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Of course, winning the case hadn’t been enough.
The tearful, grateful embrace of their client; the look of defeat on the defendant’s face; the satisfaction of a job well done and justice served; those little highlights were reward enough for Sam.
But never for his partner.
And so Sam found himself, yet again, overdressed and sweating in the neon lights of Brady’s favourite strip club.
“Dude, I swear I don’t know how I let you talk me into this every friggin’ time,” Sam groused, pausing to glare at the drunk guy who had just banged into his shoulder a little too hard on the way to the grimy bathroom. Brady laughed. “‘Cause I’m a master convincer, Sam. How do you think we win so many cases?”
“Yes, that’s definitely why,” Sam said sarcastically, as the earsplitting racket of Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” finished - God, how cliche could you get? - and “Thunder Kiss ‘65” started up, driving guitar chords pounding through the air.
“Jesus,” Sam said aloud. He wouldn’t mind the strip club so much if Brady didn’t have the world’s worst taste. He glanced back at his partner, who was far too close to a girl dressed - or undressed, really - as an angel, silver halo askew on her blonde head, long acrylic nails plucking at Brady’s tie.
Shaking his head, Sam turned back to the stage - and froze.
Across the club, through the smoky air and gyrating bodies, someone caught his eye.
Not a stripper, or even a waitress.
Just a guy.
The glow of the neon lights bathed his face in an unearthly glow. As Sam watched, he tilted his head, tongue working under his lower lip until his mouth pursed in a sour pout. Something about that mouth, the irritated head tilt, the upward flick of lash-heavy eyes; Sam was transfixed. He felt his pulse kick up, felt sweat prickling his neck.
They were separated by the stage, by wood and space and two girls in black vinyl boots and not much else. The guy was dressed similarly to Sam: suit and tie, clean-cut corporate figure, out for a night with the boys from the office, or maybe an adventurous client. Even as Sam watched, the stranger turned to look back at a table of men who paid him no mind, focused as they were on the swarm of half-naked girls who lingered around them like bees to expensively-dressed flowers.
Sam felt the guy’s eyes on him once more, caught a flash of tongue that slipped out to lick along those full lips. He stayed where he was, deer in headlights, as the stranger stalked through the club like a panther.
Someone touched Sam’s arm, and he blinked down at dark eyes, glitter-smudged and half-lidded. “Hey there, Tall-Dark-and-Handsome,” the stripper purred, running blood-red nails up Sam’s chest. “I’m Ruby. Looking for a dance?”
“He’s busy.” The voice, low and smooth, was just like Sam imagined. The guy was at Sam’s elbow, looking down at Ruby with distaste twisting that glorious mouth. Ruby’s own lips sneered back at him; she knew competition when she saw it, even in a customer. “Doesn’t look busy to me,” she fired back, claws still clutching at Sam’s lapel.
The guy reached out, tucking a bill into Ruby’s red lace bra. He stepped in close, leaning down to hiss in her ear. “I said he’s busy. Take the tip and get lost.”
“What, are you guys dating or something?” Ruby scoffed, snatching the bill from her cleavage and disappearing, shooting one last look over her shoulder. Sam shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain.
The guy was watching him, head tilted the same way as before. “You weren’t interested, were you?” he said, barely audible over the music. He was close; Sam smelled pine and leather, despite the guy’s sharp suit and GQ-cover look. “Not really,” Sam replied, slow and deliberate. He cast one half-assed glance around the club, but Brady - and his angel - were nowhere to be found.
“Looking for your friends?” This close, Sam could see that the eyes behind those heavy lashes were green, and there was a spray of freckles across the stranger’s nose and cheeks that would have been adorable, if he wasn’t looking at Sam like he was dinner.
“They’re not around.” Sam gathered his wits, came a half-step closer, utilizing his height. The guy dragged his gaze higher, pupils dilating as he looked up, nostrils flaring as he breathed Sam in.
Fuck. Sam had come here with Brady expecting to blow a few hundred bucks on drinks and a dance or two and leave tipsy and frustrated. Like they usually did. Not really his idea of a celebration, but it was what you did, right? He hadn’t expected this.
The guy was talking, sinful lips moving. Sam struggled to focus. “I’m Dean,” he was saying.
“Sam.” The music had changed, AWOLNATION’s “Sail” now, the sound like a heartbeat, steady and rhythmic.
Dean turned decisively, like they’d done something more concrete than give their names, and headed for the exit without looking back.
Sam followed.
They emerged into the night, ears strangely empty after the racket of the club. The breeze cooled the sweat at the back of Sam’s neck and he locked down a shiver as he followed Dean into the back of a cab. Dean gave an address to the driver and they pulled away from the curb.
The ride was silent, save for the cab driver’s dramatic phone conversation in a tongue that was both harsh and lilting. Sam avoided Dean’s eyes, felt them on him like a burning, until he was busy paying the driver and then he looked his fill, watching decadent lips and graceful hands. They slid out of the car and Dean led the way into a shiny condo building not unlike Sam’s own.
There was a couple in the elevator, the smell of liquor on them, making out against the wall. Sam and Dean stood on either side of them, watching each other in the mirror. When the couple stumbled out on the fourteenth floor, it was like they took all the air with them, and Sam struggled to breathe for another twelve floors.
He followed Dean out into the hall, waited as he unlocked the door and headed inside, slanting a look back over his shoulder; as though Sam had come this far just to chicken out and needed encouragement. He stepped through the door and closed it sharply, shutting out the light from the hall.
In the dark foyer, Sam held his breath.
When the contact came, it was quick and sharp. Hands at his shoulder and waist, pushing him back up against the wall; Sam went willingly, lowering his chin as he went to meet those sinner’s lips, just as soft and plush as he’d imagined. Dean’s fingers dug into his hair, nails scratching on his scalp, and Sam made a noise that he would have been embarrassed by, if he could have cared.
He gave back as good as he got; both hands on that sharp jaw he’d eyed in the cab, thumb sweeping up over knife’s-edge cheekbones that had caught the artificial light in the club. All angles, that pretty face under his fingers, softened solely by those pillowy lips. He bit down into that softness, taking the other man’s lower lip into his mouth, and Dean pushed their bodies together, hard flesh covered with expensive fabric.
Their feet tangled the same way as their mouths as they fought their way out of dress shoes, and then Dean was dragging Sam by his tie down the hall and into the bedroom, where open drapes let in the city lights.
Sam let himself be pushed down onto the bed, let broad hands slide his jacket off and toss it aside. Dean curled his fingers in the tie once more and tugged Sam in, standing between his open knees and plundering Sam’s mouth. Sam brushed his fingers over Dean’s as he loosened the knot of the tie, pulling it free to slide to the floor.
Dean pulled back enough to shove Sam flat onto his back. Sam went with it, so willing to be manhandled and directed. He stared up at the ceiling as hands fumbled with his belt buckle, dragged it open, unzipped his fly, and he lifted his hips when his pants were tugged down.
He raised his head to see Dean kneeling between his legs. He’d somehow managed to strip off his own jacket, tie, and shirt, all while never letting his hands be off Sam for a second. Heavy lashes quivered against those cheekbones as Dean rubbed his face against the silk of Sam’s boxers and Sam moaned without restraint, thrusting upwards.
“Gonna suck you off,” Dean breathed into Sam’s shorts, the first words they’d spoken since the club, and Sam inhaled sharply as Dean freed him from the fabric, hot breath on hot skin, and then warm wetness engulfing him and Sam strained off the mattress and heard Dean choking on his cock.
“Fuck,” Sam groaned, unable to help himself, and Dean curled a hand around the lower half of his dick in precaution, but he didn’t pull off, just let Sam fuck upward into his throat, tongue and lips working like he was getting paid. “Fuck, fuck,” Sam insisted, anything more intelligent having abandoned his brain, leaving him with only curses. Dean’s other hand curled reflexively on Sam’s hip. Sam let his own hand grip Dean’s short hair, holding him steady more than pushing him down, and felt Dean swallow around him. “Oh, fuck.”
He twisted and coiled under the onslaught, that merciless mouth bringing him to the edge in record time. Craning his neck, he caught sight of dark green eyes narrowed with intent, smouldering dark with fire. He shuddered and felt his hips twitch, orgasm tickling along his spine, and Dean caught him, held him tight in powerful hands and took him even deeper, even as his balls drew up and he exploded into that hot mouth.
Dean’s throat worked around him, swallowing everything down, letting slip gasps and grunts like a man lost in the desert handed a glass of water. Sam’s back arched against the mattress, curling like Dean had sucked his spine out through his dick, and his cry was hard enough that it went soundless.
He pawed desperately at Dean’s face as soon as he regained enough sense to move his limbs, pushing the other man away as he continued to mouth at Sam’s cock. “Jesus,” Sam rasped, voice harsh and ruined like he’d been the one to have his throat fucked, and he felt Dean’s lips curve into a smirk against his thigh.
It was another few minutes before he could drag himself into a sitting position to find Dean still kneeling at the foot of the bed, preening like a cat who’d eaten the canary. He arched an expectant eyebrow as Sam stared at him, chest still heaving. “You good?” Dean asked, more self-congratulatory than actually concerned, and Sam itched to wipe that smirk from those cocksucking lips.
He heaved himself to his feet, swinging his leg over Dean’s head, and dragged his pants and spit-wet boxers the rest of the way off. Still towering over Dean, he nudged the other man with a foot. “Strip.”
The smirk didn’t disappear, only widened, but Dean obeyed, rising to his own feet and making short work of the rest of his clothes. Both of them naked now, nothing left to hide behind: Sam admired broad shoulders, a trim waist, thick thighs and curved calves, all covered in creamy skin decorated with cinnamon freckles. It was almost innocent.
Sam stood, let Dean’s eyes rove over his own attributes - cut pecs, abs, and hips, mile-long legs, cock lying heavy and soft against his thigh, but starting to perk up again at the thoughts running through his head. They stood still for a minute, a tableau of masculine beauty, before Sam moved like a snake, lunging forward to tackle Dean onto the bed, spinning him at the last minute so he landed on his belly, Sam hard at his back.
“Hands and knees,” Sam ordered, smiling to find himself obeyed just as easily as before. Dean pulled himself up, arching his back to make his ass pop, plush and round and sweet as a peach. Sam let a growl slip out as he got his hands on those cheeks, spread them to get to the sweet pink hole and dipping down to get his mouth on it.
He let spit dribble out between his lips, soaking the cleft of the other man’s ass, until it was sloppy and messy, then he really got down to work, laving his tongue over the folds of flesh. Dean whimpered under his touch, pushing himself back against Sam’s face as Sam stiffened his tongue, fucking into Dean’s hole. He dug his fingers in deeper to Dean’s cheeks, thumbs edging alongside his tongue at the pink furl of muscle. He rubbed his chin against Dean’s taint, working out a shiver that raced along the other man’s spine at the rasp of stubble on his delicate flesh.
“Mmm,” Sam hummed loudly, unclenching his fingers from one asscheek to lay a sharp slap on the rosy skin. Dean jerked beneath him, and Sam heard precome splatter on the comforter. “God damn,” Dean ground out, hips working steadily back into Sam’s touch. “Yeah, Sam. Eat it. Eat my ass.”
Sam’s reply was another slap, on the other cheek this time, and harder. Dean keened, sinking down until his face was pushed into the mattress, ass high and sweet for Sam’s mouth. Sam dug his fingers into the same cheek, feeling the heat beneath his skin, and skated his other hand underneath to cradle Dean’s balls, hot and heavy in his hand, his lips and tongue never ceasing.
“Ungh,” Dean grunted as Sam’s hand tugged at his sack, rolling his balls between long fingers. “Fuck, Sam. Gonna come if you do that.”
Sam knew Dean could feel his smirk against his hole. He tugged again at Dean’s balls, cradling them in his hand, just rough enough. Dean’s hips lost their rhythm, faltering in their steady push against Sam’s tongue. Precome dripped down from his steadily leaking dick, slicking the way for Sam’s hand on his sack.
“Want you to come on my cock,” Sam said roughly against Dean’s ass, punctuating his words with his tongue. “Wanna fuck you when you come.”
Dean shivered violently at the words. “God, yeah,” he groaned, raising his face from the pillows. Sam raised his own face with one last lick, air cool on his wet cheeks. “Go,” he urged Dean with a smack to his ass.
Dean crawled across the bed, rummaging in the nightstand for lube and a condom, which he flung unceremoniously at Sam. “Hurry the fuck up,” he said, falling back onto the mattress and stroking his weeping dick. Sam slapped his hand away. “Not until I’m in you,” he chastised, revelling in Dean’s high, needy whine.
Sam picked up the condom - and looked firmly at Dean, then tossed it aside. He waited for Dean’s nod of acknowledgement before opening the tube of lube, squeezing a pool into his fingers. Dean spread his legs as Sam hovered over him, fingers sliding easily into Dean’s body, already wet and loose from his mouth.
He worked Dean open quickly, then slicked his cock perfunctorily. Dean made to turn back onto his hands and knees, but Sam grabbed him roughly. “No,” he said, licking at the shell of Dean’s ear. “Want you to ride me.”
“Fu-uuck,” Dean breathed, turning the word to two syllables. He pushed Sam flat on his back and straddled him quickly. “Now will you hurry up and fuck me?” he demanded, reaching back to line Sam up at his opening.
“Sure,” Sam said, hips thrusting upwards to spear Dean on his cock, sliding in smooth and slick. “Since you asked so nice.”
“Oh, God,” Dean shuddered, lowering himself until their bodies were flush. Sam wrapped his hands around Dean’s slim waist, his fingers almost touching, and fucked up into Dean’s downward thrust.
They built a rhythm, hard and punishing. Sam skidding one hand down from Dean’s waist along his thigh, flexing hard as he rode Sam’s cock, up to tug once more at his balls. Dean moaned, hips working tight circles, and Sam reared up to drag him into a bruising kiss, licking the desperate sounds from his full lips.
He got in two or three strokes to Dean’s dripping cock before the other man’s body clenched tight around him, dick spurting thick and wet, splattering Sam’s stomach and chest. “Fuck, Sam, fuck,” Dean sobbed, clinging to Sam’s shoulders as he shook through his release. “Fucking don’t stop.”
Sam fucked him hard through the aftershocks, until his own orgasm punched through him, and with a low cry he dragged Dean down hard, slamming up into him and filling him with come, until it rolled down from Dean’s sloppy hole to pool wetly in the cradle of Sam’s hips.
They clung to each other, sticky with sweat and come, chests pressed hard together. Even before they caught their breath, Sam started to laugh. Dean pulled back, watching him with a curious look. “What?”
“We picked each other up a strip club, man,” Sam snickered. “And just a regular strip club. That’s so weird.”
Dean’s lips quirked into a smile. “Who says it’s weird?” he asked lightly. “Maybe I do this kinda thing all the time? Find a sad dude in the club and take him home.”
“I wasn’t sad,” Sam protested.
Dean flexed his body around Sam, where his softening cock was still buried in him. “You didn’t look happy.”
Sam groaned, pushing helplessly up into the clutch of muscle. “I was there to celebrate a winning court case, for your information,” he said, somewhat breathlessly. “‘Course, it wasn’t really my idea of a good time.” He leaned in, tugging gently at Dean’s lower lip with his teeth.
“You look happy enough now,” Dean agreed, letting himself be kissed. “Not every day you leave the strip club happy and with a full wallet.”
“Oh, so I don’t have to pay you?” Sam teased. Dean grinned back, clenching once more around Sam’s dick. “Could if you want,” he said, wriggling his hips and grinning wider at Sam’s inhale. “I’d make sure you got your money’s worth.”