Checkmate Ends the Game [1.5/4]
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It’s got to be at least midnight. All the lights are off except the TV, and they’re both completely wasted. Godzilla no longer graces the screen; it’s turned to some late-night infomercials for special soaps and those blankets with sleeves. Sam and Dean happen to think those are the funniest things they’ve ever seen.
Dean giggles, drains the last shot in the bottle, and passes it, empty, to Sam. Sam frowns at it, then puts it aside and reaches for his half-forgotten beer again. It’s stale by now, warm, but he gulps it like a pro anyway.
When he looks back, hazy, at Dean, shivers run down his spine. Dean’s watching him, heavy gaze focused on his face.
“What?” Sam says, or thinks he says. It comes out more slurred than he expected, and he can barely recognize what he’s saying.
“Nothin’,” Dean replies, and he has at least some grip on the English language left because he gets that through loud and clear.
Sam doesn’t know what happens next, but he suddenly realizes he’s horizontal, shoulders pressed against the arm of the couch, and all of Dean’s weight is on top of him.
He tries to make a protesting sound, but he realizes that Dean’s mouth is covering his and oh, he knows what to do here. Sam nips at Dean’s bottom lip, licks his way into Dean’s mouth and lets them work together. Dean’s tongue strokes up and down his own, slick, just the right amount of pressure, and his protesting is replaced by a moan that comes from the tips of his toes.
It’s sloppy; it’s wet and no one’s really coordinated enough to kiss properly, but it gets the job done well enough for Sam. There’s a blanket of fog over his inhibitions, suffocating them, and Dean’s mouth looks plush and soft. He’s thought about it before, how it’d feel, but only abstractly; now, here, doing this, he can’t remember what he thought it would feel like.
Because it feels one hundred times better than he thought it would.
Dean’s fingers fist clumsily in Sam’s hair, and he tugs a little; Sam’s neck arches, and the kiss breaks. Dean’s mouth immediately falls to the curve of his neck. He bites at the point where Sam’s pulse pounds. It’s almost hard enough to draw blood and he wants to tell Dean it hurts, but he’s not sure it does. The only thing he’s sure of is Dean’s lips and teeth and tongue feel fucking amazing on his skin and he doesn’t want it to end.
Dean licks over the bite, eases the sting with the gentle push of his tongue and sucks the sore skin into his mouth. It’s incredibly cohesive for someone who is as drunk as Sam is, but Dean holds his liquor better.
He leaves a mark (which, Sam will realize later, is a really bad idea) and licks his way downward. When his mouth comes in contact with the rough fabric of Sam’s t-shirt, he groans and raises his head.
“Off,” he says, tugging at the hem. Sam doesn’t know when Dean’s hands left his hair and traveled south, but right now he can’t care. Dean’s knuckles are brushing his stomach where they raise his shirt, and all he wants is more of that. He tries to oblige but he can’t get this fingers to close around the fabric. He does this sort of sideways shimmy thing that nearly throws Dean off the couch, and after righting himself, Dean just pushes him back gently and works Sam’s shirt up over his head.
Sam wants to tell Dean that he should take his shirt off too. He wants to see the muscles outlined beneath, wants to touch them and watch the way they move under the skin. But before Dean leans down again, his own shirt’s flying across the room, and Sam thinks it’s pretty nifty that Dean can read his mind like that.
He lets his hands wander over Dean’s chest, skimming over peaks and valleys of muscles under the skin. Dean isn’t bulky, but he’s lean and muscular in a way that Sam would never be able to achieve. He’s in awe for a moment at how soft Dean’s skin is underneath his fingertips, and then he reaches the edge of what feels like gauze.
“Wha’s that?” Sam looks down at the wrappings of some small wound; blood is seeping through the white cotton and making itself visible. He snatches his hand back. “What’d you do?” And he’s surprised to find himself able to form an intelligible sentence.
“Car,” Dean says, quickly leans down and distracts Sam by flicking his tongue across a nipple. Sam promptly forgets all about it, because Dean’s mouth is fucking awesome. It bears repeating.
He bites, forms a wicked clamp around Sam’s nipped with his teeth and tugs. Sam nearly bucks off the couch.
“Nnnfuck,” Sam says intelligently, and Sam is beginning to think that Dean’s a lot less drunk than Sam is.
“Like that?” Dean whispers against his skin, breath smelling like alcohol, and bites him again. Sam makes an undignified sound and arches his back like a whore.
Dean shifts so they’re sitting up, one of his big hands bracing Sam’s back. He spends a while flicking his tongue across Sam’s nipples, biting down and grinning when Sam comes out of his skin. By the time Dean is satisfied, Sam’s lazily rolling his hips against Dean’s body. He isn’t too particular about which part, he just knows that the friction on his cock feels amazing.
All of Dean feels amazing. Sam would write odes if he wasn’t already occupied.
“Want,” he mumbles, reaches for Dean’s shoulders, and Dean looks up. His pupils are dilated, a ring of green surrounded by deepest black; Sam contorts himself to kiss him. From this position, Dean’s taking charge of the situation. He fucks into Sam’s mouth roughly, twists his tongue, plunders and he wants. Sam makes helpless, incoherent noises. It’d be nice to have that tongue on his cock. It would be really, really nice.
“What do you want?” Dean asks, breathless, when they both come up for air.
“Ungh, I’unno.” He gives a particularly violent roll of his hips, just the right amount of pressure, fuck… but what catches him is the sound Dean makes, a strangled growl, and Sam does it again just to hear it.
As soon as it rips out of Dean’s throat he reaches down between them and gets a hand wrapped around Sam’s hip, holding him down on the couch. Sam whimpers, tries to twist away, but Dean doesn’t let him; instead, he works on his belt, trying to get it off one-handed, but he can’t get a proper grip and finally gives up.
“Gotta move,” he mumbles, and untangles himself. Sam immediately misses his head, the solid weight of him. He reaches out, but Dean slaps his hands away. “C’mon. Bed,” he says. “Not enough room.”
This would be the point that Sam would rethink this if he was sober. He’d realize that he can’t betray Jess like this and go back to his hotel. But he’s not sober. Plus, Dean’s amazing; not just his tongue and his hands and his eyes, but all of him. Amazing.
So he follows like an obedient puppy.
They shed their clothes as they go. Sam’s jeans fall somewhere in the hall; he’ll trip on them later, but he’s trying not to trip on them now. He finally realizes that he’s got to stand still or they won’t separate from his legs properly (and the hallway is really dark, and spinning). Taking his boxers off is a little easier, and they land somewhere in the dark bathroom opposite Dean’s bedroom.
When he finally gets there, Dean’s already naked, waiting on the edge of the bed. He’s watching Sam stalk across the room, watching Sam all impatient and needy, and a shivery feral sounds works its way up out of his throat.
“Get over here,” Dean grits out, watches Sam darkly, and Sam obediently sidles up to him.
It doesn’t escape Sam’s notice how beautiful Dean is. He’s got these gorgeous cheekbones and amazing eyes, and Sam can’t stop looking at them. Dean’s hands are everywhere at once, nails skimming down his sides even though Sam’s taller, still taking complete command of the situation. Dean has that ability, whether it’s this or just walking into a room; he’s suddenly in control.
Dean stretches up, commands another kiss, whispers, “On the bed.”
A shiver runs up Sam’s spine and he obeys, climbs up on Dean’s bed and flops himself down on his back. He can feel Dean watching him for a few moments more, and then he’s crawling up the bed, crawling up Sam’s body with all the grace and fluidity of a cat. Sam watching, breathless and straining; the single desk lamp halfway across the room pains the contours of Dean’s body a darker gold, light and shadow, and Sam wants to lick him all over.
“Please,” he babbles. “Please. Want you.”
Dean watches and doesn’t say anything. The intensity of his gaze makes Sam want to crawl out of his skin, before he leans down and kisses each of Sam’s well-bitten nipples lightly, moving downward.
He never takes his eyes off Sam’s, and Sam has to prop himself unsteadily on his elbows to prevent breaking their eye contact. Something about it tells Sam that he could probably come just from this, from light caresses and the weight of Dean’s gaze on him.
This is unreal.
He slowly licks and sucks his way down Sam’s body, circles his navel with his tongue, noses the thin line of hair leading down to Sam’s cock. He leaves another sucking mark on his hip; a mark of claiming, of ownership, a bad idea but Sam can’t muster the strength to care.
Dean’s eyes close halfway through making his mark. Sam can feel the bed shifting where he’s rutting against it. He makes the kind of sound that Sam finds he really, really likes to hear and moves away, apparently satisfied with the bruise.
Sam’s cock bobs in front of his face, thick and heavy, and for a second it looks like Dean’s going to put his mouth on it. It looks like he wants to, but ends up moving lower instead.
Dean isn’t tentative. He probes down between Sam’s legs, pulls him apart to find what he’s looking for. His tongue circles the rim of Sam’s hole for a while, and Sam gradually relaxes. It’s strange; he’s never felt anything like it, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad. He squirms a little.
Dean chuckles, buries his face there and pushes forward with his tongue unexpectedly. Sam jumps, tries to squirm away; it’s uncomfortable, but then Dean pushes past the tight ring of muscle and inside him.
Sam’s never felt so exposed.
His face must be scarlet, at least. It’s uncomfortable for a few moments, Dean’s tongue working around inside, occasionally pulling out and dipping back in. By the time he pulls away, licking his lips and looking satisfied with himself, Sam feels slick and loose and open.
“Still want it?” Dean asks, and it takes Sam a few minutes to remember how to use his mouth.
“Mm,” he agrees. He likes to think that he panics, but he doesn’t. When Dean’s fingers trail behind his balls, his thighs fall open wider and he actually shifts around to make it easier. Dean grins down at him, sloppy and too dazed to be entirely alert. Then he pushes inside.
The first finger is thicker than his tongue. It’s longer, and Sam shifts around as Dean pushes in deeper, opens him just a little wider. His fingers aren’t dry, either; they’re wet, slide-y, and Sam can’t recall what that is and doesn’t know when Dean did it. The second burns a little as it stretches him wider, but he takes it all anyway.
So many people wouldn’t do this if it didn’t feel good, after all. Dean props himself on one arm, and Sam grips his forearm as Dean’s fingers move inside.
Until now, he’s been going slow, steady, even gentle. But now he pulls both fingers out; Sam nearly whines before they’re being shoved back in, brutal, hard. Dean twists them and brushes against something that makes Sam see stars. He arches his back, pushing down onto Dean’s fingers with a ragged groan.
“Fuckfuckfuck do that again,” Sam gasps when he can breathe again, rolls his hips to try and find that spot again. Dean does the obeying for once, and Sam can’t help the shout that tears from his throat.
He can feel Dean smile against his neck. “You like that.”
“Fuck yes,” Sam pants. Dean scissors his fingers, slides them around until he can fit another. Sam hisses, added stretch and burn too much until it isn’t, until he’s pushing back on Dean’s fingers because suddenly that’s not enough. Once Dean thinks he’s ready he pulls his fingers away, lines himself up, and Sam tries to tell himself to relax.
The first heavy drag makes Sam’s breath hitch, and not because it feels good. He knows it’ll get better, is convinced now. Dean pushes forward slow, steady, and Sam holds his breath, fists the sheets and hangs on; Dean’s whispering to him, but Sam can’t tell what he’s saying.
Sam lets out a shaky breath when Dean bottoms out, and when he can talk again, he says, “F-fuck. Feel fucking huge.” Dean laughs, short and unsteady, sounds like he’s restraining himself. He pulls back a fraction of an inch and pushes forward again, getting Sam used to it, carving a place for himself in Sam’s body and driving Sam out of his skin.
A few more half-thrusts and Sam is relaxed enough to enjoy it. Dean is still taking it slow, breathing hard like he’s just run a mile, and eventually Sam uncurls his fist from a wad of comforter and grips Dean’s shoulder, digging his fingers in. “C’mon, move,” he says, rolling his hips impatiently. It feels good, better with every thrust, and he pushes Dean to move faster as he needs it.
It doesn’t take long for Sam to be completely adapted, and Dean is pushing him back into the mattress with every thrust, headboard rattling against the wall. He shifts up, changes his angle and drags over that sparkly spot inside. It makes him tense, every muscle waiting for release, begging for it. He fists his cock so fast that his arm aches, poised on the edge of this cliff.
Dean bats Sam’s hand away, replaces it with his own, and between thrusting up into Dean’s hand and back down onto Dean’s cock Sam comes apart. It hits him like lightening, Dean through him and in him and around him, sizzling down his spine. Every muscle seizes and jerks, and Sam shoots all over both of them, on his own stomach and Dean’s chest. Looks so pretty like that, and Sam’s nerves fizzle out. He’s babbling, knows his is, doesn’t really want to know what he’s saying.
There are these breathy, punched-out sounds coming from Dean. He shouts and it sounds almost painful as he comes, head thrown back, fingers digging into the bruise on Sam’s hip. Sam’s cock twitches, tries valiantly to be interested again, but he has nothing else to give.
His muscles relax one by one. Dean draws out of him, gentle, and collapses next to him on the bed. Sam arranges himself more comfortably and lets Dean pepper his face with kisses in post-coital bliss. He falls asleep with Dean a heavy weight next to him, sweaty skin sticking where they’re pressed together.
Part Two