MoragMacpherson (moragmacpherson) wrote,
MoragMacpherson
moragmacpherson

Fic: Wedding Crashed (Supernatural, NC-17, Sam/Dean) for Kalliel (coauthored with dragonspell)

Title: Wedding Crashed
Authors: moragmacpherson and dragonspell
Betas: Many thanks for the group efforts of callowyn, sistabro and jaimeykay.
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Slash, PWP
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 9,780
Timeline: Season six, post "Like a Virgin" but prior to "Frontierland"
Disclaimer: Supernatural is the property of Eric Kripke and the CW and their associated corporate identities
Contents include: See listings above, also, graphic sexual content, established relationship, sartorial-kink like whoa, multiple sexual situations with varying degrees of consent, ,gen and non-gen breathplay
Authors' notes: Written for kalliel for her birthday -- she was such a good sport about me hitting all of her squicks back on Valentine's Day that we figured she deserved a special treat for her birthday. Happy belated birthday, hon: we hope you enjoy this!
Summary: It all comes back to this: Dean's groin feels like it’s on fire, his throat’s covered in a necklace of bruises, and he never wants to move again.



Dean's groin feels like it’s on fire, his throat’s covered in a necklace of bruises, and he never wants to move again. That is, he can’t move without at least four body parts protesting loudly, but given he just got thrown into a dumpster by hired goons, getting out is a pretty high priority. He can’t even take comfort in some good old-fashioned cussing: even if his recently-strangled throat could manage more than a rough squeak right now, all he'd get for his troubles would be a mouthful of garbage. He can hear Sam on the other side of the metal wall yelling "Dean—Dean, you okay?" and Dean bangs his hand against the side of the dumpster in reply, trying not to breathe too deeply.

Of course, his fucking cuff link bites into the soft part of his wrist. Dean yelps, "Fuck," at this latest injury, then spits furiously. "Fuck—I jus'th cu' my 'ongue on—oh, fucking groth, ge' me out of here!" Dean latches onto his brother's blindly seeking hand and tries to find a way to maneuver out of the dumpster without causing further injury to his poor, abused, defenseless cock and balls.

Dean's halfway out of the dumpster when the bullets start to fly, and Sam puts his muscles to good use hauling them both around to the other side, out of the line of fire. Sam grins, still obnoxiously well-dressed and not covered in garbage. "Looks like the Texas contingent just figured out what I was up to." Sam peeks around the corner, and Dean bites back another yelp as Sam pulls him to his feet by a very bruised elbow. "Go, go!"

The groundskeepers at the Shinoda estate do fine work, and while the freshly-watered lawn is slippery as hell in these stupid shoes, there are plenty of shrubs, stone lanterns, fake hills, and the odd animal-shaped topiary to duck behind on their way to the fence. "Nexth 'ime, we're gonna wear cowboy-chique, Shammy," Dean rasps as Sam leads them through some kind of sand-garden pit. It feels like he's got a beach in his low-top shoes. This shit would not be happening in cowboy boots. They jump another row of shrubbery and make a break for the fence. Dean yanks off his ruined Zegna jacket and tosses it over the spikes. Even with the cloth to protect his hands, it hurts—who the fuck actually sharpens the spikes on their wrought-iron fence? Gomez Addams and Tsuyoshi Shinoda, apparently. Dean makes sure to keep his legs together as he swings over them.

Dean holds back a laugh from the far side of the fence when Sam's weight proves too much for the ultra-fine wool he'd forced Dean to wear. "Oww!" Sam shouts as he falls the rest of the way down, landing flat onto his back with a grunt.

"C'mon, man," Dean whispers, pulling Sam to his feet. The Impala's just across the street, which is a damn good thing because now Sam's limping too. Seriously, kicking a man’s balls is low even for hired goons. "Should've thrown your jacke' over mine," he says. It’s less funny now that he can see the gouge on Sam’s leg starting to soak his expensive pants with blood.

"Yeah, except the things in my jacket pockets are kind of important, and somebody wanted to make cheap jokes about cummerbunds the whole night, so I don’t have a waistcoat to put them in," Sam snaps back.

Both Dean’s throat and the paper cut on his tongue really fucking hurt, so he doesn’t bother answering, even though the jokes were totally worth it. He pulls his keys out of the handy pocket in his vest—Sam can call it whatever the fuck he wants, a vest is a vest—and shoves the key into the ignition. The Texans are still shooting, but thankfully aren't sober enough to hop the fence; the Yakuza bastards, who look a lot more limber, are only just now beginning to cross the lawn. Dean turns the engine over, ignoring the pain in his wrist and pretty much everywhere else in his body, and slides into the driver's seat.

Sam has barely slammed the passenger door shut when Dean puts her into gear and speeds them off into the night, lights off until they hit the highway. Once they're safely and anonymously on their way back to base in Santa Carla, Dean flicks the headlights on and reaches into the other handy pocket of his vest to pull out his flask. He cranks the window down, unscrews the cap, and takes a long swig, swishing it around his mouth and gargling it at the back of his throat. The bourbon burns like a motherfucker at first, but does the job. He spits it out the window.

Sam's wearing an impressive bitch-face as he lunges for the flask. "Drinking while driving, Dean? That's a new low."

Dean lets Sam take the flask—little bitch can screw the cap on while Dean concentrates on the road—but brushes Sam's hand away from the wheel. "Sham! Sh'op tha'!" He leaves the windows down because he smells worse than Sam after a night of burritos at Taco Bell. "Firs' off: no' drinking, shpidding. Had ta ge' tha' thaste outta my mouth." He pauses and slides the tip of his tongue along his palette before continuing, "Also, now it hurts less." Less than his throat does, or his pulverized nutsack, but at the moment Dean’s more concerned with how shiny Sam's left pant leg's getting under the passing streetlamps while Sam's sitting there like a moron, staring at him. Dean clears his throat, regrets it, then says, "You're bleeding."

"And you smell like a hobo. Is today Obvious Day?" Sam’s forehead is furrowed with pain, but he finally covers the wound with his hand.

Dean scowls at him. "I guess it is, seeing as you weren't bothering to put pressure on that cut until just now." He waves his hand at Sam's waist. "Use your cummerbund as a tourniquet, would you? You’re dripping on the seat." Dean can't help himself: despite the beating, the choking, and the possibility that Sam's seriously and permanently fucked his leg up on this job, Dean cracks the same smile he always gets whenever he says 'cummerbund'.

Sam tightens his grip on his thigh and glares at Dean—he probably knows exactly why Dean's grinning. "My cummerbund alone," he mutters, rushing through the word, "would pay for a professional detailer—twice."

"Yeah, well, jacket will take care of the funeral expenses if you fuck up my car, but I'd rather not watch you bleed out right now." Dean sticks a bruised elbow into Sam's ribs. "Off with it."

"It's just a scratch," Sam grumbles, but he's shifting in his seat and reaching back under his jacket. He leans over and looks down. "You just didn't want to have to try to get it off me yourself." Dean snorts, but admits to himself that the knot in the cummerbund had looked a little tricky while Sam was dressing.

Heh. Cummerbund.

~*~


"I have a task for you," Castiel said, appearing in their Santa Carla motel room.

Dean sighed. "Can it wait a second?" They'd just finished clearing out a vampire nest from the bluffs south of the beach, and Dean wanted nothing more than a shower and a bed.

Unfortunately, this was once again too much to ask. Castiel remained, looking them both over. "You'll need to go to Los Angeles in the morning and obtain formal wear," he said.

Dean blinked, flopping down into a chair. "Why?"

Castiel pulled an envelope out of his pocket, considered handing it to them, then placed the creamy paper on the nightstand instead. "I need you to attend the wedding reception of Chiharu Shinoda and Morgan Everett Rove at the Shinoda Estate outside of Santa Barbara on Friday evening. It will be a black tie event. None of the clothing in your bags is suitable for the occasion." He reached into his pocket again, this time removing a black card, which he set on top of the envelope with a metallic—not plastic—thwap. "Balthazar assures me that this card will take care of any expenses you'll incur."

Dean gave his brother a look—Sam's eyes had gone as wide as his—before settling his gaze back on Cas. "Not that we wouldn't be pleased as punch to share in the joy of... whatever you just said, but why the hell do we need to go their reception?"

Castiel's eyes gleamed. "The Rove family will be gifting Miss Shinoda with Edgar Allan Poe's pen and notebook, which has been in their possession for at least the last decade." Both Winchesters stared at him blankly. "She's a fan of Romantic poetry." The blank stares continued. "Poe's pen and notebook are powerful heavenly weapons and this will be our best chance to retrieve them."

Dean leaned forward. "Edgar Allan Poe's notebook?"

"And pen, yes."

"Are powerful heavenly weapons?" repeated Dean.

Castiel furrowed his brow. "Mr. Poe was a prophet." He paused. "Sort of."

Sam scratched at a patch of dried blood on his jaw. "How can someone be a prophet, sort of?"

"He was meant to be a prophet, but something... went wrong." Castiel shrugged. "You'd have to ask Balthazar to explain exactly what. He has been strangely unwilling to say."

Sam got a funny constipated look on his face, then recited, "'Wretch, thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee; Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!"

Castiel got a wry smile on his face. "It wasn't actually nepenthe, it was morphine and possibly absinthe, but yes, you've got the basic idea."

"College-boy," muttered Dean as Sam beamed. "Why can't Balthazar go in and grab the notebook?"

"And pen." Castiel grimaced. "The Rove family is... quite devout; attempting to steal them from their property would draw Raphael's attention to the existence of the artifacts. Mr. Shinoda and his daughters are also devout, in their own way, and several baku accompanied them when they emigrated from Japan to this country, rendering the estate off-limits to both angels and demons."

"But baku are nightmare eaters," said Sam.

"Apparently they've become... disoriented during their journey and are mistaking us for dreams and nightmares. Their bites, however, remain quite potent. But they pose no risk to you: hence, Balthazar has provided this token for your troubles." Castiel's gaze darted between them before settling on Dean. "I would consider it a personal favor."

Dean already owed the angel several. "Fine, we'll go to the dog and pony show," he said. Castiel nodded and fluttered away, allowing Dean to turn to Sam and ask, "Did that look like a Black AmEx card to you?"

Sam's long legs carried him over to the nightstand in two steps. "It's titanium!" he announced, but Dean had taken the opportunity to claim the first shower.

Which didn't prevent Sam from being entirely too perky in the morning, especially considering that he'd spent half the night typing away at his laptop. "Park here," he insisted shortly after they reached Beverley Hills.

"Why? The Armani place is across town."

"But the Zegna boutique is two blocks from here."

Dean raised an eyebrow at the word 'boutique' coming out of Sammy's mouth, but asked, "What the hell is a Zegna? You do realize we have a black AmEx card, right? We should go full out."

Sam just shook his head. "Oh, Dean—trust me, we're gonna need the black card for Zegna. Besides, it'll help us look like we're with the bride's side of the family—he's very big in Japan right now."

"Like Hansel?" Dean snarked.

"Exactly like Hansel, jerk." Sam drummed on the dashboard while they waited for the valet to come out of his little booth. "You have no idea what we're walking into, do you?"

Dean stepped out of the Impala and stared down the valet, pitching his voice low. "A single ding, one extra tenth of a mile on the odometer: I will know." With that, he turned his glare to his brother. "Care to share with the class?"

Sam was practically dancing with every step down the sidewalk. "The Shinoda family are heavily involved in the Yakuza."

Dean blinked. "Castiel's sending us to a mob wedding."

"Yep. Not to mention that the Roves—"

"You're kidding."

Sam snorted. "Distant cousin, but yeah, those Roves. Most of the groom's party will be from Texas."

"So why aren't we dressing like them?"

"Because their bodyguards will be drunk and the Yakuza guys won't be. Who would you rather have to blend in with?"

Dean thought this through. "Considering our heritage, the Texans would be easier—"

"We'll look like business associates," chirped Sam.

They'd reached the Zegna store and Dean looked in the window. He promptly turned around. "The Texans would get to wear cowboy boots and shit, right?"

Sam grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him in close. "Come on, Dean—back when I was thinking about being a lawyer, Zegna suits were part of the daydream. Besides," and he nudged his hips into Dean's, "You'll look amazing in it." Sam blushed a little and brushed his hair back from his face.

Sam still said shit like that every once in a while, fumbling compliments like they were a couple of teenagers on their way to prom instead of, well, brothers fucking. It took Dean by surprise every time. "You know I hate these fucking penguin suits," he grumbled, but he didn’t resist when Sam dragged him inside. Any dismay from the snooty clerks at their initial appearance was pushed aside when Dean, with a whopper of a grin on his face, showed them the black AmEx. Suddenly the head tailor had Dean stripped down to his skivvies while he and Sam chatted like a pair of fucking hens.

"Head to toe for an evening reception, absolutely, and such a marvelous form to work with. A forty-two long for the coat, yes, and a thirty-two thirty-four—no, six, must account for the bow in the legs while dancing and sitting," said the tailor. He had yet to touch Dean or pull out a measuring tape, but he was balls-on accurate and Dean felt his own balls shriveling in response to the man's scrutiny. He'd felt less violated by clerks who got handsy measuring his inseam.

"Single-breasted with a waistcoat, if you could, Mr. Ziegler," said Sam, winking at Dean. "It'll make him look taller."

“Bitch,” Dean shot back, then realized how loud he'd sworn, but Mr. Ziegler wasn’t paying attention.

"Certainly, yes, I have just the thing..." and then the tailor was wandering into the back, mumbling to himself.

"What the fuck is going on here?" hissed Dean as soon as Ziegler was out of earshot.

Sam smirked. "You’re gonna be the prettiest princess at the ball."

Dean gritted his teeth. "You’re the one who wanted to play dress-up, Samantha. And don’t forget I get to pick what you’re wearing."

Sam's eyes narrowed but the smile remained. "Do your worst. It'll still be Zegna." He leans in, dropping his voice so only Dean can hear him. "Better choose carefully, Dean, cause I don’t intend to take my suit off before I fuck you so hard you come all over yours."

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean hissed, trying to will away his sudden hard-on before the old man started groping him. Sam stepped back, still grinning evilly as Ziegler emerged from the back room, arms piled high with his selections.

Dean gave a silent prayer of thanks when Sam and the tailor agreed that the first choice couldn't be improved upon—Dean would put up with some of Sam's whims, but he wasn't a fucking Ken doll. "What's with the vest?" he asked Sam after the pins were set and Zeigler had wandered off to find appropriate cuff links, shoes, and everything else required to complete the 'ensemble'.

"Waistcoat," Sam corrected, adjusting Dean's tie while his other hand lingered on Dean's shoulder. Dean was pretty sure the way Sam’s fingers kept brushing against his neck was deliberate. "It's not so bad, right?"

Dean checked himself out in the mirror. "Comfier than that get-up Bela had me in," he allowed. "He's not going to put me in a top hat, is he? Because I have lines."

Sam's lips quirked to the side; Dean felt a responding twitch under his new pants. "No hats," he murmured before stepping away and shrugging off his own shirt, starting to undress.

Dean was totally unsurprised that the shoes, socks, and belt all fit perfectly. Ziegler shooed him off the pedestal while motioning for Sam to step up. Dean turned his back and slipped out of the trousers, the expensive wool sliding smoothly down his legs; his jeans were a lot tighter going back on than they had been coming off.

"Now, for you, sir: with these time limits and your proportions—my, it's been ages since I've had a gorgeous pair like you in a single afternoon, and with carte blanche no less—but our options are slightly more limited than they were for your partner. Still, I have some hopes for this selection." To Dean's disappointment, Sam was already pulling up the trousers by the time he had himself tucked in and decent.

Dean leaned against the wall and let Ziegler do his work until he handed Sam a black vest almost identical to the one Dean had worn. "No, no," said Dean, limply laying his hand over Ziegler's wrist. "My partner's tall enough. I think I'd prefer him in a cummerbund."

Ziegler paused and adjusted his glasses, looking at Dean's hand then Sam's waist and then Dean's hand again. "Well, I suppose, yes, it would be acceptable with this style—and with such a trim waist—let me—" and he was off again. Dean grinned at Sam’s reflection.

"You're just doing this because you like saying 'cummerbund,' aren't you, asshole?" whispered Sam, flushed and glaring. Dean stuck his tongue out in response. "I like waistcoats—and they've got pockets. You don’t think we might want pockets for our plans this evening?"

“Aw, Sammy.” Dean strolled around behind Sam's back to lean on the other side of the fitting room, pausing to give Sam's ass a quick slap—it did look fantastic in those pants. "How can you come without a cummerbund?"

“Oh my god, why do I even know you,” Sam groaned, with a bitchface that said Dean wouldn't be getting any help with the tight jeans after this. Dean didn't care: the look on Sam's face was worth it.

~*~


Sam's four hundred-dollar cummerbund is now a four hundred-dollar tourniquet, but looking at the small pool of blood in the footwell while helping Sam out of the car, Dean still thinks it's worth it. (He does curse the fact that Balthazar had shown up to sign for their eighteen grand in purchases and confiscated the card, but at least this way they'll both live to curse that another day.) "C'mon, Sasquatch, just a couple more steps and we're golden."

He can feel Sam's hesitation, so he pushes his shoulder up under Sam's armpit. "Dean, you're in way worse shape—" he says, wrinkling his nose and gagging a little.

"Just work with me here." Dean’s nearly gagging from the smell too, but Sam can suck it up; he’s not the one with fish guts in his hair. Together they stumble the few feet to the door.

Sam leans against the jamb while Dean unlocks the door. "Shit, Dean, your neck..." he murmurs, reaching his hand out, but Dean waves it off.

"Inside first, then pants off," he rasps. He’s in too much pain to summon the usual leer. Sam nods and staggers inside, tossing his jacket onto the bed on his way to the medkit. The pen and notebook tumble out of the pocket and onto the floor, but Dean doesn't give a shit about them at the moment.

Sam hears him coming up from behind and shakes his head. "Shower first, Dean—I'm gonna hurl if you get any closer."

"Classy," mutters Dean, changing his course and turning towards the bathroom while toeing off his shoes. "You're sure—"

"I know how to dress a puncture wound, Dean. So wash up and shut up—I don't know how you're talking at all right now with those bruises. I'll be right behind you."

If the marks on his throat have Sam this freaked, then he'll flip his shit if he gets a look at the no-doubt epic swelling and bruising between Dean’s legs. And injuries have never stopped Sam from checking him out before, the little pervert. Dean darts back to his duffel and grabs a clean pair of boxers, dashing into the bathroom and shutting the door most of the way. He strips in a hurry and gets behind the the curtain seconds before Sam enters.

"I don't hear any water," grumbles Sam, dropping down the toilet lid and sitting down with a groan.

"Working on it," says Dean. He peeks around the curtain after fumbling with faucet handles, clutching the shower curtain against his chest. Sam's legs stretch out for miles and his left calf is caked with dried blood, but the puncture—above the knee, thank god—is just a tiny speck on Sam's broad thigh. "No artery?" he grits out.

"No spray, just deep," agrees Sam. He pulls a washcloth off the rack and hands it to Dean. "Get this wet for me, would ya? Don't feel like lurching for the sink." Dean steps back so that only clean water soaks the fabric, then hands it back. "Thanks."

Dean nods, forgetting that Sam can't see him, and immediately regretting the way it makes his neck twinge. He squeezes out the cheap hotel shampoo, ducking his head under the water and scrubbing as hard and fast as his various bruises will allow. Mostly, though, he's forced to let the water pressure do the work. But that takes time, and Sam's got nimble fingers with plenty of practice at dressing punctures, so he’d better come up with a better plan before—

"Dean—fuck, did they use hammers?" Sam whispers behind him.

Dean jumps and turns around, still too-conditioned from months of soulless-ness. Sam's right behind him, his right leg in the tub and left leg out, keeping the clean white dressing dry. "Get outta here, you're gonna slip," Dean mutters, pushing at Sam's now-glistening chest. "I've had worse."

“Those guys beat the shit out of you.” Sam presses gently right below Dean’s jaw, the fading hickey from a few days ago now completely overtaken by the bruise Dean can feel forming. Sam clenches his own jaw, eyes darkening.

“I’m fine, Sammy,” Dean insists. But he doesn't have the strength to shove Sam back when Sam grabs hold of him by the hips. He strokes one thumb along Dean's hip bone, unwrapping a tiny bar of soap with his other hand.

"Let me," he says, and Dean does. Sam's soapy caresses are slow and gentle over Dean's bruised throat and ribs; his long, clever fingers stroke tenderly through Dean's hair, testing for bumps first before massaging Dean's scalp in firm circles. Dean whimpers at the touches and leans his forehead into Sam's shoulder. Sam’s grip tightens. "I should have—"

"We got the job done," whispers Dean, the 'done' coming out as a pained squeak because Dean's cock is officially recognizing this attention and that's really the last thing Dean needs, because then Sam's going to return the attention and—

"Jesus, you took a groin shot too?" says Sam, and Dean shudders and stumbles back.

He looks up at Sam through the spray and his brother looks like he's the one who got kicked in the nuts tonight. Sure enough, Sam's dick, which had been throbbing against Dean's thighs a few moments ago, is now dangling limply. Dean forces himself to smile. "Mobsters these days, they just don't have standards anymore."

"You should have told me,” Sam says. “I need to get you an ice pack." He glances up at Dean's neck, and an odd look passes over his face. "Two of 'em," he adds.

Dean chokes out a little laugh. "Should know better than to let trophy wives drag me off to someplace a little more private. Trouble, all of ‘em."

Sam starts to stumble out of the tub, but Dean catches him before he can, pulling their chests back together. He leans his head back into the curve of Sam's neck. "It can wait a little more." Sam wraps his arms gingerly around Dean's back and Dean shivers. "Just give me a second here."

~*~


Dean had to give Sam and Castiel some credit: all of their research into the Shinoda-Rove wedding paid off. The guards at the door didn't give them a second glance, just patted them down, walked them through a metal detector, and barely even looked at the fake ID's Sam had whipped up that afternoon to go with the invites Cas had so handily provided. The hostess checked them off the guest list with a delighted smile. "Mister Ulrich and guest?" she read off the invite, then started eye-fucking Sam for all she was worth.

"That's us," Dean growled, keeping himself from grabbing Sam's arm possessively—he had a role to play here, and he had to play it straight. Dean couldn't blame the girl, anyway: somehow Sam managed to make even a dorky cummerbund look hot as hell, and Dean was already making plans for that night.

“Go ahead in,” said the hostess, and Dean could see her turn to check out Sam’s ass as they passed.

"You sure I'm the one who should be playing the distraction?" he whispered to Sam as they entered the Grand Hall.

"You're the pretty one," Sam replied, clapping Dean on the shoulder. "Now go cause a scene with some busty Asian beauties—but start small, I've got a lot of art to appreciate before I can peruse the gifts."

Dean rolled his eyes while Sam walked off, plucking a champagne flute off a tray like he owned the place, like he belonged here. He'd spent the whole drive down schooling Dean over and over again about how to pronounce the Shinoda's names—Sam even had that 'r/l' sound right. Sam’s ambitions of success as a lawyer in California had obviously been more elaborate than just thinking about what kind of penguin suits he'd be wearing.

Dean, meanwhile, tried to resist the urge to tear off his bowtie then and there. He grabbed his own glass of champagne and as many stuffed mushrooms as he could legitimately hold—he didn't know what they were stuffed with, but it was amazing. He finished off a handful of them as he lurked behind a potted plant and a bust of some angry samurai, taking his time to scan the crowd.

Besides the bridal party, the Rove's Texan guests were the easiest to pick out: the men's cowboy boots (with heels!) gave them away. A fair majority of the other men seated closest to the high table were wearing suits that Dean recognized from the Zegna shop, including a number of people who might also be 'business associates'. Dean grinned to himself. His eventual targets, the bridesmaids, all wore brightly-colored kimonos whether they knew how to walk in the damn things or not: two of them definitely needed more practice. He'd give them a little more time: Sam wanted him to start small.

Gulping down the last of his champagne, Dean walked over to a pretty redhead in an inappropriate green cocktail dress who would look better if she'd worn no-run mascara. Her date—one of the business associates—had shoved her away and stalked off during the last dance. Dean pasted on a smile and laid his hand beside hers on the table. "Pardon me, Miss, but I was wondering if you'd like to dance?"

Two hours, three glasses of champagne, two shots of sake, and about forty hors d’oeuvres later, Dean didn't even have to loosen his own tie: Nobuko Shinoda did it for him. "Um," he said as she deftly pulled the silk ends free, her long nails trailing over his Adam's apple. “What are you doing?”

"What every other woman in this room has wanted to do since you walked into it," Nobuko purred into his ear. "Including my sister, who's looking like she's regretting those vows she took this afternoon already."

Dean laughed and dipped Nobuko down low; able to do so only because she was the first of the bridesmaids who wore her kimono like she'd been born to it and wouldn't wind up flopping onto the floor. She giggled and shut her eyes, giving Dean the chance to scan the room once more. Sam was by the gifts table, talking to a middle-aged woman with an ozone-annihilating hair-do over some hideous crystal creation that probably cost more than a small house. He caught Dean's eye and finished his champagne, then turned the flute upside down on the table.

Dean hoisted Nobuko back up and swayed with her until the end of the song while her father's bodyguards looked on suspiciously. The Texans hadn't picked up on him yet, but Sam's signal meant it was time to fix that. He drew back from Nobuko and kissed her hand. Winking at her, he said, "Well, I can't let the bride go disappointed on her wedding day." Nobuko pouted in protest and tried to hold onto his fingers, but he slipped out of her grasp. "I'll be back for you, don't worry." Which was probably one of the smaller lies he'd told this evening.

Approaching the bride and groom as they waltzed, Dean prepared to tell a bigger one. He tapped Morgan Rove on the shoulder and looked down at the guy: that hairline was not promising. "Pardon me, sir, for cutting in, but Nobu-chan was feeling a little bit shy about asking for the pleasure of a dance with you." Dean pointed back at Nobuko, who was still openly staring at him, and gave her a small wave, which she returned.

Rove's eyes narrowed and he looked back at his new wife. "You know how Nobuko gets when she's drunk and doesn't have her way," said Chiharu, prodding her husband along. She and Dean watched Rove walk towards Nobuko, pausing to whisper a few words to a fellow in cowboy boots along the way. By the time Dean looked back at Chiharu she already had her hand on his shoulder and was nudging him back into the rhythm of the music. She smiled wickedly up at him. "If you were trying not to cause a scene, you failed, Mister..."

"Ulrich," he said, returning her smile and settling his hand on the white silk clinging to her narrow waist.

"You've known my sister for all of five minutes and already you're calling her Nobu-chan," said Chiharu. “Hardly polite.”

"You've been watching us, then?"

"Like you hadn't noticed." She pursed her lips. "People will talk."

"They already are," replied Dean. It was true: the Texans had begun rumbling and murmuring and the Yakuza muscle were now openly glaring at him. "Can't imagine why. It's only natural to want to dance with the prettiest girl in the room, even if it is her wedding day." He twirled her around. "Not like I can whisk you away now."

"More's the pity, Mr. Ulrich." She leaned in closer than propriety really allowed. "But there are people here who will whisk you away, if you keep this up. Dashing strangers, no matter how well dressed, attract a certain amount of suspicion, and my guest list includes some very suspicious people."

"I hadn't noticed."

"My husband's the first man you've spoken to since you arrived here, and you don't look anything like Keith Ulrich." Dean didn't miss a step and neither did Chiharu. "I'd certainly love to get to know you better, Prince Charming. No one's sorrier about what's about to happen than me." Chiharu stopped dancing and stood on her tip-toes to give Dean a kiss on the cheek. "If you slip out now, you might have a chance of keeping those good looks."

Dean bowed his head. "Thank you, Mrs. Rove."

She gave him a tiny curtsy, her eyelashes fluttering demurely. "My pleasure. Go."

Dean made it almost off of the dance floor before the largest Japanese man he'd ever met stepped in front him; a glance back revealed the goon's partner was a few feet behind Dean. Bearing in mind how well Sam's research had served him so far, Dean stuck to the plan despite the unexpected twist: Dean quickly turned to his left and socked one of the groom's guests in the jaw. After all, how many chances was Dean ever going to get to punch a governor, former or not?

Instantly, the Texas bodyguards were on Dean, cutting off the Yakuza thugs, and like Sam predicted, the Texans had been drinking on the job. It was easy work for Dean to grab one by the cowboy boot and twist, dislocating his knee. Within seconds, half the dance floor had turned into a dogpile as the the Yakuza big guy tripped over the screaming Texan, the tripper reached out to catch himself, and instead dragged a Japanese matron down by her skirt. Dean managed to wriggle out of the chaos in short order and ran against the current, towards the east exit, noting that Sam's head over most of the crowd struggling to make their way out of the main entrance. Dean nodded to himself and picked up the pace, darting down the hall towards the eastern patio doors.

"This way," called a woman's voice behind him. Dean stopped and turned; he recognized Anna Maria Shinoda, a mere five years older than her step-daughter, from where she'd been blatantly ogling him at the high table. Now she stood in the shadows of the hallway and beckoned him with a manicured finger. "There are guards down there too."

Dean blinked and considered trying his luck, but now Anna Maria had caught up with him and pushed him back through the open door to the library. "Kiss me," she breathed out as they stepped back, and well, it sounded like a good idea. As she pushed her mouth up into his, Dean watched a pair of security thugs rush past them, heading towards the ballroom.

He only caught a glimpse, though, because Anna Maria kicked the door shut behind them and reached up under his jacket. Dean jerked his lips away. "Look, sweet- uh, Mrs. Shinoda, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve kinda got places to be."

She ran her fingers up the inside of his thigh, along his hardening dick, nails sharp through the ultra-fine wool. "Call me Maria," she said, nibbling on his collarbone where her younger step-daughter had left it exposed.

Dean glanced at the window—the sound of breaking glass would probably bring the thugs running before he could make it across the lawn. He slid a hand over her surgically-enhanced breast and found the zipper along her side. "Well, if we make it quick—" he began, but Maria stopped him with her tongue, moaning into his mouth while he dragged her zipper down and slipped his hand inside her dress, onto the small of her back. With his new and improved handle on the situation, Dean took control of the kiss as well and shoved Mrs. Shinoda up against the shelves.

Which was when Mr. Shinoda opened the door. Dean had to untangle himself from Maria before bolting for the window, which was a second too long. For such big guys, the Yakuza goons moved fast, the shorter one tackling Dean while the bigger guy kicked Dean in the ribs; Dean felt rather than heard the crack. "Urk," was all he could manage before Shorty kneed him in the kidneys and then smashed Dean's forehead against the floor.

The next thing Dean knew, he was on his knees on the second floor balcony, looking up at Tsuyoshi Shinoda. The Yakuza boss was shaking his head and tsking his tongue at Dean. "You work quickly,” said Shinoda, his tone dry. “Charming both of my daughters and my wife in one night. Fortunately, my mother's poor health kept her safely in Kyoto."

"I just came to dance," said Dean, the single most honest thing he'd said all night. As a reward for his candor, Shinoda lifted a foot and kicked him sharply in the nuts.

Dean let out a strangled yelp and tipped backward, nerves completely overloaded—not even Lucifer had stooped to the groin shot. He choked, doubling over, trying not to throw up. Sam had better have gotten that damn notebook, he thought as his eyes watered. Cas owed him big time for this.

"Tanaka, give this poor fellow a hand," said Shinoda. The bigger goon wrapped his meaty paw around Dean's throat and dragged him up to his feet. "Inoue, his legs, if you would." Shorty lifted Dean's legs just long enough for Tanaka to swing Dean over the railing. Dean quit trying to kick in an effort to conserve oxygen. Shinoda regarded him coolly. "Strangely enough, I believe you. Tanaka's had an eye on you all night and I know my wife's... proclivities. All the same, I cannot tolerate this sort of behavior from uninvited guests: you picked the wrong wedding to crash. If I see you again, the consequences will be unpleasant." Dean could feel the black out coming and tried to roll with it, if this guy was planning on talking all night. But Shinoda reached out and pushed Dean's chin up. "This time, however, the fall will not kill you."

Shinoda nodded. Tanaka let go. Dean fell.

Dean gasped for air, sucking in a truly horrifying blend of smells: fish entrails and rotten produce and burnt rubber. He’d sunk deep into the trash with the force of his fall, and everything he touched that wasn't slimy and gooey was sharp and pointy. And what was wrong with his life that lying in a dumpster with busted balls and a throttled windpipe wasn’t the worst thing to ever happen to him? Dean didn't bother moving a single aching muscle until he heard his brother call out, "Dean—Dean, you okay?"

~*~


Dean's really not okay, and he's too damned tired to hide how stiffly he's moving as he makes his way to the bed. It's not like the bruises aren't obvious anyways, angry red splotches already starting to darken into deep purples and blues. Sam sits up, his gaze warm and concerned. He’s stretched out on one of the beds—the bandage on his leg still thankfully white—with two bagfuls of ice and some towels laid out beside him. He looks like he wants to say something, but he refrains; he's already turned down the sheets so that Dean can lie down.

Once Dean's managed to complete the painful transition from vertical to horizontal, Sam kisses him lightly on the forehead and places the first ice pack over Dean's throat, then kisses his navel and puts the second on his groin. Dean flinches and shivers, but Sam's running his fingers gently over Dean's skin, and in a few moments Dean settles into the feelings, the tension and adrenaline finally wearing out of him. "You'll live," Sam murmurs, but the idiot's eyes are a little glassy and Dean sort of wants to punch him.

Dean's projecting in his exhaustion: Sam pulls away. Which is sort of nice, because that's when Castiel flutters into the room. "Did you retrieve the weapons?" he asks.

Sam scoots off the bed; Dean just moans and pulls the duvet over his head. "This counts as like six favors," Dean grumbles from under the covers. “Go away.”

He hears Sam pick up the notebook and pen, a brief pause, and then angel-light footsteps. Castiel flips the cover down. "I have no wish for you to suffer unduly," says Cas, touching Dean's forehead.

The pain is gone, leaving only one sensation behind. Dean lunges off the bed. "Cold!" he squawks, landing in a tangled heap of sheets by Castiel's feet. Despite Dean's glare, Cas smiles down at him. "Give a man a warning, would ya?" Dean snaps.

"You're welcome," says Cas before he disappears like the smug prick he is. Dean crawls back onto the bed, kicking the ice packs away and scowling at his snickering brother. He flips Sam the bird before intentionally wrapping all of the covers around himself and burying his face in the pillow.

When he feels Sam's weight settle back down on the mattress, Dean turns his head just enough to say, "Turn off the lights—I'm done for the night."

Sam insinuates his arm into Dean's cocoon. "That so?" he purrs.

Dean curls his knees up. "Seriously, Sam: I just got groped by a bunch of bridesmaids who weren’t even that hot, and then mobsters kicked me in the nuts. I've had enough people touching my dick for one night."

Sam sucks at the nape of Dean's neck. "And I've had enough of seeing other people's marks on you for one night." He slides his hand under the waistband of Dean's boxers, long fingers edging down, and Dean’s dick gives an interested twitch in spite of himself. A fingertip brushes over Dean's hole and he shudders, hips pushing back against the contact. "Watching everyone else in that mansion touch you, pawing at that suit, knowing I couldn't," murmurs Sam between nibbles along Dean's pulse point. “Drove me crazy.”

"Sammy," Dean breathes. He’s exhausted despite Cas’s healing, but his traitorous cock has always paid more attention to Sam than his own brain.

Sam's other hand is already unwinding Dean from the blankets. "Didn't even get to have my way with you in the suit."

“Got some fucking weird fetishes,” Dean grumbles, but it’s a weak protest and they both know it. As Sam continues to lick and suck at Dean’s neck, his warm fingers slide over Dean’s skin, easily finding the places that make Dean shiver. He teases at Dean’s hole, circling and pressing barely inward, and Dean can’t help but respond. Hell, his dick is already standing up and saluting like Sam’s a four star general. Dean turns his head to watch as Sam unwraps him like an early birthday present, pulling off Dean’s boxers once he’s free of the blanket.

“Yeah,” Sam says, a quick little exhale of breath as he stares down at Dean’s naked body, and then he’s sliding in next to Dean, licking at Dean’s shoulder, tongue laving over Dean’s freckles. Dean sighs into the pillow, feeling oddly comforted. Sam’s always had a thing for his freckles—like he said, fucking weird fetishes.

Finally summoning the effort to move, Dean lifts a hand and reaches back to grip Sam’s hip, holding him in place. “Yeah, Dean,” Sam mutters, biting down on the skin of Dean’s bicep. His fingers leave their nice little place in between Dean’s legs and Dean groans.

Sam presses two fingers against Dean’s lower lip. “Suck,” Sam whispers, and Dean obeys the quiet demand. He flicks his tongue outward to lick along the pads of Sam’s fingers before pulling them into his mouth, sucking on them while Sam pants behind him. He can hear the wet sound of his mouth working around Sam’s fingers and it makes his dick twitch. Sometimes Dean thinks that he could get off, just like this, Sam warm and solid behind him, just a few quick jerks on his dick—but then he usually remembers that there are better things to do. Things worth waiting for.

Sam’s fingers leave Dean’s mouth abruptly, and Dean makes a pathetic little noise, licking his lips. Sam pats his leg and shifts away, fingers running over Dean’s thigh. A drawer opens and Dean shudders at the soft sound—he knows what it means. Sam scoops up one of Dean’s legs and lays it on top of his own, shifting Dean almost on top of him, legs spread wide. Dean stays where Sam put him, feeling himself stretch open.

“You ready?” Sam asks, like it’s even a question. He licks at Dean’s neck again and then he’s pushing one slick finger into Dean, slow and easy. Dean sucks in a quick breath and holds it, his body tensing as Sam’s finger gently opens him up. Sam sighs against Dean’s skin and pushes in further, twisting.

Dean rocks his hips backwards. “C’mon, Sammy,” he murmurs. His eyes slide closed, mindlessly letting feeling flow through him while Sam does whatever he wants.

“Don’t sleep,” Sam warns, and his finger brushes up against Dean’s prostate. Dean’s hips jump upwards involuntarily as a surge of pleasure works its way up his spine. He comes back down, shuddering, and Sam does it again. “Don’t sleep,” Sam repeats, and this time Dean can hear the laughter in his voice.

Sam nibbles at Dean’s neck and Dean growls. How does Sam expect him to drift off when he’s using Dean as his own personal chew toy? Sam teases his prostate again, his finger sliding up inside Dean’s body, and Dean feels wound tighter than a clock. His fucking toes are starting to curl.

Dean tosses his head back into the pillow, staring blankly up at the ceiling and breathing hard. Behind him, Sam’s moving, slow and rhythmic. Dean can feel Sam’s dick brushing up against him, the head smearing precome against his skin. He licks his lips and glances over to where he can see the top of Sam’s head. Sam’s still moving his finger inside of Dean, but it’s dulled to a tingling distraction and not the uncontrollable surge of before. His other hand is flat against Dean’s stomach, holding him loosely. All it would take would be a few inches and he’d be right where Dean needs him most.

Hoping to encourage Sam, Dean rolls his hips but, instead of jerking Dean off like he should, Sam does just the opposite: he moves his hand away. “Sam...” Dean complains. He can feel Sam smiling against his shoulder.

Whatever. So Dean is going to have to do a little bit of work because Sam is a damn tease. Dean sighs as he runs his fingers down over his stomach. They wrap around his dick, smooth and sure and, yeah, he can work with this. He closes his eyes as his hand begins to stroke, all the sweeter in contrast to the pain of earlier in the evening. He rocks forward, his fingers riding over the sensitive skin, and Dean knows that he’s not going to take long.

Sam bites down hard and Dean hisses as he jumps. “What the fuck?” Dean snaps, twisting his head to glare at Sam. Sam pulls Dean’s hand away and brushes against Dean’s prostate again with his other hand. “Jesus!”

“Thought you’d had enough of people touching your dick for one night,” Sam whispers, his fingers still wrapped around Dean’s wrist, thumb rubbing the sensitive skin there.

“I didn’t mean me, asshole.” Dean squirms in Sam’s grip, trying to unhook his leg from Sam’s so he can roll over, but Sam holds him still.

Sam slips his finger out of Dean only to shove it back in again, this time with a second one joining it and Dean has to bite his lip to stop the moan. “Sam—” Dean chokes the word off with a low groan as Sam crooks both his fingers, rubbing them up against the gland inside him, and Dean loses momentary control of his body. He bucks upward, his back arching as sparks shoot through his nerves. “Fucking Christ...” Dean pants. He throws his hand outward to grip Sam’s hip again, clutching it like a life raft and hoping that it will manage to keep him afloat. Sam leaves it there, releasing Dean’s wrist to tease at Dean’s nipples, his touch too light and not enough.

“God, just look at you,” Sam’s muttering. “Fuck the suit, I just want you like this, all the time, strung out and desperate.” He grips Dean’s hips, holding him in place, then scissors his fingers inside Dean and Dean feels a familiar aching pressure build. He twists to the side, trying to fight it—fight Sam—but there’s nowhere for him to go. All he can do is ride out the wave of sharp pleasure every time Sam moves inside of him. Sam pinches his nipple at the same time as a particularly sharp thrust, his breath hot against Dean’s nape, and Dean can’t stop himself from crying out.

Sam catches Dean’s leg and spreads him wider, giving himself more room to work, and every muscle in Dean’s body feels like a stretched rubber band. “God...” Dean moans as he rides out shudder after shudder. “Gonna... Gonna...” Gonna fucking die, gonna fucking explode, gonna fucking...

“You gonna come for me?” Sam rasps, his hand sliding up Dean’s chest, pressing into his collarbone. Dean shakes his head helplessly—it’s more intense than that, more severe. It’s not an orgasm building inside him, it’s a goddamned bomb. It feels like he can’t contain it, like it’s going to break him, shatter him from the inside out, and he’s fighting tooth and nail just to stay in one piece but there’s no choice on this, no chance for survival, no anything.

Dean comes with a strangled shout, his entire body folding in two as he shoots in messy spurts. His body is shuddering, his dick pulsing, and something vital and precious is exploding inside of him. He wrenches himself to the side, his body trying to bury itself in the mattress and Sam’s the only thing that’s keeping him whole. He gasps against the sheets, trying to find himself again.

Fuck, Dean.” Sam rolls Dean over the rest of the way until he’s flat on his stomach. Dean pants, tossing his head to the side as he tries to stop the world from shaking. His dick is trapped against the mattress, twitching with aftershocks and tingling from the pressure of his body pressing it down into the bed.

Sam’s hands are rough as they haul Dean upward, forcing him onto his knees but Dean can’t find the words to protest. He sags limply, staying right where Sam placed him. Sam’s fingers shove back into him, and he hisses in protest, but he doesn’t have the strength to move away. It’s all he can do just to breathe.

There’s a push of something blunt and big against Dean’s ass and Dean groans as it starts to shove inside, hunching his back instinctively. He’s unsure whether he’s trying to push Sam out or help him slide in—Sam’s draping himself over Dean’s back, wrapping himself around Dean as completely as a blanket, and Dean doesn’t have a choice. Dean whines as Sam shoves in deeper.

“Mine,” Sam growls and bites down hard. Pain blossoms in Dean’s shoulder—a quick stab as Sam’s teeth sink in—and then it’s gone, leaving a lingering ache as Sam’s tongue licks at the new mark.

“Jesus, Sam...” Dean gasps, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Sam’s weight on top of him is nearly crushing but Dean manages to hold. Until Sam grabs at Dean’s cock and pinprick needles are shooting through his nerves. Dean bucks underneath Sam, trying to shake him off, and Sam lets go, flattening his palm to the bed instead to help steady himself. Holy fuck, Dean mouths, shaking as he moves past the initial shock wave.

Sam rolls his hips, rocking forward into Dean, and Dean has to grit his teeth against the stab of painful pleasure as each thrust is sending sparks through his oversensitive nerves. “Damn it, Sam...” Dean wants to pull himself together, but Sam’s not going to give him that chance—Sam’s too damned set on fucking him into the mattress. The bed is starting to creak, Sam pushing it to its limits.

With Sam slamming into him, Dean can’t hold himself up anymore and he pitches forward. A hand wraps around his throat, pulling him back, and Dean chokes as his air supply is slowly cut off. Sam’s fingers loosen, but Dean pushes them back, covering Sam’s larger hand with his own. It twitches tighter as though Sam can’t help himself.

“Are you sure?” asks Sam, his other hand stroking up and down Dean’s side.

Dean nods, feeling the pressure against his windpipe. “It should be you,” he says, gruff with embarrassment as well as lack of air. He’s glad Sam can’t see his face.

“Dean,” Sam says, almost as breathless, and presses a kiss against the side of Dean’s head, rubbing his face against Dean’s hair as his fingers start to tighten on Dean’s throat. He speeds up, pounding Dean hard and steady, and Dean’s starting to see spots in his vision, everything graying out around the edges. His cock swells beneath him as his lungs burn for air.

Sam lets him take one shuddering breath, then his hand tightens again on Dean’s throat and Dean feels his dick throb. Sam presses a few more quick kisses to Dean’s skin and then he’s hauling him upright, forcing him to lean back against Sam for support. Sam sounds like a steam engine behind him, all harsh pants and low growls, and his free hand is sliding firmly down Dean’s stomach, pressing hard against his body as it moves to his cock. Dean shudders when Sam’s grabs ahold of him, whining high and thin because everything else has been fucked out of him.

Sam’s hand drops away from Dean’s throat and he replaces it with his mouth, sucking hard at Dean’s skin. Dean gasps in a breath, lightheaded, his heart beating frantically. He knows Sam is leaving marks—visible marks that he’ll have to explain later—but he doesn’t care. He wants them. He wants Sam to mark him.

To make him his.

Dean lifts his chin up, giving Sam more room, and lays his head back against Sam’s shoulder. He can still feel Sam inside of him, heavy and thick, and he rolls his hips, making Sam groan. Sam’s hand speeds up on Dean’s cock, moving hard and fast, and Dean bites his lip as he feels another orgasm building inside of him. It’s coming a little too soon, too close on the heels of the last one, but he can’t stop it. Can’t do anything but let it happen.

He bites off another scream as he comes again, this time spasming in Sam’s hand and splattering the sheets. The tinge of pain in his throat is so mixed in with everything else that Dean can’t tell the difference.

“Fuck, Dean, I’m gonna—” Sam shoves Dean back down to the bed. Dean just barely catches himself, his elbows pushing into the mattress, before Sam wraps around him again, his hips slamming fast and hard against Dean’s. He nips at Dean’s throat, catching a bit of skin and worrying it between his teeth before letting it go and moving on to the next patch. Again and again until Dean’s lost track.

Sam pants and grunts, slamming in one last time, harder than before, and lets out a long, low moan. Dean feels Sam pulsing inside him, feels Sam's come as it fills him and starts to ooze out. He grunts weakly, feeling as if he's just got run over by a semi, like he’d stepped into the middle of the road and let it hit him. But at the same time, his worn out body feels content—spent but sated. Sam pulls out of him, and Dean falls over onto his side, unwilling to hold himself up anymore.

Sam laughs and glues his sweaty body to Dean’s, tucking himself behind Dean. “Night,” Sam says, and Dean responds in kind through a yawn.

It’s been one fucking hell of a night, Dean thinks, remembering. Funny how, again, his groin feels like it’s on fire, his throat’s covered in a necklace of bruises, and he never wants to move again. But this time he couldn’t be happier.


This entry was originally posted at http://moragmacpherson.dreamwidth.org/64733.html because DW is where I set up crossposting first and I'm lazy. Feel free to comment wherever you prefer. This post has comments on DW.
Tags: fic, nc-17, pwp, sam/dean, slash, spn
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