?”
“Sam,” both the giant and Dean say at the same time, and for half a second, Dean’s smile actually looks honest.
Rick grabs his coat and follows them out the door.
***
Rick follows them in his pick-up, their sweetass ride gleaming shiny and dark in the night sky. He passes the front house of the motel at a crawl, checking to see if the lights are dim and signaling that Earl the night manager is passed out drunk as usual. Earl don’t like him much, seeing as Rick dumped his sister Debbie on junior prom night when their cousin Hank offered him a handjob in the bathroom while high on spiked and sickeningly sweet pink punch.
Earl doesn’t know about that part, but still.
They pull up to room 18 and Rick smiles because he’s been in that one a few times. Blue and white checkered quilt on the bed, courtesy of Earl’s Mama. Bathroom door opens out instead of in. Green shag carpet whose better days were when Rick was in middle school.
Rick turns off his lights and watches them get out of their ride, smoothly in sync in the way they close the car doors. Sam’s looking over at Dean with quick little glances, tic in his jaw, but Dean’s staring over at Rick with half-lidded eyes and a smirk that drips sin.
“You coming?” Dean calls out, as Rick hops out of his pick-up and shuts the door behind him.
“I sure hope so,” Rick replies with a grin, and gets a pair of eyerolls in return.
He’s not quite expecting it when Dean slams him against the motel wall as soon as the front door shuts.
Rick’s instincts take over and he goes into an offensive position even as his bum knee aches with the stress. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all.
But then Dean is rubbing one hand over the only slightly lessened bulge in Rick’s jeans, and mouthing along the side of Rick’s neck. If Rick didn’t know better, he would think the guy was scenting him.
Rick relaxes into it, keeping one focused eye over Dean’s shoulder at the way Sam is standing there watching them.
“You guys do this a lot or something?” Rick asks, feeling like he needs to know a little bit about the dynamic in play here, but Dean just squeezes Rick's dick through denim and shrugs.
“Or something,” Sam replies for them both.
Dean pulls back then, getting enough space between them for him to push Rick’s jacket off his shoulders and onto the dirty shag. His shirt goes even faster, and suddenly Rick feels just a touch too vulnerable. The air in the room is slightly chilled, and his nipples tighten into little buds as Dean skims his hands down Rick’s chest.
Dean’s hands are calloused, rough, jagged palms fit to hold weapons. Rick wants to know who he is and what he’s seen at the same time that’s he a little too afraid to ask and get an actual response.
Rick’s just leaning into those hands when Dean pulls away again and heads towards Sam. Dean doesn’t look at him though, gaze glancing to the shadows in the corner of the room, even as Sam lifts one gigantic hand of his own and palms the side of Dean’s face.
Not for the first time, Rick wonders about the nature of their relationship. There’s an obvious casual intimacy there in the way that Sam fits his grasp perfectly around Dean’s jawline. But there’s something off about it, too, like the pads of those fingers are seeking out the exact point to press to cause the most damage.
Dean pulls back and suddenly they’re like a record that just started skipping.
Rick watches as Dean sits on the edge of the bed, thick-soled boots heavy against the carpeting. Dean’s only concession to disrobing is when he strips off the layer of leather and tosses it on the dresser.
Rick knows an invitation when he sees one, and he steps forward, right into the V of Dean’s legs. Dean leans into him, running his nose along the trail of hair running into Rick’s jeans. His dick is tenting the fabric obscenely, pressing against his zipper with an angry plea for escape.
He’s about to release the pressure himself, because it’s tipping over into painful, and Rick’s not about that, but Dean beats him to the punch and gets Rick’s pants down his thighs and Rick’s cock in his fist.
“Nice,” Dean murmurs, wasting no time as he tips his head down and licks a stripe around the slit of Rick’s cock. Rick grunts into it, the sudden feeling of warm tongue against the sensitive velvet of his dick overloading his senses.
Dean gives him a few licks from root to tip, getting him wet enough so that he can fist the base of Rick’s dick in a smooth grip. He rubs those lips around the crown, just petting, teasing, before he gets some more meat in his mouth and edging into the deeper corners of his cheeks.
Rick can tell Dean’s feeling his way into things, like he hasn’t sucked a dick in a while; rusty yet enthusiastic. Rick starts to wonder what that means for whatever the thing Dean’s got going with Sam, but a couple of hard sucks puts the brakes on any deep thinking.
The only sounds in the room are the mingling of dick and spit and Rick’s own harsh breathing. Dean’s into it now; he’s found his rhythm and his nose is pressing tight around the top of his fist as he gets Rick all up in his throat. Rick dares a look down, and is a bit surprised that Dean’s eyes are wide open, staring at Sam. Watching.
Dean pulls off him, suddenly, and Rick hisses at the loss of contact. Dean stands, eye to eye, pressing his fully clothed body against Rick’s damp mostly-naked one. Rick can’t help himself, and slips his hands down around Dean’s hips, fingers daring to drag down the cleft of his ass. Rick wonders which one of them is the top. If Dean puts this tight ass to good use, or if they switch up depending on who gets their fingers in there first.
“His ass is mine,” Sam says, calmly, his first words since the first real bodily contact, and Rick’s fingers twitch against denim.
Dean glances over at Sam, pupils likes starbursts. He rubs swollen lips over the rough patch of Rick’s beard, sliding them back and forth until Rick imagines how bright red they are going to be in the morning.
“You sure about that, Sammy?” Dean asks, voice just as calm, as he rubs-rubs-rubs against the coarse hair.
Rick glances quickly over at Sam, who has the look of a wounded animal caught in a steel trap. Rick almost feels bad enough to offer his own ass to make Sam feel better.
The look doesn’t last long though, and Sam fingers at the edges of his t-shirt, twisting it around his knuckles like deciding whether to take it off is a life or death decision. He takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to steady himself, and Rick finds himself momentarily fascinated by the determined look on Sam’s face as he pulls the material off his body.
And, fuck, what a body.
Sam heads over to them, all chiseled chest and ridiculous biceps. His gaze is steady on Dean as he approaches, and Dean backs up, cursing when the backs of his legs hit the bed and he tumbles onto it.
Sam’s on Dean in an instant, thigh tucked up tight between Dean’s legs and Dean’s wrists wrapped tight in his giant paws.
Dean’s all feral cat suddenly, twisting and kicking and churning, knee trying for Sam’s gut and teeth aiming for jugular.
“Get off me,” he’s hissing, and Sam seems to suddenly realize something as a rush of what looks a little like guilt overtakes his face, and he releases Dean’s wrists. Dean uses it to his advantage and uses a practiced-looking wrestling move to get Sam flat on his back in the bed with one elbow pressed tight against Sam’s neck.
“Dean, it’s just me, it’s okay,” Sam chokes out, air wheezing out as Dean shakes his head and pulls back. He drops his head to Sam’s chest, forehead pressed against the bare skin. Sam gulps for breath even as he presses one hand to the back of Dean’s neck.
The record stops skipping when Dean lifts his head and Sam pulls him into a kiss that is just tender enough for Rick to feel a little like a voyeur.
Rick’s just standing there, dick still hard with adrenaline, slapping against his belly. He strokes it absently as he watches them kiss, blood still flowing at the sight.
Finally, Dean looks back over his shoulder at Rick, just as he pulls off his own layers of shirt. He’s not as chiseled as Sam, leaner but no less tight. He has a tattoo on his chest, a wicked looking sun shape, and Rick doesn’t know what to make of the fact that Sam has the matching set.
“C’mere,” Dean says, motioning towards the bed next to them. Dean’s straddling Sam, his ass making tiny movements over Sam’s jean-covered cock. It’s almost natural enough that he doesn’t realize he’s even doing it.
Rick figures fuck it, he’s already mostly naked and even though these two are obviously lunatics, hopefully he’ll at least get to come once or twice before they attempt to chop him up. He pulls a condom and a packet of lube out of his jeans pocket and tosses them on the bed, before pulling the material off completely and climbing on top of the blue and white quilt next to them.
Dean and Sam seem to get the same idea and manage to get the rest of their clothing off. Rick watches as Dean grabs the lube off the bed and rips it open with his teeth before reaching back and getting two thick fingers inside to open himself up.
Rick groans at the sight, stroking his dick as he watches Dean undulate. Sam’s cock is huge, blood red and delicious-looking, sliding alongside Dean’s own as Dean works himself nice and deep with tiny little grunting noises.
Dean pulls his fingers out soon after with a squelchy pop, lifting up on his knees just enough so he can grip Sam’s bare dick with sticky wet hand and guide it into himself. Sam cries out at the breech, and Dean bites at his battered bottom lip. He rocks down, inch by inch, skin on skin, until his ass is snug against Sam’s pelvis.
Rick’s not sure what his part in all this is, but he supposes getting to stroke his own dick while getting a free show is not a bad way to spend a Thursday night.
“Put that on,” Dean says, voice rough, glancing down at the condom and then at Rick’s fattened cock. Rick’s surprised at that, and Sam seems to be too by the way that his hands grip bruising tight into Dean’s hips.
“Put it on,” Dean repeats, slower, glancing down at Sam as he grinds down and then slides back up before grinding down again.
Rick doesn’t need to be told a third time, and has rubber gripping his dick faster than you can say “thank you, sweet Jesus.”
“Look at me,” Dean says, but he’s not talking to Rick. That’s okay with him though, because Rick’s dick is bumping around the stretched rim of Dean’s ass and seeking the best possible entrance.
All three of them groan as Rick finds it, the fit almost impossibly tight. He slides in while Sam’s on the outstroke, sticky lube easing the friction between latex and bare skin. Dean’s hot as a furnace inside, throbbing like a heartbeat around two dicks.
Dean tenses as Rick fits himself against his back, a motion that Rick suspects is as much of a honed reflex as his own. Rick feels when Dean lets himself relax, tilting his head just enough for Rick to get his mouth right there at the pulse point.
Rick glances over Dean’s shoulder at Sam, whose face is a mix of tight lust and pissed-off thunderstorm when he sees Rick watching him.
“Hey, over here,” Dean says, and his voice drags Sam’s eyes back to his own, away from Rick and whatever other ghosts are haunting him. Dean reaches down and takes one of Sam’s hands from their death grip on his hips, and puts it to his mouth. Rick watches over Dean’s shoulder as Dean presses Sam’s palm to his lips and kisses right in the middle. Sam’s staring at Dean’s lips, where they are meeting the meat of Sam’s palm, and his face is suddenly as open and calm as the clearing sky. Rick can see Sam’s shoulders shiver and then relax, even as his dick snaps fiercely up into Dean’s body alongside Rick’s own.
Dean’s got a hand around his own cock then, and it doesn’t take more than a dozen pulls before he’s spraying white all over Sam’s sweat-slicked chest. His ass clenches painfully around the two dicks inside, and Sam comes with a shout just as Rick feels his own orgasm fill the condom to the brim.
Rick pulls out first, and the wet glide from Sam’s come doesn’t quite lessen the burn for Dean, who grunts and collapses onto Sam’s now-filthy chest. Rick falls back alongside them, and turns his head just enough to look.
Dean is staring back at him with drowsy, half-lidded eyes. His cheeks are flushed bright pink and the spikes of his hair are wrecked. Sam brings his arms up around him in a loose cradle.
Dean smiles for just a moment, and Rick thinks it looks a little bit like something he hasn’t seen in a while.
It looks a little bit like peace.
***
“Thanks for, you know, whatever,” Rick says, lighting a cigarette and pressing it to his lips. He inhales deeply and then blows it out in the chilly night air. His limbs are loose and his body aches in the best way.
Dean huffs a laugh, reaching over to take the cigarette out of Rick’s mouth to take a drag of his own. “Never know when a guy’s going to knock your teeth out for buying him a beer in a town like this, huh?”
Rick smiles wryly. Fucker is perceptive, Rick’ll give him that.
“Where’s Sam?”
Rick spins in surprise at the unfamiliar voice. Standing uncomfortably close to them is a nondescript looking guy in a rumpled trenchcoat. His face is stoic, but his eyebrows are scrunched with a tension that makes Rick’s skin prickle. Rick backs up, but Dean doesn’t even blink, and Rick wonders how a drifter like Dean manages to have a cavalcade of guys trailing after him.
Dean sucks on Rick’s cigarette, lips still puffy from sucking dick.
Okay, maybe Rick understands a little bit.
“Heya, Cas, good of you to drop by,” Dean says, all nonchalant, nodding towards the new guy like he didn’t just show up in the middle of the night in a motel parking lot in Texas.
Trenchcoat looks less than enthused. “Get your brother. I need both of you.”
Brother? Brother?
“Brother?” Rick repeats dumbly, swinging his gaze immediately back to Dean, who drops the cigarette on the ground and stubs it out with the toe of his boot.
Dean rubs the back of his neck and glances back at the motel, the expression on his face shifting towards an odd type of sadness that Rick hasn’t seen before.
“That’s the theory,” is all Dean says. He leans over and rubs his hand once over the scruff of Rick’s cheek, fingers trailing over his jaw and down his chin. The touch is gone as quickly as it started, and with a rueful twist of a smile, Dean is heading back towards the brother that just fucked his brains out.
Rick watches until he disappears, and then realizes that the guy in the trenchcoat is nowhere to be seen.
“Huh, brothers. How about that,” Rick says to no one in particular, climbing into his pick-up. He sits there for a second, just staring at the closed door of the motel room, and surprisingly finds his spent dick taking a glimmer of interest.
Thankfully, he gets a flash in his mind of his kid brother Hal with braces and a bad bowl cut and the shudder it induces is enough to lose any erection that might have been threatening his drive home.
He wonders briefly as he pulls out of the motel lot whether or not he has any of Dora’s apple pie left in the fridge. He’s worked himself up an appetite tonight.
Pairing: Sam/Dean/OMC, established Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3700
Warnings: outsider POV, double penetration, current S8 canon but no real spoilers
Summary: Rick's not quite sure what to expect when he goes home with a couple of hot strangers.
Author's Notes: Written for
sonofabiscuit77 for the spn_j2_xmas exchange using the following prompt: Sam and Dean pick up a guy one night for a threesome, they have lots of good sex and he figures out that they're brothers some way or they tell him! Should be from the guy's POVI waffled between three different stories before settling on this one (because outsider POV is fun) but if I get around to writing the other two someday, I'll dedicate them to you! Happy holidays and hope you enjoy ♥
Thanks to my darling
fiercelynormal for the speedy betaThere are a few things that Rick Mayberry knows.
One, Dora’s apple pie is better than her pecan, and it has everything to do with the cinnamon.
Two, the Redskins will always suck as long as the Cowboys exist.
And three, it takes subtlety to pick up a guy in a bar in small town, Texas.
Rick tips his head at George behind the bar, and the old man slides another shot of Patron towards him. He takes it, clicking his teeth against the slight burn as it goes down and shaking his head a little to clear it.
There’s a fellow at the end of the bar. Worn leather jacket and too many layers. He’s got a glass of Jim Beam in his hand and to most folks it would appear that he’s just another country boy out for a drink before heading home to his lady.
But Rick did two tours of duty in Iraq before a bum knee sent him back to the homestead, and he knows what a man looks like when he’s assessing the scene around him.
Leather Jacket’s eyes crinkle up at the corners when he looks around the bar with his peripheral vision, and Rick takes a moment to appreciate how handsome he is, even if it’s the type like worn-down velvet that’s been rubbed too much to ever be mistaken for new.
Rick’s not an idiot. His hometown is more don’t-ask-don’t-tell than the Army ever was, and he’s been cultivating the art of cruising for possible hook-ups since senior year of high school when Donnie Hannigan blew him behind the bleachers for a pack of Marlboros.
But then those shrewd eyes fall on him, and just for a moment they let themselves track Rick’s face and upper body in a way that Rick knows is appreciative. Rick knows he’s attractive; he keeps his beard trimmed and his hair neat and just on the flipside of regulation. His knee still aches when the first burst of winter hits, but weights are a godsend and he knows that his upper body could rival any cowboy in the joint.
Rick lets himself preen for a minute, tossing a handful of peanuts in his mouth and tilting his head back to swallow long and mildly obscene. He tips his chin back down and chances a look back at Leather Jacket.
Who is looking back, face still blank, but with fingers turning white from hanging too hard onto his glass.
Rick grabs himself a couple of beers from George, who is fortunately too busy flirting with Dora’s baby sister Marlene to notice Rick moving down the bar towards Leather Jacket. Rick plops one on the scarred up wood of the bar and slides it towards him, hand still lingering on the glass.
Rick’s just about to open his mouth and see if he’s reading the situation right when another guy comes up from the side of them. Leather Jacket goes still when he sees him, but doesn’t look like he considers him a threat.
“Dean,” the new guy says, exasperation in his voice, and Rick sweeps his eyes up his body to check out what is obviously the competition. He’s massive, a good four or five inches taller than Rick himself, with shoulders that tell Rick he could probably bench press both him and George the bartender at the same time. His hair is long and messy, the type of hair that Rick's Sergeant would have an aneurysm over, and it puts a smile on Rick’s face at the thought.
“Sammy,” Leather Jacket says back, but he’s still looking at Rick, and there’s a curl of a smile overtaking what Rick is coming to appreciate as one fucking luscious mouth.
“I don’t want to interrupt anything,” Rick says, nodding at the giant one. His hand is still curled around the bottle that he slid over to Leather Jacket—Dean—though, and the condensation is dripping over the pads of his fingertips.
Dean reaches out for the beer then, his fingers sliding past Rick’s as he takes it from his grasp. The wetness on their fingers make the glide smooth and Rick thinks there might still be promise there.
“Nothing to interrupt,” Dean says, with a shrug. Rick can practically feel the giant one flinching, and if Rick wasn’t such a sucker for a hot guy with a pretty mouth, he’d probably be back at the other end of the bar saving Marlene from George’s further advances.
“Just moving on,” Dean adds, and his eyes finally flicker over to the giant standing next to them. Dean’s shoulders are loose, his upper body fluid, but there’s a glimmer of something dark in his eyes and Rick finds himself half-hard in his jeans because of it.
Rick doesn’t expect what happens next, however.
The giant leans down into him, just close enough so that only Rick and Dean will hear him talk. His face is that same stoic blankness as Dean’s was before, and there’s something to that familiarity that Rick can’t quite place.
“Wanna come back to our room with us?” the giant one says, just loud enough, and the flare of Dean’s nostrils is the first sign all night that he’s been caught off-guard.
Rick kind of likes that look on him.
“Sure thing,” Rick answers, because, hell, why not? He’s been to war, what can these two jerks do to him except hopefully give him a few orgasms? “Sammy, is it?”
“Sam,” both the giant and Dean say at the same time, and for half a second, Dean’s smile actually looks honest.
Rick grabs his coat and follows them out the door.
***
Rick follows them in his pick-up, their sweetass ride gleaming shiny and dark in the night sky. He passes the front house of the motel at a crawl, checking to see if the lights are dim and signaling that Earl the night manager is passed out drunk as usual. Earl don’t like him much, seeing as Rick dumped his sister Debbie on junior prom night when their cousin Hank offered him a handjob in the bathroom while high on spiked and sickeningly sweet pink punch.
Earl doesn’t know about that part, but still.
They pull up to room 18 and Rick smiles because he’s been in that one a few times. Blue and white checkered quilt on the bed, courtesy of Earl’s Mama. Bathroom door opens out instead of in. Green shag carpet whose better days were when Rick was in middle school.
Rick turns off his lights and watches them get out of their ride, smoothly in sync in the way they close the car doors. Sam’s looking over at Dean with quick little glances, tic in his jaw, but Dean’s staring over at Rick with half-lidded eyes and a smirk that drips sin.
“You coming?” Dean calls out, as Rick hops out of his pick-up and shuts the door behind him.
“I sure hope so,” Rick replies with a grin, and gets a pair of eyerolls in return.
He’s not quite expecting it when Dean slams him against the motel wall as soon as the front door shuts.
Rick’s instincts take over and he goes into an offensive position even as his bum knee aches with the stress. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all.
But then Dean is rubbing one hand over the only slightly lessened bulge in Rick’s jeans, and mouthing along the side of Rick’s neck. If Rick didn’t know better, he would think the guy was scenting him.
Rick relaxes into it, keeping one focused eye over Dean’s shoulder at the way Sam is standing there watching them.
“You guys do this a lot or something?” Rick asks, feeling like he needs to know a little bit about the dynamic in play here, but Dean just squeezes Rick's dick through denim and shrugs.
“Or something,” Sam replies for them both.
Dean pulls back then, getting enough space between them for him to push Rick’s jacket off his shoulders and onto the dirty shag. His shirt goes even faster, and suddenly Rick feels just a touch too vulnerable. The air in the room is slightly chilled, and his nipples tighten into little buds as Dean skims his hands down Rick’s chest.
Dean’s hands are calloused, rough, jagged palms fit to hold weapons. Rick wants to know who he is and what he’s seen at the same time that’s he a little too afraid to ask and get an actual response.
Rick’s just leaning into those hands when Dean pulls away again and heads towards Sam. Dean doesn’t look at him though, gaze glancing to the shadows in the corner of the room, even as Sam lifts one gigantic hand of his own and palms the side of Dean’s face.
Not for the first time, Rick wonders about the nature of their relationship. There’s an obvious casual intimacy there in the way that Sam fits his grasp perfectly around Dean’s jawline. But there’s something off about it, too, like the pads of those fingers are seeking out the exact point to press to cause the most damage.
Dean pulls back and suddenly they’re like a record that just started skipping.
Rick watches as Dean sits on the edge of the bed, thick-soled boots heavy against the carpeting. Dean’s only concession to disrobing is when he strips off the layer of leather and tosses it on the dresser.
Rick knows an invitation when he sees one, and he steps forward, right into the V of Dean’s legs. Dean leans into him, running his nose along the trail of hair running into Rick’s jeans. His dick is tenting the fabric obscenely, pressing against his zipper with an angry plea for escape.
He’s about to release the pressure himself, because it’s tipping over into painful, and Rick’s not about that, but Dean beats him to the punch and gets Rick’s pants down his thighs and Rick’s cock in his fist.
“Nice,” Dean murmurs, wasting no time as he tips his head down and licks a stripe around the slit of Rick’s cock. Rick grunts into it, the sudden feeling of warm tongue against the sensitive velvet of his dick overloading his senses.
Dean gives him a few licks from root to tip, getting him wet enough so that he can fist the base of Rick’s dick in a smooth grip. He rubs those lips around the crown, just petting, teasing, before he gets some more meat in his mouth and edging into the deeper corners of his cheeks.
Rick can tell Dean’s feeling his way into things, like he hasn’t sucked a dick in a while; rusty yet enthusiastic. Rick starts to wonder what that means for whatever the thing Dean’s got going with Sam, but a couple of hard sucks puts the brakes on any deep thinking.
The only sounds in the room are the mingling of dick and spit and Rick’s own harsh breathing. Dean’s into it now; he’s found his rhythm and his nose is pressing tight around the top of his fist as he gets Rick all up in his throat. Rick dares a look down, and is a bit surprised that Dean’s eyes are wide open, staring at Sam. Watching.
Dean pulls off him, suddenly, and Rick hisses at the loss of contact. Dean stands, eye to eye, pressing his fully clothed body against Rick’s damp mostly-naked one. Rick can’t help himself, and slips his hands down around Dean’s hips, fingers daring to drag down the cleft of his ass. Rick wonders which one of them is the top. If Dean puts this tight ass to good use, or if they switch up depending on who gets their fingers in there first.
“His ass is mine,” Sam says, calmly, his first words since the first real bodily contact, and Rick’s fingers twitch against denim.
Dean glances over at Sam, pupils likes starbursts. He rubs swollen lips over the rough patch of Rick’s beard, sliding them back and forth until Rick imagines how bright red they are going to be in the morning.
“You sure about that, Sammy?” Dean asks, voice just as calm, as he rubs-rubs-rubs against the coarse hair.
Rick glances quickly over at Sam, who has the look of a wounded animal caught in a steel trap. Rick almost feels bad enough to offer his own ass to make Sam feel better.
The look doesn’t last long though, and Sam fingers at the edges of his t-shirt, twisting it around his knuckles like deciding whether to take it off is a life or death decision. He takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to steady himself, and Rick finds himself momentarily fascinated by the determined look on Sam’s face as he pulls the material off his body.
And, fuck, what a body.
Sam heads over to them, all chiseled chest and ridiculous biceps. His gaze is steady on Dean as he approaches, and Dean backs up, cursing when the backs of his legs hit the bed and he tumbles onto it.
Sam’s on Dean in an instant, thigh tucked up tight between Dean’s legs and Dean’s wrists wrapped tight in his giant paws.
Dean’s all feral cat suddenly, twisting and kicking and churning, knee trying for Sam’s gut and teeth aiming for jugular.
“Get off me,” he’s hissing, and Sam seems to suddenly realize something as a rush of what looks a little like guilt overtakes his face, and he releases Dean’s wrists. Dean uses it to his advantage and uses a practiced-looking wrestling move to get Sam flat on his back in the bed with one elbow pressed tight against Sam’s neck.
“Dean, it’s just me, it’s okay,” Sam chokes out, air wheezing out as Dean shakes his head and pulls back. He drops his head to Sam’s chest, forehead pressed against the bare skin. Sam gulps for breath even as he presses one hand to the back of Dean’s neck.
The record stops skipping when Dean lifts his head and Sam pulls him into a kiss that is just tender enough for Rick to feel a little like a voyeur.
Rick’s just standing there, dick still hard with adrenaline, slapping against his belly. He strokes it absently as he watches them kiss, blood still flowing at the sight.
Finally, Dean looks back over his shoulder at Rick, just as he pulls off his own layers of shirt. He’s not as chiseled as Sam, leaner but no less tight. He has a tattoo on his chest, a wicked looking sun shape, and Rick doesn’t know what to make of the fact that Sam has the matching set.
“C’mere,” Dean says, motioning towards the bed next to them. Dean’s straddling Sam, his ass making tiny movements over Sam’s jean-covered cock. It’s almost natural enough that he doesn’t realize he’s even doing it.
Rick figures fuck it, he’s already mostly naked and even though these two are obviously lunatics, hopefully he’ll at least get to come once or twice before they attempt to chop him up. He pulls a condom and a packet of lube out of his jeans pocket and tosses them on the bed, before pulling the material off completely and climbing on top of the blue and white quilt next to them.
Dean and Sam seem to get the same idea and manage to get the rest of their clothing off. Rick watches as Dean grabs the lube off the bed and rips it open with his teeth before reaching back and getting two thick fingers inside to open himself up.
Rick groans at the sight, stroking his dick as he watches Dean undulate. Sam’s cock is huge, blood red and delicious-looking, sliding alongside Dean’s own as Dean works himself nice and deep with tiny little grunting noises.
Dean pulls his fingers out soon after with a squelchy pop, lifting up on his knees just enough so he can grip Sam’s bare dick with sticky wet hand and guide it into himself. Sam cries out at the breech, and Dean bites at his battered bottom lip. He rocks down, inch by inch, skin on skin, until his ass is snug against Sam’s pelvis.
Rick’s not sure what his part in all this is, but he supposes getting to stroke his own dick while getting a free show is not a bad way to spend a Thursday night.
“Put that on,” Dean says, voice rough, glancing down at the condom and then at Rick’s fattened cock. Rick’s surprised at that, and Sam seems to be too by the way that his hands grip bruising tight into Dean’s hips.
“Put it on,” Dean repeats, slower, glancing down at Sam as he grinds down and then slides back up before grinding down again.
Rick doesn’t need to be told a third time, and has rubber gripping his dick faster than you can say “thank you, sweet Jesus.”
“Look at me,” Dean says, but he’s not talking to Rick. That’s okay with him though, because Rick’s dick is bumping around the stretched rim of Dean’s ass and seeking the best possible entrance.
All three of them groan as Rick finds it, the fit almost impossibly tight. He slides in while Sam’s on the outstroke, sticky lube easing the friction between latex and bare skin. Dean’s hot as a furnace inside, throbbing like a heartbeat around two dicks.
Dean tenses as Rick fits himself against his back, a motion that Rick suspects is as much of a honed reflex as his own. Rick feels when Dean lets himself relax, tilting his head just enough for Rick to get his mouth right there at the pulse point.
Rick glances over Dean’s shoulder at Sam, whose face is a mix of tight lust and pissed-off thunderstorm when he sees Rick watching him.
“Hey, over here,” Dean says, and his voice drags Sam’s eyes back to his own, away from Rick and whatever other ghosts are haunting him. Dean reaches down and takes one of Sam’s hands from their death grip on his hips, and puts it to his mouth. Rick watches over Dean’s shoulder as Dean presses Sam’s palm to his lips and kisses right in the middle. Sam’s staring at Dean’s lips, where they are meeting the meat of Sam’s palm, and his face is suddenly as open and calm as the clearing sky. Rick can see Sam’s shoulders shiver and then relax, even as his dick snaps fiercely up into Dean’s body alongside Rick’s own.
Dean’s got a hand around his own cock then, and it doesn’t take more than a dozen pulls before he’s spraying white all over Sam’s sweat-slicked chest. His ass clenches painfully around the two dicks inside, and Sam comes with a shout just as Rick feels his own orgasm fill the condom to the brim.
Rick pulls out first, and the wet glide from Sam’s come doesn’t quite lessen the burn for Dean, who grunts and collapses onto Sam’s now-filthy chest. Rick falls back alongside them, and turns his head just enough to look.
Dean is staring back at him with drowsy, half-lidded eyes. His cheeks are flushed bright pink and the spikes of his hair are wrecked. Sam brings his arms up around him in a loose cradle.
Dean smiles for just a moment, and Rick thinks it looks a little bit like something he hasn’t seen in a while.
It looks a little bit like peace.
***
“Thanks for, you know, whatever,” Rick says, lighting a cigarette and pressing it to his lips. He inhales deeply and then blows it out in the chilly night air. His limbs are loose and his body aches in the best way.
Dean huffs a laugh, reaching over to take the cigarette out of Rick’s mouth to take a drag of his own. “Never know when a guy’s going to knock your teeth out for buying him a beer in a town like this, huh?”
Rick smiles wryly. Fucker is perceptive, Rick’ll give him that.
“Where’s Sam?”
Rick spins in surprise at the unfamiliar voice. Standing uncomfortably close to them is a nondescript looking guy in a rumpled trenchcoat. His face is stoic, but his eyebrows are scrunched with a tension that makes Rick’s skin prickle. Rick backs up, but Dean doesn’t even blink, and Rick wonders how a drifter like Dean manages to have a cavalcade of guys trailing after him.
Dean sucks on Rick’s cigarette, lips still puffy from sucking dick.
Okay, maybe Rick understands a little bit.
“Heya, Cas, good of you to drop by,” Dean says, all nonchalant, nodding towards the new guy like he didn’t just show up in the middle of the night in a motel parking lot in Texas.
Trenchcoat looks less than enthused. “Get your brother. I need both of you.”
Brother? Brother?
“Brother?” Rick repeats dumbly, swinging his gaze immediately back to Dean, who drops the cigarette on the ground and stubs it out with the toe of his boot.
Dean rubs the back of his neck and glances back at the motel, the expression on his face shifting towards an odd type of sadness that Rick hasn’t seen before.
“That’s the theory,” is all Dean says. He leans over and rubs his hand once over the scruff of Rick’s cheek, fingers trailing over his jaw and down his chin. The touch is gone as quickly as it started, and with a rueful twist of a smile, Dean is heading back towards the brother that just fucked his brains out.
Rick watches until he disappears, and then realizes that the guy in the trenchcoat is nowhere to be seen.
“Huh, brothers. How about that,” Rick says to no one in particular, climbing into his pick-up. He sits there for a second, just staring at the closed door of the motel room, and surprisingly finds his spent dick taking a glimmer of interest.
Thankfully, he gets a flash in his mind of his kid brother Hal with braces and a bad bowl cut and the shudder it induces is enough to lose any erection that might have been threatening his drive home.
He wonders briefly as he pulls out of the motel lot whether or not he has any of Dora’s apple pie left in the fridge. He’s worked himself up an appetite tonight.
