Sam/Dean, NC17, PWP, nothing but porn and schmoop.
The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the WB. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.
Scroll down to read:
It's a backfire in the parking lot that jerks Dean out of a sound sleep. He stays still, eyes still closed, feels Sam move beside him, also restless and half awake. The sound of a passing car with an engine badly in need of a tune-up and a muffler badly in need of replacement settles Dean's nerves and loosens the tight clench of his hand on the knife under his pillow.
Normally it wouldn't bother him. It's not like what they hunt has unlimited access to modern firepower. They haven't run into too many ghosts that think a .9 mm is the cool kids's choice over rattling chains or ripping the heart out of things.
But they've both been a little jumpy lately.
Beside him, Sam's subconscious seems to have come to the same conclusion because he settles, squirms a little, and then sighs and goes quiet. Dean tries for the same thing; to relax, to go back to sleep. If the light (or lack of it) pressing against the curtained windows is any indication, it's not even dawn yet. They plan to go to the library later today but it doesn't open until nine so they can sleep in, grab breakfast…
He tries consciously relaxing his muscles, but jolted awake, they want to stretch and so he rolls over, putting his back to the door.
Sam's on his stomach, both arms bent under his head, face turned toward Dean.
Sam's eyes are on him, only half open and definitely still sleepy, but awake, pupils dark and face sleep soft and totally without the lines of worry Sam usually wears.
"It was just a backfire. Go back to sleep," Dean says, and Sam tucks his chin just slightly, a nod to acknowledge that he heard, he knows. But his eyes stay open, shifting slightly, tracking something on Dean's face, along his throat.
Dean closes his own eyes and waits, just a few seconds, before cracking an eye open and then opens them fully again when all he sees are Sam's lashes dusting his cheeks like smudged soot.
The room is neither too cool nor too warm which is a blessing they don’t get that often; warm enough that they've kicked the polyester coverlet to the end of the bed in favor of well worn sheets, and those are bleached white against Sam's skin, revealing a back broad enough for Dean to have a picnic lunch on. He grins at that, trying to remember when Sam finally gave up on the shirts he used to wear to sleep in. It doesn't actually take much to figure it out; it happened right about the time going to bed meant something more than sleeping and the clothes were getting tossed anyway.
Hard then, that choice, crossing that line, both of them giving more than a little nod to the fact that even among their kind of extensive list of things that were fucked up, this was, would be, oh, right up there near the top.
Sometimes it pinged on Dean's nerves still, occasionally on Sam's. Luckily it didn't often happen at the same time. Luckily, because Dean isn't sure he could actually give this up, or even that he'd want to, even if some part of him thinks it would be better for Sam, and possibly better for himself as well. Like adding sex to the equation is some kind of additional hook he's laid into Sam to keep him close.
Except Sam is, was, and probably always will be stubborn and adamant about Dean admitting that Sam knows what he's doing and why, most of the time. His choice, Dean's choice, their choice.
Most of the time, Dean believes him. Of course, when Sam's got his hands and mouth on Dean; on his lips, on his skin, on his dick, Sam could tell Dean he was the second coming and Dean would probably believe him. Dean's got to admit, that for a wannabe lawyer, his brother has definitely got the closing arguments down pat.
And when Dean's got his hands and mouth all over Sam, when he's buried so deep in Sam it feels like he's been waiting his whole life to come, he believes in miracles too. There's really no other explanation.
Sam shifts and the ripple of muscle along his back makes Dean's mouth go dry and he knows he's got it bad, in all the good ways, because honestly, when did backs become the new sexy? He's always been a firm devotee of round breasts and generous curves and while Sam's got a lot going for him, those are not two things that spring immediately to mind. And while Dean has always been able to appreciate a nice, full-figured Amazon, it's still a far cry from finding his freakishly tall brother all that and a bag of chips.
But he does. It took him awhile to make the mental adjustment between the tall, gangly, kind of skinny teen he put on a bus to California and the still tall but far less skinny man he saw four years later. Sam's frame had been built for the muscle he'd put on, shoulders apparently wide enough to carry the burdens he'd taken on, or at least most of them, most of the time. That's okay though. Dean's shoulders have always been that broad and he'd missed being able to shoulder his half of the load the same way he'd missed having Sam at his side, no matter how cranky or belligerent.
It made it easier though, because Sam was pretty obviously a man now and not a kid or a boy, even if Dean still caught glimpses of the boy now and then. He'd have killed himself if he'd ever felt for Sam then what he feels for him now -- if his father hadn't done it first. And it's not just the love -- that's always been there. Dean knows it even if he never says it.
Sam moves again, tucking his elbows under him, and Dean looks, catches Sam's wide grin and his fond look and feels the flush building under his skin, because really, what could possibly be more embarrassing than ogling your brother's body like the centerfold of the swimsuit issue? Dean closes his eyes. It's a weak defense, but really, it's not like Sam doesn't already have so much of the goods on him that it's completely unfair most days.
"Dude, stop staring at me," he says and he knows Sam is. Totally knows it, and that's weird too because when women do it, even guys, Dean can meet those looks head on, grin in reply, offer an invitation if he's so inclined. With Sam, only with Sam, does he feel the heat in his cheeks and a kind of humming under his skin. Maybe it's some kind of psychic thing.
"I'm not." Sam's voice is still gravel rough from having just woken up and it goes right into Dean's ears and bypasses both brain and most of the rest of him and settles somewhere deep, right below his navel. "I'm looking. There's difference," Sam says with a kind of smug arrogance that sounds like half challenge and half promise.
"Whatever. Just stop it," Dean says, only he's fighting to keep the grin off his face and out of his voice. "Stop looking and do something."
He loves the sound of Sam's laugh.
He doesn't open his eyes and he doesn't move, not even when Sam shifts again and one of his big hands smoothes over Dean's belly, fingers just brushing lower down. "I could get up and go get us coffee," Sam suggests and Dean gives a little nod, even as Sam's fingers brush over his pubic hairs, pushing downward. Sam's mouth presses to his skin, along a rib, moist and warm that sends a shiver through him anyway. It’s not really kissing or licking, it's something Sam does, the mouthing of Dean's skin, the light brush of soft lips, heated breath, then a cooler stream of air. Almost like he's going to blow a raspberry but it's rarely that. It makes gooesbumps rise up on Dean's skin, adds heat to his belly, pumps blood into his dick.
"Coffee would be good," Dean agrees and now he's got to actively work at not moving. He also has to fight the urge to swallow when Sam's fingers spread wide enough to slip 'round and to either side of his dick, right at the base.
The mattress shimmies a little and the sheets tucked around Dean's waist slide when Sam sits up. "You want breakfast with that, honey?" Sam asks him and his fingers curve and lift, encasing the width and hard length of Dean's dick without any trouble at all. Big handed freak.
"Breakfast would be good. Two eggs, bacon, toast--"
The thought of hashbrowns gets lost under the press of Sam's mouth to his and Dean finally opens his eyes because the foreplay part is over and highly overrated.
Dean can bitch about Sam's hair all he wants but right now it's the perfect length. Long enough to grab without tangling his fingers, and softer than any guy's hair has a right to be. But it's good because it lets Dean guide Sam's head and mouth to the perfect angle, because it gives him something to hang on to when Sam kicks the sheets all the way off and twists his hips enough to get his own hard dick right up next to Dean's and wrap them both in that freakishly big paw of his.
Dean loves Sam's hands almost as much as he loves Sam's mouth.
He kind of thought Sam would be one of those gentle kissers; one of those guys girls -- good girls -- love, who go slowly enough and ease into the battle of tongues and lips in a sneak attack. And maybe with girls, he is, but with Dean, he's pushy and aggressive and demanding -- pretty much the Sam he knows. He likes wide open mouth and spit wet- kisses. Sucks on Dean's tongue like he sucks Dean's dick; steady pressure and constant movement; hungry like he's starved, slow and deep, like he's savoring every taste, every nip along lips or chin or jaw. And Sam smiles when he kisses, which Dean isn't even sure how that's possible, but he likes it, the same way he likes the chuckle and laughter Sam breathes into this mouth.
Used to be Dean would accuse Sam of separating his brain from his body, because honestly -- months had gone by when Sam couldn't even think about touching anyone, being with anyone; grief or like he was betraying something of Jessica suppressing urges Dean knew he had. Sam might be a freak -- they both are -- but not like that, because he's still a guy, a young guy, peaked and primed and even before he met Jess, Dean's pretty sure his brother wasn't sitting around Stanford's campus waiting for Ms. Right and only jacking off between study sessions.
At the moment, though, it's a gift he really appreciates, because Sam can be doing one thing with his mouth, can be licking and sucking and gasping and humming against Dean's mouth and still be stroking and pumping both their dicks like he's got a mechanical piston attached to his hands, one with a variable speed adjustment. He's nudged a knee between Dean's leg and rolled back a little, pressing his hips upward along with his hand. Dean's rubbing and humping right along with him, gasping for breath as he feels hot blood settle and his balls tighten.
It's a ploy of course. Totally, totally a ploy as Sam rolls to his back, forcing Dean to come with him or lose all that breath-taking friction. Con job of the first order, because Sam's fishing around under his pillow and he's not hunting for a knife or a gun.
Although, Really? There's a certain lethal edge to Sam's grin when he finally finds the tube -- the well used and nearly empty tube. They are definitely going to have to stock up on supplies…
But they are a team, if nothing else and Dean's hand covers Sam's on their dicks, taking over the rhythm, adding a little Samba of his own that makes Sam suck a breath while Dean grins down at him. He eases up on himself because he's gonna lose it before Sam finds the right combination of brain cells and coordination to get the cap off.
Sam's dick is longer than his but not wider, the stretched tight skin is soft, darker and rosier, when it's hard and flush. Dean absolutely has to hold his hand still when Sam pulls a knee up, fingers loaded with the semi-clear cream. He smoothes it over Dean's fingers and his dick, the tube falling to the bed again and Sam's eyes locked onto Dean's face while he smears and strokes and finally nudges Dean's hand aside.
There's no questions: no, are you sure? is this? can you? There's only Sam, watching him like he can't tear his eyes away, moistening his lips then biting the lower one. There's only Dean's fingers leaving a slick trail from Sam's dick to under his balls, pressing further back and finding the rough meeting of skin and muscle that still gives way under pressure, under desire. It's all Sam's hands reaching, thumb rubbing over Dean's lips as Sam hitches his hips upward and curves his back to make room.
Dean's dick feels like someone shoved a rod in it, and it throbs or his head does, a dizzying pound of blood through his body, drying his mouth, tightening his gut. Like fear or anticipation, but more like adrenaline and joy. His fingers find that spot and Sam's breath hitches, neck stretching tight as he swallows and moves against him, body going through a ripple of tense and release. Dean can make him come just like this, has done it with his fingers in Sam's ass and his mouth on Sam's dick, watched Sam toss his head and clutch the sheets, sound caught in his throat. Weird that Sam can talk his ear off all day, but in this, with this, Sam's far quieter, whispers and moans and needy sounds, some pretty impressive curse words occasionally, but mostly…
That. That right there.
He doesn't want Sam to beg, wants him to need, wants him to want. "Ease over," Dean tells him, sliding up behind him, fitting against him -- and doesn't he just…fit? Right there, against Sam's back, pressed to the curve of his spine, pelvis cupping the tight, firm muscles of Sam's ass as he guides himself, pushes, catches Sam's leg to open him wider.
He feels sharp pain in his own lip as he presses deep, finds leverage, biting his lip before he says something incredibly stupid or just goofy.
Even in this Sam's a little stubborn. He makes Dean work for it, makes dark, wonderful promises of heat and pressure, grips and resists. Sam's hand digs into his hip urging him on.
Then he's there, hissing out a breath, pressing his forehead to Sam's shoulder because his brother is so tight, so very hot and tight and slick and …demanding movement. Body and voice, Sam wants right now. Please, Dean. Please, and Dean rocks, draws back, Sam's muscles clenching around him, holding onto him, resisting when he pushes back in a little harder, a little deeper. Feels Sam shudder when he gets it right.
Sam strokes himself, toes digging into Dean's calf. Pushing back and rocking, head coming back fast and hard.
And Dean has to watch, pay attention, watching the flush spread from Sam's throat to his chest, because if he doesn't, this will be over before it's hardly started.
But that can only work for so long, before his own body reminds him there are limits, and it becomes a blur of press and retreat, thrust and rock, alternately shoving and pulling at Sam's hip and thigh. Sam's making that lowing humming in his throat, breaking it with a gasp and moan, hand faltering on his dick.
There's pressure building deep inside; a hum -- like the noise Sam's making -- under his skin. Dean can taste sweat on his lips from Sam's skin and he licks and nips and thrusts hard knowing he can make this last if he just slows the fuck down, if he could get a deep enough breath, if he could just hold still.
If Sam would stop muttering , "Harder, come on, Dean… fuck me harder. Please."
Yup, he could make this last.
Sam shift and drops his leg, stretching out along the sheets and Dean's so deep inside him, pressed against his back that it feels like they've merged together. He can only barely reach around to cover Sam's hand on his cock, feels Sam shudder and heave as he comes, clamping down on Dean's hand and his dick when he does.
He'll make it last next time, really.
It's not so much white out as just blurred out, barely feeling his own come slick Sam up further, making the last few desperate thrusts as easy as they are necessary. Feels the tension pump out if his body until he's kind of thinking he might have given up a little spinal cord in there. Definitely a few brain cells.
Underneath him, Sam is breathing just as quickly and shallowly, skin warm and flushed and if Dean lifts his head just a little he can see the smile curving Sam's lips. He wriggles a little and the smile slips into a soft "o" of pleasure that fades when Dean pulls out, until he gets that little frown of an unhappy Sam that just makes Dean crack the fuck up. Sam reaches back and slaps his hip, hard.
It's a bit of a nudge and a wrestle because Sam has possibly lost all his bones and not a few muscles. His belly is smeared with more come than the sheets. In a few minute there will be another face as he registers Dean's come slicking his thighs. He'll probably tell Dean to use a condom next time, but Dean notices the condoms never make it under the pillow.
But right now, Sam's pupils are blown wide, there's color in his cheeks and while he may have lost all his other muscles, his mouth works just fine, drawing Dean's tongue deep into his mouth, caressing and sucking in a lazy, sloppy way that makes Dean tremble a little, and he pulls away before it becomes something else. Dean paints a little of Sam's spill on a nipple, sucks it off, grinning when Sam makes that noise in his throat again, then leaves his head there, cheek pressed right over Sam's heart, waiting for the rapid thud to slow down, get steadier.
By the time Sam tugs at his hair -- a warning he's going to move -- Dean's half a sleep already, but he eases off. Rolls to his back and watches Sam make his none too steady way to the bathroom. And he stares; like he can't when Sam's looking at him; at his brother's broad back, the shaggy hair brushing his neck and the narrow hips and small firm ass, at the long legs and barely marked curves, all hard muscle and lean lines, and the softer edge of Sam's jaw when he turns into the bathroom.
He hears the shower start up and closes his eyes. Murmurs of doubt crowding in, some of them bewildered, some of them bordering on ugly and vicious. His fingers brush through the damp feel of Sam's come on the sheets, inhales the sharp scent of sweat and sex.
This backfire makes no sound but it startles Dean just the same, even though it happens nearly every damn time.
It's different when Sam is right in front of him, asking for it, smiling like Dean's just bought him the best present ever, leering at him in a totally goofy Sam way, when he's the one making Dean make embarrassing noises.
Something warm and wet hits his stomach and his eyes snap open to see Sam leaning out of the bathroom, eyes both delighted and mischievous for smacking Dean with a washcloth, but with a smile so bright and genuine and just happy Dean can't help but grin back.
Nothing that puts that look on Sam's face could be all that wrong. It's just not possible. And when the humor fades a little in Sam's eyes to be replaced by something warmer, that truth sinks deep into Dean, settles the doubts.
"Hey…you wanna--?" Sam makes a vague gesture toward the bathroom, toward the warm water and the totally ridiculous notion of two large men trying to fit inside a small shower.
"Yeah," Dean says and gets up, Sam waiting for him, bending his head to kiss him.
Happy. Grateful. Amused. Maybe a little turned on.
Dean gives him a little push backwards and Sam laughs.
Dean does too, and leaves his doubts to dry up on the bed. They'll come back. He knows they will, but the cure is easy. A little soap and water and Sam's smile.
There's plenty of both.
comments? either rop me aline at maygra @ bellsouth.net or in my livejournal.