Fic: Some Really Good Ways (Dean/Sam)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating:NC-17 -- Wordcount: 3,000
Warnings: PWP, weecest, gunplay, object insertion, some painplay
Notes: Yesterday I started taking prompts to kick-start my muse and a couple of people mentioned gunkink. Again, I utterly fail to explain why the things I write get written, this one just did. IDK. Could possibly be seen as a prequel to Top-Quality Sins, but also stands alone. Anywho, here's a quickie for those of you with a weapons kink!
Summary - It’s probably got something to do with power, Sam figures; life and death, danger and protection, control, authority. He can’t really pretend there’s not a good bit of his brother mixed in the turmoil of it too. After all, it is Dean’s 9MM he’s licking.
It’s probably got something to do with power, Sam figures; life and death, danger and protection, control, authority. Something like that anyway. Or maybe it’s just the way he grew up, an inherent fixation on the limited number of stable objects in his life, the same way Dean has a hard-on for the car. Maybe it’s symbolic; the two-way cut of safety and risk that’s a pretty seamless metaphor for Sam’s entire life. Maybe Dean’s right about his taking English Lit too seriously. He can’t really pretend there’s not a good bit of his brother mixed in the turmoil of it too.
After all, it is Dean’s 9MM he’s licking.
The metal is still cold as his tongue curls around it, flavor of gunpowder and oil so sharp when he pushes the tip to a point and dips inside the barrel that it almost feels like his tastebuds are frying. He has never, not once in his whole life, been this hard. Getting moreso when the muzzle shifts against his mouth, turning sideways and pushing forward, grinding his lips between metal and his own teeth. There’s a command to it, but Sam doesn’t obey, waits until his brother gets frustrated enough to grab his chin with the hand not wielding a firearm and says, “Open.”
Sam hasn’t got a clue what this is, but he likes it, moans for it embarrassingly loud as he does as he’s told and parts his lips for the push of unyielding steel, tongue pressing out over his lower lip like a welcome mat. It’s a whole world away from what they usually do - a little bit of kissing, some rubbing. If Dean’s really drunk, sometimes he’ll tell Sam to finger himself so he can watch, but that’s as far as it’s ever gone.
A couple of days ago when Dean had walked in on him in the middle of… well, that thing he does sometimes when it’s his turn to clean the guns and nobody else is around, Sam had figured he was in for some kind of big lecture about firearms safety and how guns aren’t toys - especially not those kind of toys - but it hadn’t happened. Instead Dean had just stood there with his mouth gaping for a minute while Sam tried to decide whether it would be better to take the barrel out and pretend like it was all some elaborate hallucination Dean was having or to just keep going, press the rough edges into that spot and blow his wad like he had been freaking dying to. He hadn’t been able to make a decision before Dean turned and walked away, still looking totally shell-shocked, and they hadn’t talked about it since.
Well, not unless Dean coming in tonight, gun in hand, and ordering Sam to his knees counted as talking about it, which Sam was pretty sure it didn’t.
Talking is seriously overrated anyway.
It’s the same gun, Sam knows - knows every single one of them better than the back of his own hand - the one Dean got for his sixteenth birthday. His favorite. Sam had cleaned it the other night after he had finished with it, but it’s been fired since, a thin film of powder-soot clinging to his tongue over the slickness of gun oil. Tentatively, he sucks at it, glancing up at his brother through his bangs.
Dean’s eyes are glittering in the low light - hadn’t even bothered to turn on the overhead when he herded Sam into their bedroom, just left the door open so the light from the hall could spill in and turn the shadows weird and jagged. He looks wild and unreal, like something they’d hunt, or something that would hunt them. Sam’s pretty sure he wants to get caught. Pretty sure, but not all the way, and that slice of fear like splinters in his blood is enough to turn his nipples hard, make his skin tingle like it’s a live wire he’s suckling like a baby bottle instead of a Smith & Wesson.
The shape is awkward to seal his lips around, especially while trying to protect his teeth too. He ends up making a loud, obscene slurp around it that sends every ounce of blood not currently packing his cock to bursting flooding to his face instead. Dean, though, Dean sort of spasms because of it, just flinches kind of really hard and looks, like… desperate. Like watching Sam suck his gun is killing him in some really good ways. That fast, he puts a little more force behind his hand, pushes the barrel into Sam’s mouth up to the trigger guard, just far enough to make his body start to freak out and squirm over having something that close to the inside of his throat.
The safety’s on - gotta be, Dean would never really put Sam in danger - or maybe it’s not even loaded at all, but Sam doesn’t know and he can’t see, not like this and for some reason that just makes it hotter. He does his best to swallow the spit pooling in his mouth, mostly fails and ends up with it dribbling out the corners of his mouth, down his chin for Dean to thumb into his skin. The weight on his tongue is moving slowly, rocking more than thrusting, so he encourages it by carefully bobbing his head, ignoring the sloppy, wet sound of his mouth in favor of Dean’s low moan; the cruel dig of tepid, warming metal against the tender flesh of his mouth in favor of the feather of Dean’s fingers along is jaw, the slight pressure when they come to rest at the back of his head and guide his movements.
His hands are trapped in the bend of his knees to keep them off of his dick, heart pounding somewhere around his Adam’s apple, or maybe somewhere around his balls, it’s kind of hard to tell. Wherever it is, it kicks into high gear when his brother mutters, “That’s it, suck it wet, babyboy. S’all the lube you’re gonna get.”
Then Sam’s got everything he can do to keep from jizzing in his pants, so it’s just as well that Dean’s grip in his hair goes tight, feeding him inch after inch of rough metal only to take it back over and over at whatever pace his brother feels like setting. What he said about talking being overrated before? He was totally wrong.
God.
Sam’s in no way ready for it when Dean pulls the gun away, ends up chasing after it with his mouth wide open, pulled up short by a harsh twist of his brother’s wrist igniting a prickling pain in his scalp. One last, super-cooled thread of spit bridges between his lip and the muzzle, snaps back on him like recoil, gets smeared away by more wetness when Dean teases at his swollen mouth with the sight.
His brother growls, “Get your pants off,” loud in the sudden silence and Sam’s scrabbling at them instantly, fingers gone shaky and fuck-stupid. It doesn’t help that Dean chooses that moment to use the handle he’s got on Sam’s hair to haul him up practically off the floor into a kiss that would have left his lips bruised if they hadn’t been already. Dean’s mouth is so hot and soft after all of that steel, sweet fire licking around the inside of Sam’s mouth, under his tongue, over his teeth, hungry and urgent like he can suck the acrid bite of it right off of Sam’s tastebuds.
Somehow or other - freaking miracle for all Sam knows - his pants end up around his ankles and then halfway across the room in rapid succession. Not that it matters because Dean’s spinning him around and dragging him into his lap backward, thighs spread burning wide over his brother’s, and all pants everywhere can go screw off die for all Sam cares. Especially Dean’s. Dean really needs to be pantsless. Now.
There’s a very good chance that Sam says that out loud because Dean kind of chuckles, low rumble spreading out from his chest directly into Sam’s spine, making him shiver even as he feels like he’s burning alive. His knees are hooked around the outside of Dean’s, butt just shy of sitting on Dean’s crotch and instead hanging out in the empty air, balanced on his thighs and the hold Dean has around his waist. It doesn’t take a genius to guess why, but it still shocks a hiss out of Sam when Dean slides the gun down between the V of their legs, and presses it against Sam’s hole.
The air-cold touch ricochets up his spine, back down to nestle at the base of his cock, make it jump. He buries his face against the sweat-tacky curve of Dean’s neck to try and get some air and that doesn’t even make sense but like he really gives a shit, ok? He’s never done it like this before, never taken it straight from the word go, always at least a couple of fingers to work up to it before he went this far. It’s going to hurt, probably a lot, probably leave a little leak of blood from the nub of the sight scraping inside of him and a deep, deep ache whenever he moves for days. If Dean doesn’t do it right the hell now Sam’s going to beg.
“Want it, don’t you?” Dean asks like it’s not a question at all. All he’s got for an answer is a moan yanked right from the pit of his belly when the pressure against his opening changes, barrel angled a little to let one edge slip just inside, pop back out again. “Wanna get fucked up the ass with my gun. Such a little bitch, Sammy, I swear to God,” and somehow it all comes out sounding like praise, makes Sam’s skin itch on the inside like it’s shrinking or he’s swelling or-
Fuck. Oh fucking fuck.
Dean pushes, relentless, just doesn’t even try to stop and there’s nothing for Sam’s body to do but get out of the way; split wide and open up, nerves and muscles and every last particle screaming wrong. Sam’s lungs are seizing, drawing in air on reflex but punching it right back out again because there’s no room in him, no room for anything but the unwavering fullness of steel.
His brother is saying things to him that Sam’s not anywhere close to understanding. Soft tiny words all messed up around softer, tinier kisses, the same voice Sam knows from every time he’s ever had a fever or caught a cold. All “shh”s and “babyboy”s and some things that don’t match up about “hot” and “fuck so hard” and “love you”. Sam doesn’t know and doesn’t really care right now, feels like his joints are trembling and the vibrations are shaking outward through his marrow, his fingernail, his fucking hair follicles.
The pressure inside of him is shifting, subtle, and he looks down dazedly to watch Dean’s palm rolling against the butt of the gun, his own hips churning in time to it all by themselves. The trigger guard is pressed up tight to the blank space between the clenched weight of his balls and the flushed stretch of his hole around the matte, black shadow of the gun. It looks really, really sexy and he can’t even attempt to hold back a whimper as his body clamps down around the bizarre intrusion, tries to work out exactly what that thing feels like. It’s all angles and dips and divots and it’s only a couple of inches really but it feels like forever, so big that he’ll never close back up again.
His dick is leaking all over the place, the whole length of it shiny in the random snatches of light as he moves, painting his belly wet with the blood-dark tip. It jumps like he’s been struck by lightning when Dean pulls, just a little bit, maybe a quarter inch of slick black metal drawing out, his rim clinging to it hopelessly, before it’s pushing back in again. Barely even fucking him and it’s better than anything; better than anything has ever been, ever.
He doesn’t remember getting his shirt off, but it’s not on anymore, so he must’ve, or Dean must’ve or something and he’s just really stupidly grateful right now because it means Dean can finger at his nipples, tease and pinch and pluck and give all of the aimless current of energy thrumming through him somewhere to go. The same way Dean’s mouthing at his neck, behind his ear, breath as loud and unsteady as the pulse rushing in Sam’s ears. They’re both still watching the movement between his legs though; Sam can feel the weight of his brother’s eyes as surely as he can the trapped heat of his cock against Sam’s spine. He can’t blame Dean, he can’t take his eyes off of it either, not for all the money in the world.
There’s a fast, quiet snik, hardly even audible over the non-sense sounds they’re both making and the white-noise of machine-gunning breath, but Sam knows it in his bones, doesn’t even need to see the tiny red dot staring up at him like the eye of death to know that Dean just flicked the safety off.
It’s not loaded, it can’t be. It’s not even really cocked and Dean would never, ever risk it, not a snowball’s chance in hell, but it’s there, right there; the what if, the chance, because Sam hasn’t seen the chamber, doesn’t really know, just has to trust, trust absolutely the way he always has with his brother. He bucks down harder against the friction inside him, pushes the guard up against the nerves or tendons or whatever the fuck is in the middle space that makes it feel so good, watches Dean’s finger stretch out and curl like a promise around the trigger.
He’s going to fucking cream so fucking hard.
Sam thrashes like a wild animal, so totally gone on adrenalin and fake fear, one hand digging at Dean’s around his middle, the other clawing at his brother’s skull, just trying to find a place to hang on, to hold it the hell together when it feels like he’s going to fly apart any second. His brother gasps like he’s the one getting socked with it when he shoves the gun in brutally, blood blooming instantly under the surface of the skin and if he pulled the trigger Sam would never know it because his whole world has narrowed down to the flex release of abused muscles as he comes and comes and comes. So good and sweet and so, so messed up. Thank God, thank fucking God.
If he had the breath for it, he’d sob when Dean gently pulls the muzzle free, his hole fluttering and mouthing at the sudden emptiness. He can’t open his eyes when he hears it thud dully on the carpet, or when he feels Dean get a hand between them to work his own dick out of his jeans, just has to ride it out, boneless, blissed. The shove of Dean’s tongue in his mouth would be a surprise if he could feel things like that at the moment, the same way the rough push of his fingers past Sam’s rim would be, but he can’t, so he mostly just moans and sucks messily at Dean’s lips. The knuckles of Dean’s other hand keep bumping against the small of his back, small fast motions turning the skin hot for the ten or so seconds it takes before Dean’s body tries to jackknife in on both of them, wet spatters of heat dotting Sam’s back.
His brother’s wordless groans steadily turn into, “fuck”s, the crush of his arms loosening to let them both flop back limply on the bed. There’s still two thick fingertips spreading his hole, maybe a little bigger than the gun but warm and smooth, a slow, easy burn against his raw insides, so he’s not going to complain yet. Dean will remember in a minute.
“Hottest thing ever,” gets moaned against his forehead after a while, wiped away by an uncoordinated kiss. Sam hums his agreement, already sliding toward sleep from the constant rise and fall of his brother’s chest beneath him.
Dean seems determined to screw that up though, going on to say, “You’re not allowed to clean the guns by yourself anymore,” and-
Oh! Ah. Ok, now he remembers where his fingers are at, but he doesn’t seem particularly inclined to pull them out, just sort of rubbing, slow and almost soothing except for how it’s kind of electric too. Sam lifts his chin to find Dean’s lips with his own with a sound that could be interpreted as either stop or don’t stop. At the moment, he’s kind of ok with either one.
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating:NC-17 -- Wordcount: 3,000
Warnings: PWP, weecest, gunplay, object insertion, some painplay
Notes: Yesterday I started taking prompts to kick-start my muse and a couple of people mentioned gunkink. Again, I utterly fail to explain why the things I write get written, this one just did. IDK. Could possibly be seen as a prequel to Top-Quality Sins, but also stands alone. Anywho, here's a quickie for those of you with a weapons kink!
Summary - It’s probably got something to do with power, Sam figures; life and death, danger and protection, control, authority. He can’t really pretend there’s not a good bit of his brother mixed in the turmoil of it too. After all, it is Dean’s 9MM he’s licking.
It’s probably got something to do with power, Sam figures; life and death, danger and protection, control, authority. Something like that anyway. Or maybe it’s just the way he grew up, an inherent fixation on the limited number of stable objects in his life, the same way Dean has a hard-on for the car. Maybe it’s symbolic; the two-way cut of safety and risk that’s a pretty seamless metaphor for Sam’s entire life. Maybe Dean’s right about his taking English Lit too seriously. He can’t really pretend there’s not a good bit of his brother mixed in the turmoil of it too.
After all, it is Dean’s 9MM he’s licking.
The metal is still cold as his tongue curls around it, flavor of gunpowder and oil so sharp when he pushes the tip to a point and dips inside the barrel that it almost feels like his tastebuds are frying. He has never, not once in his whole life, been this hard. Getting moreso when the muzzle shifts against his mouth, turning sideways and pushing forward, grinding his lips between metal and his own teeth. There’s a command to it, but Sam doesn’t obey, waits until his brother gets frustrated enough to grab his chin with the hand not wielding a firearm and says, “Open.”
Sam hasn’t got a clue what this is, but he likes it, moans for it embarrassingly loud as he does as he’s told and parts his lips for the push of unyielding steel, tongue pressing out over his lower lip like a welcome mat. It’s a whole world away from what they usually do - a little bit of kissing, some rubbing. If Dean’s really drunk, sometimes he’ll tell Sam to finger himself so he can watch, but that’s as far as it’s ever gone.
A couple of days ago when Dean had walked in on him in the middle of… well, that thing he does sometimes when it’s his turn to clean the guns and nobody else is around, Sam had figured he was in for some kind of big lecture about firearms safety and how guns aren’t toys - especially not those kind of toys - but it hadn’t happened. Instead Dean had just stood there with his mouth gaping for a minute while Sam tried to decide whether it would be better to take the barrel out and pretend like it was all some elaborate hallucination Dean was having or to just keep going, press the rough edges into that spot and blow his wad like he had been freaking dying to. He hadn’t been able to make a decision before Dean turned and walked away, still looking totally shell-shocked, and they hadn’t talked about it since.
Well, not unless Dean coming in tonight, gun in hand, and ordering Sam to his knees counted as talking about it, which Sam was pretty sure it didn’t.
Talking is seriously overrated anyway.
It’s the same gun, Sam knows - knows every single one of them better than the back of his own hand - the one Dean got for his sixteenth birthday. His favorite. Sam had cleaned it the other night after he had finished with it, but it’s been fired since, a thin film of powder-soot clinging to his tongue over the slickness of gun oil. Tentatively, he sucks at it, glancing up at his brother through his bangs.
Dean’s eyes are glittering in the low light - hadn’t even bothered to turn on the overhead when he herded Sam into their bedroom, just left the door open so the light from the hall could spill in and turn the shadows weird and jagged. He looks wild and unreal, like something they’d hunt, or something that would hunt them. Sam’s pretty sure he wants to get caught. Pretty sure, but not all the way, and that slice of fear like splinters in his blood is enough to turn his nipples hard, make his skin tingle like it’s a live wire he’s suckling like a baby bottle instead of a Smith & Wesson.
The shape is awkward to seal his lips around, especially while trying to protect his teeth too. He ends up making a loud, obscene slurp around it that sends every ounce of blood not currently packing his cock to bursting flooding to his face instead. Dean, though, Dean sort of spasms because of it, just flinches kind of really hard and looks, like… desperate. Like watching Sam suck his gun is killing him in some really good ways. That fast, he puts a little more force behind his hand, pushes the barrel into Sam’s mouth up to the trigger guard, just far enough to make his body start to freak out and squirm over having something that close to the inside of his throat.
The safety’s on - gotta be, Dean would never really put Sam in danger - or maybe it’s not even loaded at all, but Sam doesn’t know and he can’t see, not like this and for some reason that just makes it hotter. He does his best to swallow the spit pooling in his mouth, mostly fails and ends up with it dribbling out the corners of his mouth, down his chin for Dean to thumb into his skin. The weight on his tongue is moving slowly, rocking more than thrusting, so he encourages it by carefully bobbing his head, ignoring the sloppy, wet sound of his mouth in favor of Dean’s low moan; the cruel dig of tepid, warming metal against the tender flesh of his mouth in favor of the feather of Dean’s fingers along is jaw, the slight pressure when they come to rest at the back of his head and guide his movements.
His hands are trapped in the bend of his knees to keep them off of his dick, heart pounding somewhere around his Adam’s apple, or maybe somewhere around his balls, it’s kind of hard to tell. Wherever it is, it kicks into high gear when his brother mutters, “That’s it, suck it wet, babyboy. S’all the lube you’re gonna get.”
Then Sam’s got everything he can do to keep from jizzing in his pants, so it’s just as well that Dean’s grip in his hair goes tight, feeding him inch after inch of rough metal only to take it back over and over at whatever pace his brother feels like setting. What he said about talking being overrated before? He was totally wrong.
God.
Sam’s in no way ready for it when Dean pulls the gun away, ends up chasing after it with his mouth wide open, pulled up short by a harsh twist of his brother’s wrist igniting a prickling pain in his scalp. One last, super-cooled thread of spit bridges between his lip and the muzzle, snaps back on him like recoil, gets smeared away by more wetness when Dean teases at his swollen mouth with the sight.
His brother growls, “Get your pants off,” loud in the sudden silence and Sam’s scrabbling at them instantly, fingers gone shaky and fuck-stupid. It doesn’t help that Dean chooses that moment to use the handle he’s got on Sam’s hair to haul him up practically off the floor into a kiss that would have left his lips bruised if they hadn’t been already. Dean’s mouth is so hot and soft after all of that steel, sweet fire licking around the inside of Sam’s mouth, under his tongue, over his teeth, hungry and urgent like he can suck the acrid bite of it right off of Sam’s tastebuds.
Somehow or other - freaking miracle for all Sam knows - his pants end up around his ankles and then halfway across the room in rapid succession. Not that it matters because Dean’s spinning him around and dragging him into his lap backward, thighs spread burning wide over his brother’s, and all pants everywhere can go screw off die for all Sam cares. Especially Dean’s. Dean really needs to be pantsless. Now.
There’s a very good chance that Sam says that out loud because Dean kind of chuckles, low rumble spreading out from his chest directly into Sam’s spine, making him shiver even as he feels like he’s burning alive. His knees are hooked around the outside of Dean’s, butt just shy of sitting on Dean’s crotch and instead hanging out in the empty air, balanced on his thighs and the hold Dean has around his waist. It doesn’t take a genius to guess why, but it still shocks a hiss out of Sam when Dean slides the gun down between the V of their legs, and presses it against Sam’s hole.
The air-cold touch ricochets up his spine, back down to nestle at the base of his cock, make it jump. He buries his face against the sweat-tacky curve of Dean’s neck to try and get some air and that doesn’t even make sense but like he really gives a shit, ok? He’s never done it like this before, never taken it straight from the word go, always at least a couple of fingers to work up to it before he went this far. It’s going to hurt, probably a lot, probably leave a little leak of blood from the nub of the sight scraping inside of him and a deep, deep ache whenever he moves for days. If Dean doesn’t do it right the hell now Sam’s going to beg.
“Want it, don’t you?” Dean asks like it’s not a question at all. All he’s got for an answer is a moan yanked right from the pit of his belly when the pressure against his opening changes, barrel angled a little to let one edge slip just inside, pop back out again. “Wanna get fucked up the ass with my gun. Such a little bitch, Sammy, I swear to God,” and somehow it all comes out sounding like praise, makes Sam’s skin itch on the inside like it’s shrinking or he’s swelling or-
Fuck. Oh fucking fuck.
Dean pushes, relentless, just doesn’t even try to stop and there’s nothing for Sam’s body to do but get out of the way; split wide and open up, nerves and muscles and every last particle screaming wrong. Sam’s lungs are seizing, drawing in air on reflex but punching it right back out again because there’s no room in him, no room for anything but the unwavering fullness of steel.
His brother is saying things to him that Sam’s not anywhere close to understanding. Soft tiny words all messed up around softer, tinier kisses, the same voice Sam knows from every time he’s ever had a fever or caught a cold. All “shh”s and “babyboy”s and some things that don’t match up about “hot” and “fuck so hard” and “love you”. Sam doesn’t know and doesn’t really care right now, feels like his joints are trembling and the vibrations are shaking outward through his marrow, his fingernail, his fucking hair follicles.
The pressure inside of him is shifting, subtle, and he looks down dazedly to watch Dean’s palm rolling against the butt of the gun, his own hips churning in time to it all by themselves. The trigger guard is pressed up tight to the blank space between the clenched weight of his balls and the flushed stretch of his hole around the matte, black shadow of the gun. It looks really, really sexy and he can’t even attempt to hold back a whimper as his body clamps down around the bizarre intrusion, tries to work out exactly what that thing feels like. It’s all angles and dips and divots and it’s only a couple of inches really but it feels like forever, so big that he’ll never close back up again.
His dick is leaking all over the place, the whole length of it shiny in the random snatches of light as he moves, painting his belly wet with the blood-dark tip. It jumps like he’s been struck by lightning when Dean pulls, just a little bit, maybe a quarter inch of slick black metal drawing out, his rim clinging to it hopelessly, before it’s pushing back in again. Barely even fucking him and it’s better than anything; better than anything has ever been, ever.
He doesn’t remember getting his shirt off, but it’s not on anymore, so he must’ve, or Dean must’ve or something and he’s just really stupidly grateful right now because it means Dean can finger at his nipples, tease and pinch and pluck and give all of the aimless current of energy thrumming through him somewhere to go. The same way Dean’s mouthing at his neck, behind his ear, breath as loud and unsteady as the pulse rushing in Sam’s ears. They’re both still watching the movement between his legs though; Sam can feel the weight of his brother’s eyes as surely as he can the trapped heat of his cock against Sam’s spine. He can’t blame Dean, he can’t take his eyes off of it either, not for all the money in the world.
There’s a fast, quiet snik, hardly even audible over the non-sense sounds they’re both making and the white-noise of machine-gunning breath, but Sam knows it in his bones, doesn’t even need to see the tiny red dot staring up at him like the eye of death to know that Dean just flicked the safety off.
It’s not loaded, it can’t be. It’s not even really cocked and Dean would never, ever risk it, not a snowball’s chance in hell, but it’s there, right there; the what if, the chance, because Sam hasn’t seen the chamber, doesn’t really know, just has to trust, trust absolutely the way he always has with his brother. He bucks down harder against the friction inside him, pushes the guard up against the nerves or tendons or whatever the fuck is in the middle space that makes it feel so good, watches Dean’s finger stretch out and curl like a promise around the trigger.
He’s going to fucking cream so fucking hard.
Sam thrashes like a wild animal, so totally gone on adrenalin and fake fear, one hand digging at Dean’s around his middle, the other clawing at his brother’s skull, just trying to find a place to hang on, to hold it the hell together when it feels like he’s going to fly apart any second. His brother gasps like he’s the one getting socked with it when he shoves the gun in brutally, blood blooming instantly under the surface of the skin and if he pulled the trigger Sam would never know it because his whole world has narrowed down to the flex release of abused muscles as he comes and comes and comes. So good and sweet and so, so messed up. Thank God, thank fucking God.
If he had the breath for it, he’d sob when Dean gently pulls the muzzle free, his hole fluttering and mouthing at the sudden emptiness. He can’t open his eyes when he hears it thud dully on the carpet, or when he feels Dean get a hand between them to work his own dick out of his jeans, just has to ride it out, boneless, blissed. The shove of Dean’s tongue in his mouth would be a surprise if he could feel things like that at the moment, the same way the rough push of his fingers past Sam’s rim would be, but he can’t, so he mostly just moans and sucks messily at Dean’s lips. The knuckles of Dean’s other hand keep bumping against the small of his back, small fast motions turning the skin hot for the ten or so seconds it takes before Dean’s body tries to jackknife in on both of them, wet spatters of heat dotting Sam’s back.
His brother’s wordless groans steadily turn into, “fuck”s, the crush of his arms loosening to let them both flop back limply on the bed. There’s still two thick fingertips spreading his hole, maybe a little bigger than the gun but warm and smooth, a slow, easy burn against his raw insides, so he’s not going to complain yet. Dean will remember in a minute.
“Hottest thing ever,” gets moaned against his forehead after a while, wiped away by an uncoordinated kiss. Sam hums his agreement, already sliding toward sleep from the constant rise and fall of his brother’s chest beneath him.
Dean seems determined to screw that up though, going on to say, “You’re not allowed to clean the guns by yourself anymore,” and-
Oh! Ah. Ok, now he remembers where his fingers are at, but he doesn’t seem particularly inclined to pull them out, just sort of rubbing, slow and almost soothing except for how it’s kind of electric too. Sam lifts his chin to find Dean’s lips with his own with a sound that could be interpreted as either stop or don’t stop. At the moment, he’s kind of ok with either one.