"Just don't talk." Dean growled. He shoved his hand up Des' shirt, pushing him down on the bed. Des reaches out to steady himself and knocks over the whiskey bottle in the process. Dean looks at it for a moment as the good liquor spills out on the bed before knocking it the rest of the way to the floor and leaning over Des. "Don't fucking say a word."

"Yeah," Des says. "That's not gonna happen." His breath's coming harder than he means it to, and despite everything, he's not moving away. "Hate to break it to you, but you're not my type. This isn't exactly blowing my mind."

"I'm everyone's type," Dean says, and kisses Des. It shuts him up, at least, so Dean must be doing something right. Des reaches up and yanks Dean's flannel shirt down, tearing it a little. No big loss to the world, really. Flannel. What kind of asshole--

Apparently the kind whose hand was shoved down his pants fingering his asshole.

"Hey," Des said, shoving him away. "Who says it was going that way?"

"You're the gay one," Dean said, but he didn't start the kiss up again. Instead, he started shoving down his pants. "Means you're the one who likes having a dick up his ass."

Des rolled his eyes and pulled off his pants. "It's called bisexuality, asshole, and from where I'm standing you ain't exactly running straight yourself."

"Think you forgot the whole 'Shut up' thing I asked for."

Des shoved him down. "Just man up and take it. Think of England, if it helps."

"Nah, I'll be thinking of whatshername. That obnoxious brunette. Flower or something."

"Oh, blow me."

"Thought that was the point of all this."

Des grabbed Dean's head and shoved it down. "If it'll shut you up..."

It didn't shut him up for long.