Fic: Slow Ride (Dean/Sam)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 3,300
Warnings: PWP, Impala!sex (literally), barebacking, prostate milking, comeplay
Notes: Tales from the WIP folder! IDK why, but I was kinda feeling like some car porn, so here's some car porn. Have I mentioned how I am very literal?
Summary - It's a sickness, an obsession, a level of sexual depravity that would send most people running the other direction as fast as their legs would carry them.
On AO3
It's a sickness, an obsession, a level of sexual depravity that would send most people running the other direction as fast as their legs would carry them. And it's not even because the obscenely hot, naked guy spread out in front of Dean just begging to get fucked happens to be his baby brother - though that is hotter than a lava flow in hell too. It's that his obscenely hot, naked baby brother is begging to get fucked while laid out on the smooth, freshly-waxed, midnight black exterior of Dean's fucking car like sin itself. Somebody's going to have to come up with a new measure of temperature because degrees is just not going to cut it anymore with this much hotness flying around.
Dean's had this fantasy basically since he started having fantasies. It wasn't always Sam - he'd been a little kid back then, and even Dean's corruption has some bounds - and then even when it was, well, he never would have imagined Sammy growing up to look like he grew up to look, and now - now - he finally gets to have it.
They don't have the luxury of a garage very often - this whole thing may or may not have been the reason Dean insisted on squatting at one of the under construction condos on the edge of town rather than getting a motel room - so he's had to wait a while since this thing started between them to bring up this particular bit of wish-fulfillment. He'd kind of expected the requisite eyeroll-headshake that Sam had given him when he'd finally worked up the stones to ask for it, but he really hadn't expected Sam to be getting off on it just as hard as Dean is. Not that the kid will admit it, but naked and laid out on the hood like an offering, it's kind of hard to hide the dirty-slick trails of precome on his belly.
The garage lighting is shitty and everything smells like sawdust and paint and if Dean has ever been this hard before, he can't think when it was. Sam's got one of those bodies like you look at on statues and say 'real dudes do not fucking look like that' except instead of one of those pencil-dicks like the statues usually have, Sammy's a porn star from the waist down because God really just loves Dean that much.
It's a little too cold out to be totally comfortable considering they’re surrounded by nothing but concrete and sheet rock, but the Impala's still warm - he'd had her running while he soaped her down; it's all about the details - when Dean lays his hands on the hood on either side of Sam's hips. Sammy rolls them just a little bit, making his back arch and his abs bunch, feet braced on the front fender, bracketing Dean's body.
"Such a freak," Sam accuses, amused, a wicked twist of a grin turning his pretty face into a promise. One of his legs curves around Dean, pulling him in that last bit so he's pressed up tight against the car, grill just this side of uncomfortably warm through his jeans. The Impala is a little bit too short for the hard, leaking bulge of Dean's cock to press up against it like this, but it's the perfect height for his to sink right into Sam and pound him good, if that's the part of this show they were at yet. And damn but it's tempting to go on and skip ahead ; hell, he probably would except Dean's been thinking about various permutations of this basically since he discovered what his dick was for - no way is he tossing the script now.
Instead he struggles with the tube of lube stuffed awkwardly into his pocket, finally manages to get it free and pops the cap. The slick dribbles over his fingers, body-warm and runny, some of it escaping down his forearm to drip over the elbow and down onto the finished concrete floor with a soft patter. Neat and clean isn't really the name of that game at the moment.
Sam cants his hips up as Dean dips his fingers into the shadowed space between them, giving Dean easy access to the tight clench of his hole. Not having sex with Sam all day long has been a feat in and of itself with all of these images of what was to come later knocking around in his head but for the needy moan that ekes out of Sam, it’s worth it.
His brother has this thing where he likes to pretend he’s some average-joe, vanilla, missionary-with-the-lights-off kind of guy, which is probably at least half of why Dean gets off like he’s getting paid for it on making Sam come apart for him and slide into that state of mind where he just doesn’t care about a damn thing but getting fucked. Truth be told, kid would have made a fortune in skin flicks with the way he arches and groans, cut muscles turning shadows into a XXX light show. His mouth falls open to pant raggedly and Dean’s spent years listening to shit about his own dick sucking lips but it’s that sweet, bitten-red mouth that’s got the real talent in that department and nobody but him is even smart enough to realize it. Dean just fucking loves that.
Sammy has always opened up for it easy, so damn ready any time Dean’ll give it to him, and if this were any normal fuck Dean would already be replacing the push of his three fingers with his cock, sheathing himself in that overwhelming, tight cling. But this isn’t that and even though his dick’s practically screaming at him to just shove in and pound hard, he knows down in his bones this’ll be worth every second of the wait.
The tips of his fingers press hard into Sam’s sweet spot, his brother jerking every time like he’s been jabbed with a cattle prod. It’s a good thing there’s nobody else living out here yet or they’d probably have the cops called on them already with the way Sam is wailing, fingers looped into the joint where hood meets windshield like he’ll fly apart if he doesn’t hang on. His dick is a deep, angry red, lurching with every just-right shove of Dean’s fingers and making an indecent, wet tap each time it meets the precome-smeared flat of his belly.
Long legs are clenched tight around the backs of Dean’s, making sure he doesn’t go anywhere as if there’s a single place in the world he’d rather be. A rough skippy chant of his name is pouring out of his brother’s mouth, strained and jagged as Sam gets closer and closer to the inevitable. One more merciless thrust in, Dean holding his fingers right there, relentlessly working and Sam surrenders.
Thick pearly strands jolt out of him, Dean’s free hand angling his pulsing shaft so the ropey mess spatters out onto sleek black paint, adding an extra coat of gloss to the mirror-shine. Sam’s heels dig bruises into the meat of Dean’s ass and his fingers scrabble helplessly over the windshield leaving streaks of sweat. Dean keeps milking him until Sam’s body tries to curl in on itself, the last few leaps of his cock leaving the mouth of the slit flexing emptily, drained, before he finally lets up.
Sam whines when his fingers pull free, his legs clutching at Dean almost tight enough to steal his breath. There’s a dark flush spread all the way down Sam’s chest, leading up to the livid, exertion-splotchy red of his face. Sweat-dark curls are pasted to his forehead, tumbled out in a halo around him, bits of it almost blending with the paint-job like Sam’s melting into the Impala or she’s solidifying in to him - one way or the other. Dean’s dick fucking aches.
He allows his brother a minute or two to recover, trying to be all sensitive to his needs and shit, before he just can’t take it anymore, has to get this show on the road. He stretches up and snarls his fingers in Sam’s hair, uses it to urge him over a couple of inches, within reach of one glittering dollop of come. One of his very favorite things about fucking Sammy is how willing he is afterward, more than happy to just go along with whatever without a fight the way he almost never is in any other aspect of his life and right now with Sam’s body easing up and going limp, following Dean’s tacit orders, Dean’s more thankful for it than ever.
Pink and obscene, Sam’s tongue wanders out, slow like a tease even though it’s probably more of a lack of coordination than anything. The very tip of it presses into the white slick as if he has to test the waters and then he’s lapping it up, no pretense of prissiness, just slow, broad swipes over metal and come, drinking it down drop by drop.
His lips pout against cooling steel, blood-bright, swollen flesh turning shiny-wet as he mouths, kisses, at the surface of the hood. Sammy making out with his fucking car, tonguing and slurping, moaning shamelessly, starting to rub himself against it as he recovers some control over his body.
Dean fumbles blindly at the fly of his jeans, unwilling to take his eyes off of the display his brother’s putting on. This is so much better than he’d hoped.
Sam has turned himself over on his stomach by now, the thin layer of not-yet-dry sweat on his skin slide-sticking against the hood, soft squeals of friction as he works his way across the surface to clean every smear off her pristine surface. He has to be pretty well fucked-out but his cock hasn’t softened any further than half-mast, the ruddy, fat length of it trying to swell against glossy paint. His nipples are dark, perky points, sharply caressed by the midnight exterior, ass this perfect swell outlined in pitch. Lube is still shining on the insides of his thighs, catching the light as he moves and the whole damn thing has Dean about four seconds away from drooling all over the floor.
The first touch of his own hand is whisper-light and still nearly overwhelming, dragging a pain-pleasure hiss out of him that gets Sammy’s eyes darting up. For just a second his brother pauses, that satisfied haze in his eyes turning hot and wicked enough that Dean feels like it would be burning against his skin. His next lick is exaggerated, practically slow motion; stark violent pink skimming over night-black and the spangled white of his own come. After, he presses his mouth back flat to the gleaming surface, lashes fluttering for effect and groans like he always does when Dean’s dick sinks into him, the pull of a smile at the corner of his lips just making the sound even more debauched.
It doesn’t take much to get Sammy angled the way he needs him, pulling his legs around a little so that Dean slots right up between them, stray traces of lube staining the jeans still clinging to his hips. Sam makes that noise again, deep and wanton, a dare of a look hooked over his shoulder in Dean’s direction as he grinds himself down against Dean’s baby, back against Dean’s cock.
Sammy’s wet and open enough that Dean could slip inside easy but the kid’s being a little too cocky about all this for Dean’s taste and he figures it’s about time baby brother got a reminder of who exactly is in charge here. The fact that the ragged, hungry gasp that wrings out of Sam when he smacks a hand to each of his brother’s ass cheeks and digs his fingers in to roughly spread him open makes Dean’s cock twitch is totally coincidental. Sam groans and shoves back into Dean’s touch, stretched open hole flexing like a plea in the bright spill of light. Yeah, Dean aint the only freak in the gene-pool.
“What do you want, baby boy?” he teases, rubbing the leaking head of his cock over Sam’s hole. It’s sort of entrancing how the rim catches against his skin, pulls open eagerly with every slide of the head like it’s trying to entice him in.
Sam lays himself out flat over the hood like an gift, the fug of panted, shuddering breaths beading up on the Impala’s paintjob. “Dean. C’mon,” is a whine, the exact same one Dean’s had tossed at him a hundred thousand times in his life over everything from candy to video games to borrowing the car.
And that’s the shit that really nails him when it gets down to it, what makes this here a million percent better than any random hook up he’s ever had plastered to the back seat or sprawled out over the hood - it’s Sam, his Sammy, his whiny, bitching, beautiful, slut-for-his-big-brother Sam and when it comes right down to it, this pretty well covers everything Dean’s every needed out of life.
With the possible exception of cheeseburgers, beer and pie, but hey, they gotta leave something for next time, right?
There’s a loud smack as the flat of Sam’s hand comes down against the hood when Dean shoves in all the way to the root. He grinds in a little harder in retaliation like that’s going to be any kind of punishment and Sammy’s hand at least has the decency to go loose. His jaw too, for that matter, letting out a high-pitched mewl, bottom lip dragging on metal as he tosses his head. Goddamn, it’s just never going to get old how well Sam takes to being stuffed full.
Finesse and technique are long by-passed ideas, giving way instead to brutal thrusts that probably bruise Sam’s hips against the edge of the grill and a constant steady pound that chops Sam’s voice to pieces like when he was a little kid and he’d holler as they drove down a bumpy road just to listen to the sound of it shake.
He’s burning hot inside, clutching and just tight enough to feel like a slippery slice of fresh-baked heaven wrapped around Dean’s dick. It’s got him going crazy twice as fast as usual, everything else added on top of it conspiring against him to steal everything but the driving need to get off.
The air - crisp-cool and tingly against Dean’s skin, the t-shirt he’s long since sweated through - is punctuated by the harsh sucking sound of Sam’s damp body peeling away from the paintjob and then slamming right back into it and his brother’s rough, growling praise that’s more wordless encouragement than anything. Dean’s making a fair amount of noise on his own, the sounds of it echoing back at him from the bare walls, the thin metal garage door. Anybody who walked by would know what they were up to in here and that in itself is enough to make Dean helpless to stop himself. The same way he can’t stop himself from bending in half to paste his body to Sam’s back, one hand clutched up close to the windshield just like Sam’s had earlier, the other digging red crescents into Sam’s shoulder.
“Oh, fuck, Dean,” Sam cries, desperate, almost scared - it’s the same way he sounds every time things are particularly good between them and it socks Dean in the gut every single time. Like he didn’t have enough messed-up associations to start with.
His brother’s nuzzling at the sweat-messy expanse of the car beneath him, eyes shut tight, so close even though Dean’s damn sure that the kid’s got nothing more to give up if he gets there. This deep into things, Sam’s like a wild creature, like he just loses his ever-loving mind, so it’s probably not a ploy, probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, when he opens his mouth and tongues another wet, filthy kiss to the Imapala’s hood and breaks Dean apart from the inside out.
It’s like diving into boiling water, heat everywhere, soaking into his bones, and he can’t swim out of it, can’t do a damn thing but lock up and let it ride him as he sandwiches his baby brother between his own spasming body and the only real woman in his life, their life, their home.
Maybe Sam loses it again and maybe he doesn’t - hard to tell after the way Dean milked him during round one, even after he pulls himself together enough to worm a hand between Sam and the hood and finds his brother’s dick soft and twitching-sensitive. Sam makes some kind of protest about it, but his voice cracks off into nothingness halfway through. Sure sign that he’s been fucked good and proper.
Yes, Dean does feel smug, thanks for asking.
Sam’s next gripe, several minutes down the line, finally does come out as words even if they are sort of smeared together by the lazy slur of his swollen mouth. “Crushin’ me, jerk.”
He doesn’t actually move to do anything about it, though, and the way he hangs limply under Dean’s weight suggests he’s about 30 seconds from crashing out hard. Much as Dean loves his brother, he doesn’t exactly relish the thought of hauling that much dead weight into the house to their makeshift bedroom. Particularly considering he’s not really sure he can haul his own in there either.
“Alright, c’mon Samantha,” he grunts, grudgingly getting his feet back under him properly and pulling away from the sweat-sweet warmth of his brother’s body. A quick smack on the ass has Sam jolted back to consciousness enough to grumble and start peeling himself off of the car too, skin clinging for just a second like the two of them fused just a bit. Yeah, next time they need to get a Polaroid or something - that visual deserves to be captured on film.
Also, lots more soap. His baby is going to need a serious cleaning in the morning.
Sam stays standing for exactly as long as it takes him to get over to Dean and collapse against him, all overheated and wet and gross. It’s awesome. Dean almost completely doesn’t mind - not that he’s ever going to let that slip out loud.
“So, was it everything you hoped for?” Sammy mutters patronizingly against his ear, although any sting there might have been to it gets lost in the fact that he sounds like the cat that got the cream and a promise of the canary too.
“It was alright,” Dean breezes, managing with minor difficulty to get them both up the two steps to the door to the main house, “Might have to practice a couple more times before you really get it right, though.”
Sam chuckles into the curve of his neck, slow and tired, but content. “Yeah, yeah. Such a freak.”
He nips gently at Dean’s skin, soothes it away with a slower, wetter kiss. Dean’s going to have the image of that mouth pressed up against the Impala on a loop in his head for weeks, he can already tell.
“Right back at ya, baby boy,” he laughs back, getting a palmful of Sam’s ass again just because he can as they do a drunken sort of three-legged race into the living room where they’ve thrown down some blankets for a pallet. “Right back at ya.”
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 3,300
Warnings: PWP, Impala!sex (literally), barebacking, prostate milking, comeplay
Notes: Tales from the WIP folder! IDK why, but I was kinda feeling like some car porn, so here's some car porn. Have I mentioned how I am very literal?
Summary - It's a sickness, an obsession, a level of sexual depravity that would send most people running the other direction as fast as their legs would carry them.
On AO3
It's a sickness, an obsession, a level of sexual depravity that would send most people running the other direction as fast as their legs would carry them. And it's not even because the obscenely hot, naked guy spread out in front of Dean just begging to get fucked happens to be his baby brother - though that is hotter than a lava flow in hell too. It's that his obscenely hot, naked baby brother is begging to get fucked while laid out on the smooth, freshly-waxed, midnight black exterior of Dean's fucking car like sin itself. Somebody's going to have to come up with a new measure of temperature because degrees is just not going to cut it anymore with this much hotness flying around.
Dean's had this fantasy basically since he started having fantasies. It wasn't always Sam - he'd been a little kid back then, and even Dean's corruption has some bounds - and then even when it was, well, he never would have imagined Sammy growing up to look like he grew up to look, and now - now - he finally gets to have it.
They don't have the luxury of a garage very often - this whole thing may or may not have been the reason Dean insisted on squatting at one of the under construction condos on the edge of town rather than getting a motel room - so he's had to wait a while since this thing started between them to bring up this particular bit of wish-fulfillment. He'd kind of expected the requisite eyeroll-headshake that Sam had given him when he'd finally worked up the stones to ask for it, but he really hadn't expected Sam to be getting off on it just as hard as Dean is. Not that the kid will admit it, but naked and laid out on the hood like an offering, it's kind of hard to hide the dirty-slick trails of precome on his belly.
The garage lighting is shitty and everything smells like sawdust and paint and if Dean has ever been this hard before, he can't think when it was. Sam's got one of those bodies like you look at on statues and say 'real dudes do not fucking look like that' except instead of one of those pencil-dicks like the statues usually have, Sammy's a porn star from the waist down because God really just loves Dean that much.
It's a little too cold out to be totally comfortable considering they’re surrounded by nothing but concrete and sheet rock, but the Impala's still warm - he'd had her running while he soaped her down; it's all about the details - when Dean lays his hands on the hood on either side of Sam's hips. Sammy rolls them just a little bit, making his back arch and his abs bunch, feet braced on the front fender, bracketing Dean's body.
"Such a freak," Sam accuses, amused, a wicked twist of a grin turning his pretty face into a promise. One of his legs curves around Dean, pulling him in that last bit so he's pressed up tight against the car, grill just this side of uncomfortably warm through his jeans. The Impala is a little bit too short for the hard, leaking bulge of Dean's cock to press up against it like this, but it's the perfect height for his to sink right into Sam and pound him good, if that's the part of this show they were at yet. And damn but it's tempting to go on and skip ahead ; hell, he probably would except Dean's been thinking about various permutations of this basically since he discovered what his dick was for - no way is he tossing the script now.
Instead he struggles with the tube of lube stuffed awkwardly into his pocket, finally manages to get it free and pops the cap. The slick dribbles over his fingers, body-warm and runny, some of it escaping down his forearm to drip over the elbow and down onto the finished concrete floor with a soft patter. Neat and clean isn't really the name of that game at the moment.
Sam cants his hips up as Dean dips his fingers into the shadowed space between them, giving Dean easy access to the tight clench of his hole. Not having sex with Sam all day long has been a feat in and of itself with all of these images of what was to come later knocking around in his head but for the needy moan that ekes out of Sam, it’s worth it.
His brother has this thing where he likes to pretend he’s some average-joe, vanilla, missionary-with-the-lights-off kind of guy, which is probably at least half of why Dean gets off like he’s getting paid for it on making Sam come apart for him and slide into that state of mind where he just doesn’t care about a damn thing but getting fucked. Truth be told, kid would have made a fortune in skin flicks with the way he arches and groans, cut muscles turning shadows into a XXX light show. His mouth falls open to pant raggedly and Dean’s spent years listening to shit about his own dick sucking lips but it’s that sweet, bitten-red mouth that’s got the real talent in that department and nobody but him is even smart enough to realize it. Dean just fucking loves that.
Sammy has always opened up for it easy, so damn ready any time Dean’ll give it to him, and if this were any normal fuck Dean would already be replacing the push of his three fingers with his cock, sheathing himself in that overwhelming, tight cling. But this isn’t that and even though his dick’s practically screaming at him to just shove in and pound hard, he knows down in his bones this’ll be worth every second of the wait.
The tips of his fingers press hard into Sam’s sweet spot, his brother jerking every time like he’s been jabbed with a cattle prod. It’s a good thing there’s nobody else living out here yet or they’d probably have the cops called on them already with the way Sam is wailing, fingers looped into the joint where hood meets windshield like he’ll fly apart if he doesn’t hang on. His dick is a deep, angry red, lurching with every just-right shove of Dean’s fingers and making an indecent, wet tap each time it meets the precome-smeared flat of his belly.
Long legs are clenched tight around the backs of Dean’s, making sure he doesn’t go anywhere as if there’s a single place in the world he’d rather be. A rough skippy chant of his name is pouring out of his brother’s mouth, strained and jagged as Sam gets closer and closer to the inevitable. One more merciless thrust in, Dean holding his fingers right there, relentlessly working and Sam surrenders.
Thick pearly strands jolt out of him, Dean’s free hand angling his pulsing shaft so the ropey mess spatters out onto sleek black paint, adding an extra coat of gloss to the mirror-shine. Sam’s heels dig bruises into the meat of Dean’s ass and his fingers scrabble helplessly over the windshield leaving streaks of sweat. Dean keeps milking him until Sam’s body tries to curl in on itself, the last few leaps of his cock leaving the mouth of the slit flexing emptily, drained, before he finally lets up.
Sam whines when his fingers pull free, his legs clutching at Dean almost tight enough to steal his breath. There’s a dark flush spread all the way down Sam’s chest, leading up to the livid, exertion-splotchy red of his face. Sweat-dark curls are pasted to his forehead, tumbled out in a halo around him, bits of it almost blending with the paint-job like Sam’s melting into the Impala or she’s solidifying in to him - one way or the other. Dean’s dick fucking aches.
He allows his brother a minute or two to recover, trying to be all sensitive to his needs and shit, before he just can’t take it anymore, has to get this show on the road. He stretches up and snarls his fingers in Sam’s hair, uses it to urge him over a couple of inches, within reach of one glittering dollop of come. One of his very favorite things about fucking Sammy is how willing he is afterward, more than happy to just go along with whatever without a fight the way he almost never is in any other aspect of his life and right now with Sam’s body easing up and going limp, following Dean’s tacit orders, Dean’s more thankful for it than ever.
Pink and obscene, Sam’s tongue wanders out, slow like a tease even though it’s probably more of a lack of coordination than anything. The very tip of it presses into the white slick as if he has to test the waters and then he’s lapping it up, no pretense of prissiness, just slow, broad swipes over metal and come, drinking it down drop by drop.
His lips pout against cooling steel, blood-bright, swollen flesh turning shiny-wet as he mouths, kisses, at the surface of the hood. Sammy making out with his fucking car, tonguing and slurping, moaning shamelessly, starting to rub himself against it as he recovers some control over his body.
Dean fumbles blindly at the fly of his jeans, unwilling to take his eyes off of the display his brother’s putting on. This is so much better than he’d hoped.
Sam has turned himself over on his stomach by now, the thin layer of not-yet-dry sweat on his skin slide-sticking against the hood, soft squeals of friction as he works his way across the surface to clean every smear off her pristine surface. He has to be pretty well fucked-out but his cock hasn’t softened any further than half-mast, the ruddy, fat length of it trying to swell against glossy paint. His nipples are dark, perky points, sharply caressed by the midnight exterior, ass this perfect swell outlined in pitch. Lube is still shining on the insides of his thighs, catching the light as he moves and the whole damn thing has Dean about four seconds away from drooling all over the floor.
The first touch of his own hand is whisper-light and still nearly overwhelming, dragging a pain-pleasure hiss out of him that gets Sammy’s eyes darting up. For just a second his brother pauses, that satisfied haze in his eyes turning hot and wicked enough that Dean feels like it would be burning against his skin. His next lick is exaggerated, practically slow motion; stark violent pink skimming over night-black and the spangled white of his own come. After, he presses his mouth back flat to the gleaming surface, lashes fluttering for effect and groans like he always does when Dean’s dick sinks into him, the pull of a smile at the corner of his lips just making the sound even more debauched.
It doesn’t take much to get Sammy angled the way he needs him, pulling his legs around a little so that Dean slots right up between them, stray traces of lube staining the jeans still clinging to his hips. Sam makes that noise again, deep and wanton, a dare of a look hooked over his shoulder in Dean’s direction as he grinds himself down against Dean’s baby, back against Dean’s cock.
Sammy’s wet and open enough that Dean could slip inside easy but the kid’s being a little too cocky about all this for Dean’s taste and he figures it’s about time baby brother got a reminder of who exactly is in charge here. The fact that the ragged, hungry gasp that wrings out of Sam when he smacks a hand to each of his brother’s ass cheeks and digs his fingers in to roughly spread him open makes Dean’s cock twitch is totally coincidental. Sam groans and shoves back into Dean’s touch, stretched open hole flexing like a plea in the bright spill of light. Yeah, Dean aint the only freak in the gene-pool.
“What do you want, baby boy?” he teases, rubbing the leaking head of his cock over Sam’s hole. It’s sort of entrancing how the rim catches against his skin, pulls open eagerly with every slide of the head like it’s trying to entice him in.
Sam lays himself out flat over the hood like an gift, the fug of panted, shuddering breaths beading up on the Impala’s paintjob. “Dean. C’mon,” is a whine, the exact same one Dean’s had tossed at him a hundred thousand times in his life over everything from candy to video games to borrowing the car.
And that’s the shit that really nails him when it gets down to it, what makes this here a million percent better than any random hook up he’s ever had plastered to the back seat or sprawled out over the hood - it’s Sam, his Sammy, his whiny, bitching, beautiful, slut-for-his-big-brother Sam and when it comes right down to it, this pretty well covers everything Dean’s every needed out of life.
With the possible exception of cheeseburgers, beer and pie, but hey, they gotta leave something for next time, right?
There’s a loud smack as the flat of Sam’s hand comes down against the hood when Dean shoves in all the way to the root. He grinds in a little harder in retaliation like that’s going to be any kind of punishment and Sammy’s hand at least has the decency to go loose. His jaw too, for that matter, letting out a high-pitched mewl, bottom lip dragging on metal as he tosses his head. Goddamn, it’s just never going to get old how well Sam takes to being stuffed full.
Finesse and technique are long by-passed ideas, giving way instead to brutal thrusts that probably bruise Sam’s hips against the edge of the grill and a constant steady pound that chops Sam’s voice to pieces like when he was a little kid and he’d holler as they drove down a bumpy road just to listen to the sound of it shake.
He’s burning hot inside, clutching and just tight enough to feel like a slippery slice of fresh-baked heaven wrapped around Dean’s dick. It’s got him going crazy twice as fast as usual, everything else added on top of it conspiring against him to steal everything but the driving need to get off.
The air - crisp-cool and tingly against Dean’s skin, the t-shirt he’s long since sweated through - is punctuated by the harsh sucking sound of Sam’s damp body peeling away from the paintjob and then slamming right back into it and his brother’s rough, growling praise that’s more wordless encouragement than anything. Dean’s making a fair amount of noise on his own, the sounds of it echoing back at him from the bare walls, the thin metal garage door. Anybody who walked by would know what they were up to in here and that in itself is enough to make Dean helpless to stop himself. The same way he can’t stop himself from bending in half to paste his body to Sam’s back, one hand clutched up close to the windshield just like Sam’s had earlier, the other digging red crescents into Sam’s shoulder.
“Oh, fuck, Dean,” Sam cries, desperate, almost scared - it’s the same way he sounds every time things are particularly good between them and it socks Dean in the gut every single time. Like he didn’t have enough messed-up associations to start with.
His brother’s nuzzling at the sweat-messy expanse of the car beneath him, eyes shut tight, so close even though Dean’s damn sure that the kid’s got nothing more to give up if he gets there. This deep into things, Sam’s like a wild creature, like he just loses his ever-loving mind, so it’s probably not a ploy, probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, when he opens his mouth and tongues another wet, filthy kiss to the Imapala’s hood and breaks Dean apart from the inside out.
It’s like diving into boiling water, heat everywhere, soaking into his bones, and he can’t swim out of it, can’t do a damn thing but lock up and let it ride him as he sandwiches his baby brother between his own spasming body and the only real woman in his life, their life, their home.
Maybe Sam loses it again and maybe he doesn’t - hard to tell after the way Dean milked him during round one, even after he pulls himself together enough to worm a hand between Sam and the hood and finds his brother’s dick soft and twitching-sensitive. Sam makes some kind of protest about it, but his voice cracks off into nothingness halfway through. Sure sign that he’s been fucked good and proper.
Yes, Dean does feel smug, thanks for asking.
Sam’s next gripe, several minutes down the line, finally does come out as words even if they are sort of smeared together by the lazy slur of his swollen mouth. “Crushin’ me, jerk.”
He doesn’t actually move to do anything about it, though, and the way he hangs limply under Dean’s weight suggests he’s about 30 seconds from crashing out hard. Much as Dean loves his brother, he doesn’t exactly relish the thought of hauling that much dead weight into the house to their makeshift bedroom. Particularly considering he’s not really sure he can haul his own in there either.
“Alright, c’mon Samantha,” he grunts, grudgingly getting his feet back under him properly and pulling away from the sweat-sweet warmth of his brother’s body. A quick smack on the ass has Sam jolted back to consciousness enough to grumble and start peeling himself off of the car too, skin clinging for just a second like the two of them fused just a bit. Yeah, next time they need to get a Polaroid or something - that visual deserves to be captured on film.
Also, lots more soap. His baby is going to need a serious cleaning in the morning.
Sam stays standing for exactly as long as it takes him to get over to Dean and collapse against him, all overheated and wet and gross. It’s awesome. Dean almost completely doesn’t mind - not that he’s ever going to let that slip out loud.
“So, was it everything you hoped for?” Sammy mutters patronizingly against his ear, although any sting there might have been to it gets lost in the fact that he sounds like the cat that got the cream and a promise of the canary too.
“It was alright,” Dean breezes, managing with minor difficulty to get them both up the two steps to the door to the main house, “Might have to practice a couple more times before you really get it right, though.”
Sam chuckles into the curve of his neck, slow and tired, but content. “Yeah, yeah. Such a freak.”
He nips gently at Dean’s skin, soothes it away with a slower, wetter kiss. Dean’s going to have the image of that mouth pressed up against the Impala on a loop in his head for weeks, he can already tell.
“Right back at ya, baby boy,” he laughs back, getting a palmful of Sam’s ass again just because he can as they do a drunken sort of three-legged race into the living room where they’ve thrown down some blankets for a pallet. “Right back at ya.”