Title: Plausible Deniability
By: veradeath
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not in any way own these characters.
Summary: There's this thing they do.


There's this thing they do.

They don't do it often, just whenever they've both had enough Tequila. Enough to see the worm. They don't do it outside their room at all. Plausible deniability and all that. Just don't tell the other that. They like to think the other doesn't understand. They pretend it doesn't happen.

When you've been raised to lie as easily as breathing, lying to the person closest to you is the ultimate challenge. With them, the stakes are even higher.

Then, after they're drunk as skunks, and only then, with the tangy bite of alcohol and befuddled senses they grope and grind against each other, clothes coming off and spit in strategic places. They switch off the fucking.

When Dean fucks, he likes to press down, holding Sam in place, sometimes biting at the back of his brother's neck, rough and tender. It's just another thing that doesn't make sense.

When Sam fucks, he likes to talk dirty, the filth coming out of his mouth enough to make a sailor blush scarlet. Sam doesn't bite, but he scratches bluntly, painting his brothers skin with wide red welts. Art is subjective.

They never say the 'L' word. All the jokes, the planning, the meaningless and laden banter and 'love' is still the hardest thing they could ever try to say. Fear of rejection can do that to a person.

Sam has left and will again, Dean can't stand emotional venerability. Excuses, lies and half-truths. Story of their lives.

They don't make love but they do fuck. It's the hottest sex they've ever had.

It will go like this:

Sam arching beneath him, his face painted with orgasm, breathing heavy and full. Sweat dripping on him, in him. A clenching ring of muscle pulling his own orgasm from him, Sam pinching his nipples, kissing him, with teeth and tongue and lips.

Orgasm making them tired and boneless, they'll collapse together, sleeping off Tequila and sex spooned together.

One of them will wake first, will look at the other's sleeping form and want more than he could ever have. He'll go take a shower, the water pounding, searing into him reminding him to be grateful for what he does have. The trickling rain of the shower will wake the other, giving him a start, reminding him not to hope.

They will shower, dress and begin the day's hunt. They don't talk about it. They never do. They know that one will leave, will leave them. If it's not acknowledged, not real, then it's like it never happened. These are the lies they tell themselves.

So, Dean drives into Sam, Sam moaning with rapture, Dean biting and sucking at his brother's neck, thrusting into Sam's prostate, rough hand wrapped around his dick, pumping with quick, hard strokes, determined not to think about anything other than the here and now.

It's just this thing they do when they feel the urge, when they have Tequila.

They only have each other. They only have now.