Title: Hustle 2: The More The Merrier
Fandom: Pairing: Crossover: Supernatural/Boondock Saints: Sam/Dean/Connor/Murphy
Concrit: Please. If you spot a typo or a grammar goof, feel free to tell me in comments.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Summary: Frenetic fraternal frottage.
Notes: Sequel to Hustle.
The More The Merrier
The walk to the loft is interrupted barely two minutes into Dean's enthusiastic recounting of his biggest pool hustle ever, at a bar called Cal Colhoun's out in Boise. Connor's listening, but he's also watching Sam's long legs eat up the sidewalk as he strides along beside Murph, their heads bent together in collusion. And then Sam slides his hand into the rear pocket of his jeans, pulling the battered denim tight across his skinny ass, and Connor's control snaps.
"Ah, fuck it. I never was any good at waiting to open my presents on Christmas morning."
Moving abruptly away from Dean, leaving him open-mouthed, his anecdote unfinished and immediately forgotten, Connor takes a couple of jogging steps to catch up to the other half of their familial equations. He tosses his half-smoked cigarette into the gutter and grabs Sam's arm, spinning him away from Murphy and into the nearest shop doorway. The aluminum security shutters rattle loudly under the impact, and Sam brings a fist up, an instinctive reaction which Connor catches and deflects with barely a wince as he steps in to Sam's space and buries the fingers of his other hand in the tangle of hair at the base of Sam's skull, and tugs.
Sam's several inches taller than Connor, who would likely take exception to anyone who correctly guessed it was more than three. It makes the angle awkward, unfamiliar. Murph's just the tiniest bit shorter than him, no matter what he claims to the contrary, so Connor's not used to kissing up into someone's face, but he's pretty sure this long streak of piss is worth the effort.
After that single aborted swing in Connor's direction, Sam wises up fast and gets with the program. He spreads his feet a little and curls himself in, leaning down and letting Connor keep control of this first exploratory kiss.
Dean and Murphy are amused and unashamedly enthralled witnesses, watching the give and take, the small adjustments made to align these very different, very familiar forms.
When Sam's and Connor's lips finally slide together, twist and lock, they're still aware of their audience, but they're too busy now to care if their brothers are enjoying the show. Connor lets go of Sam's hand and brings his own up to drag at the underside of Sam's bottom lip with his thumb. Sam opens up and lets him in, hands falling to Connor's hips, fingers hooking through the belt-loops of his jeans.
Connor uses his grip on Sam's mess of hair to angle his head to best effect, letting him drive the kiss deeper into Sam's mouth, all agile tongue and graze of teeth across sensitive flesh.
A shrill whistle, just inches from Connor's left ear, pops the expanding bubble of sexual tension, leaving them suddenly aware of their surroundings. The sounds of sirens rise and fall in the distance, getting louder by the second.
"Dude, not that that wasn't all kinds of hot, but I think the naked portion of this evening's entertainment should probably wait until we're behind closed doors."
Connor follows the line of Dean's gaze to where his hand is still tucked into Sam's partially unbuttoned fly, palm flat against the soft fur of Sam's belly, fingers hidden by the pale blue cotton of his briefs.
He can't help himself; he wiggles his fingers. The resulting twitch of flesh and accompanying hitch of breath is everything he could have hoped for. Reluctantly, he extracts his digits, curling a fist around the lingering warmth.
They cover the rest of the distance to the loft at a fast pace, elbows nudging, hips bumping, hands fondling indiscriminately. The ride up in the ramshackle elevator seems to last forever, though it can't possibly have taken more than twenty seconds or so.
"Welcome to Casa McManus," Murphy announces, tongue-in-cheek, as he leads the way across the open, mostly empty loft, to the corner where the kitchen appliances live in mismatched, chipped enamel chaos.
Connor catches Murphy's coat as it's tossed back at him, and hangs it on a hook set into the cracked white plaster behind the door, right next to his own. He watches Dean track Sam's ass as he follows Murphy across the room, and he licks his lips.
Murphy is chatting away like a gracious host as he cracks open four bottles of cold beer. "We used to have a bigger place than this, but there was a problem with the plumbing. The landlord didn't appreciate our renovation efforts, and he didn't think much of our volunteer work within the local community, so the bastard threw us out. Luckily for us, the drug dealers who were using this place upped and died unexpectedly and we were able to move right in."
Dean accepts the proffered bottle and raises it in a lightly mocking toast. "Here's to the luck of the Irish."
They all drink, but Connor barely tastes his. He's too distracted by the curve and ripple of Sam's throat as he swallows the brew, and just like that, the hunger is back.
Sam doesn't resist when Connor takes the beer from his grasp; lets himself be towed across the room to the closer of the two mattresses that are laid out on the floor at the base of the wall.
He toes the tangle of sheets and blankets heaped at the foot and asks, "So, which one of you is scared of heights?"
Connor sets their bottles down against the wall and grabs the hem of his tee shirt, peeling it up and over his head in one swift movement. The large wooden cross that hangs around his neck on a leather thong swings like a pendulum between his tightly beaded nipples until he straightens up.
"Murph's always been a bit of a fidgety fucker, even in his sleep. He was forever falling out of bed as a kid, and after the third trip to the emergency room in as many months, Ma made us get rid of the box springs and sleep on the floor. I guess the habit stuck. Are we gonna fuck or what?"
With every layer of clothing that Sam peels off, he also appears to lose a layer of control and another of dexterity. By the time the final shirt is shrugged free and tossed away, his hands are trembling and his hair is clinging to his neck and scalp in damp, disordered curls. He's breathing hard.
Connor reaches out and palms Sam's left pec, fingertips brushing the sunburst tattoo located just below his clavicle.
"Unusual ink; don't think I've seen one quite like that before. Don't tell me you're into all that magic shite, with the pentacles and sacred circles and all that bollocks?"
The heart beneath his hand seems to skip a beat and then he's being dragged by the shoulders into a tight embrace. A foot slides between his own and lifts, twists, and hooks, and the next thing Connor knows, he's flat on his back, pinned beneath Sam's sleekly muscled body, gasping to recapture the air that's been knocked out of his lungs in the tumble.
Murphy pulls another couple of beers from the fridge and cracks them open, passes one to Dean and swipes their empty soldiers into the trash.
"I don't think I've ever seen Connor taken down that easy before. Your boy's a bit of a brawler, isn't he?"
Dean smirks, and his eyes are lit up with pride. "He's learning."
"Aye, and I bet you're the one who's doing the teaching. Might fancy a few of those hands-on lessons myself, if you're going to be around for a while."
Dean shrugs, noncommittal but not rejecting the idea; he has other, more important things on his mind.
"So what's the plan? Are we allowed to join in or are we the designated audience for your brother's little show?"
He's not expecting Murphy's answer to be "I've no fucking clue. He's- We've never done this before. Well, there was that threesome, a while back, with Janey Taylor, but it didn't go so well. Turns out, she thought we'd only be touching her and not each other, and where's the fun in that?"
Dean just stares, bemused, until a particularly loud groan pulls his attention back to the not entirely comfortable spectacle of his brother pinning someone – not him – to the mattress.
He starts stripping.
"The more the merrier, yeah?" Murphy asks, following suit, but Dean's too busy sliding up behind Sam to reply.
Things get… complicated after that. Jeans and underwear are shucked and hands get everywhere, touching, teasing, tickling and tormenting, tactical and tireless.
Everyone gets tasted too, from top to toe, with lingering licks and soul-destroying sucks along the way. Skin is scored and necks are gnawed and unintentional bruises are distributed by elbows, knees and noses. It's frenetic and fraternal, a whole new level of frottage fun. It's fantastic.
And then it's over, and four hot and sweaty, drained and drooping bodies are all vying to find a dry spot on a mattress that's been drenched in beer and lube and various bodily fluids. The other mattress is forgotten, too distant to recall, so they curl up, two by two, just like they always do – Sam and Dean, Murph and Connor – joined only at the ankle in a puppy-dog pile of sheet-entangled feet.
They're all still there when morning comes.