Checkmate Ends the Game [2.5/4]
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Sam doesn’t ever want to move again. He spreads out in Dean’s bed. Spread-eagle, he takes up nearly the whole thing; Dean leans against the door and watches him. He tries to look annoyed, but can’t manage it.
“Mmph,” Sam says, wants to turn his head and muffle it into his arm, but he can’t quite turn far enough and his arm refuses to budge. The muscle twitches and sends a spasm of pain to the tips of his fingers.
“What’s the matter, Sam?” Dean asks, clearly unable to hold back any longer. “Wanna move over for me?”
“Can’t,” Sam whines, wincing as a calf muscle throbs and starts to spasm. “Can’t move.”
“Big baby,” Dean mutters fondly and crosses his arms over his chest.
The window air conditioner in Dean’s bedroom rattles away, spreads the artificial cool over the whole room. It seeps into Sam’s heat-soaked skin, settles on top.
“You know,” Dean continues, “the whole cooling-off thing would probably work better if you weren’t wearing all those clothes.”
His tone is calm, nonchalant, but Sam’s skin prickles anyway. He feels Dean’s eyes on him, raking over the small space where his shirt rides up.
“Mnrph.”
“Need some help with that?” Now Dean’s voice is pitched low, makes the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck stand on end. When he opens his eyes, the intent in Dean’s suddenly dark gaze makes his overused muscles shake.
Sam makes a valiant attempt to move, but his arms shake and he has to collapse back into the mattress. “I think you killed me,” he breathes. “How the hell am I supposed to work tomorrow?”
“Suck it up and work it out. If you don’t use those muscles, they’re going to get stiff.”
Sam glares.
Dean pushes off from the door frame, peels his overshirt off and drops it in the pile in the middle of the floor. He kicks off his boots and loosens his belt as he kneels on the bed next to one of Sam’s legs. He reaches out and sinks his fingers into Sam’s thigh, rubs at the muscle until Sam actually whimpers.
“Don’t. Hurts.”
“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean breathes, takes his fingers away to mouth at the denim. “Can’t let ‘em stiffen up.”
Sam can’t lift his head to see what Dean is doing, can only tilt it to the side and gaze down his body. The muscle Dean’s holding clenches at the contact, and Sam groans quietly.
“You suck,” he says, staring up at the ceiling.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Dean’s hand snakes up Sam’s thigh, over the stretch of exposed skin and under his shirt. Sam’s skin is burning to the touch, and he hisses as Dean’s cold fingers slide over his new abdominal muscles. They twitch with his touch, and Sam lets out a low sound that goes straight to Dean’s dick.
“Dude, I can’t do this right now,” Sam groans in the deep voice that he saves for these times.
“That again?” Dean chuckles, and the springs shift as he moves up Sam’s body, starts peeling off his shirt. He has to wrestle Sam’s arms out one at a time. Dean honestly worries for a second that he’s overdone it.
Sam can deal with it. He has to, if he wants to do this job. He’s tough. Dean finally gets Sam’s shirt off, and it joins his own on the floor, quickly followed by both of Sam’s shoes and his belt.
Jeans take a bit longer. Dean slides them down Sam’s legs slowly, lifts his feet to let them slide to the floor. Sam makes a noise low in his throat as Dean climbs back up the bed.
He slides bare-chested along Sam’s skin, and Sam makes a punched-out sound and Dean can’t tell if it’s pain or something else.
“You with me here?” he asks, and dips his tongue into Sam’s navel, knows the answer before Sam opens his mouth because he can feel the evidence of Sam’s approval against his chest. His grins and works his hand under the waistband of Sam’s boxers.
Sam arches up to the touch. Every fiber (except the ones connected to his dick) protests the movement, and Dean would like to pretend Sam’s noises are devoid of pain, but he’d be lying.
So maybe he overdid it. A little. Builds character, but that’s just Dad’s Marine bullshit shining through. And Dad really isn’t something he wants to think about right now.
“Shh,” Dean whispers, breathing into Sam’s skin. “I’ll make it up to you.” He slides Sam’s boxers off and tosses them away; as soon as they’re out of the way, he lowers his head. He’d like to take it slow and tease a little more, but he isn’t actually cruel, and this isn’t about what he wants.
He never quite gets used to the taste or the weight on his tongue. It doesn’t help that Sam’s got a lot for him to take, but he does his best to take it all when he does this. Dean works his tongue around the thick shaft, presses against the vein on the underside and right up under the head.
Sam jerks, shudders and moans, and Dean would smile if his mouth wasn’t busy. His head bobs on Sam’s cock, taking him deeper on every down stroke until he has to relax the muscles of his throat to take him down further.
The suction-slick heat of Dean’s mouth is like velvet. Sam lets out a string of curses when the tight channel of Dean’s throat flutters around him, and Dean keeps pushing until there’s saliva sliding down to Sam’s balls and his cock pushes down Dean’s throat every time he goes down.
It’s hot, delicious friction, and Sam tries to buck up only to find himself restrained by Dean’s tight grip on his hip.
“Let me do the work,” Dean whispers, voice raw as he pulls off, Sam whines at the loss, tries to flex his hips up and get his cock in Dean’s mouth again, but Dean’s grip hold.
“Please,” Sam moans; Dean grins again, lips shiny with spit and precome.
“Please what?”
Sam hates it when Dean asks what he wants. His face heats and he stammers, doesn’t want to put words to it. He blushes all the way down his chest and Dean loves it. With his skin tinged pink and his eyes downcast, Sam will wrap his tongue around descriptions of the filthiest things Dean’s ever heard of. Despite the common misconceptions, Dean’s a pretty vanilla guy. Or was, anyway, until Sam rolled into town and drove him fucking crazy.
But just now, Sam doesn’t blush. He doesn’t hesitate. He bites out, between frantic sounds and gritted teeth, “Fuck. Wanna… fuck me.”
Dean squeezes the base of his own cock to fend off the ripple that runs down his spine.
“No,” Dean breathes, making his way up the bed again and sucking bruises onto Sam’s chest.
Sam tries to move against him, keens “Please, Pleasepleaseplease,” but Dean bites at his mouth and swallows his pleas.
“Can do you one better,” Dean says right against Sam’s lips as he pulls back slightly. It’s been a while since he’s been on this end. His fingers are clumsy and he scratches through the bedside drawer, shaky as he saturates his fingers with lube, out of practice as he levers himself up and reaches around behind himself.
The first tentative touch sends thrill racing through his chest, and Sam’s dark eyes bore holes through him as he watches. It only take a few minutes before it comes back to him like riding a bike; the angle is still strange, but god… he’s rocking back on his fingers like a slut for it.
Sam’s biceps twitch like he wants to be the one doing this, but he can’t get his limbs to work right. Dean’s sure he’s ready anyway, and drips lube all over Sam’s cock.
“Relax,” Dean pants, breathing ragged as he lines Sam up and lowers himself down. Sam doesn’t obey, can’t think beyond the rush of needwantnowsogood. His legs shake with the effort of not thrusting up into Dean.
Fuck, Sam feels huge. It burns like a mother to lower himself down slowly, waiting for himself to get used to it. Dean tries to keep his discomfort off of his face.
“You okay?” Sam asks, tries to raise his head.
“Yeah,” Dean grits out, and stops moving. There’s more than half left and he just wants to get it over with, hopes maybe he’ll adjust faster if he just gets it over with. He takes a deep breath and sinks down in one smooth motion that pushes the breath right out of him.
Dean stays perfectly still for a moment, takes a couple deep breaths and waits for the ache to ease.
Sam’s forehead glistens with sweat, restraint. Dean is tight and hot and perfect around him, and he wants so much to push up into Dean. But he doesn’t have a chance to wish anymore, because Dean draws one more shaky, preparatory breath and then he’s moving.
He slides nearly off and plunges back down, wincing, pulls up again and rolls his hips. Sam grunts, flexes up and meets Dean on his next thrust. His face is screwed up in concentration, trying not to acknowledge the pain that rips through his stretched muscles, trying not to make it matter. He gets one arm up and digs his thumb into the ridge of Dean’s hip.
“Fuck,” Dean half-whispers, pushes down again and shifts a little; his angle changes and he throws his head back, punched-out grunts of encouragement falling out of his mouth without his permission.
Sam loves Dean’s sounds. He takes mental note to ask Dean for this more, because the sight of him falling apart like this, almost wild, is the hottest thing Sam’s ever seen. He wills his other hand to work, wraps it around Dean’s cock and strokes. Twists his wrist on the upstroke, and Dean makes wild unclassifiable sound and pushes forward, thrusting into Sam’s hand and then down onto his cock.
It can’t continue like this for long. It’s a few more frenzied moments, a dozen thrusts before Dean’s orgasm is crawling up his spine, takes him by surprise. He grabs Sam’s forearms and squeezes until his knuckles turn white, arches forward, backward, thighs aching with the effort to keep moving. When he comes, his muscles lock, all straining at once toward that impossible edge, and he’s spurting up Sam’s chest over and over again.
When he can move again, he slumps forward, boneless, smearing around the mess he’s made of Sam’s skin. But he doesn’t stop moving, squeezes Sam’s release out of him, and a couple thrusts later Sam’s body is jerking, fingers digging into Dean’s hips as he slams up into Dean until he’s finished.
He collapses back onto the bed, all of Dean’s weight on him, and huffs out a heavy breath. It takes a few moments for Dean to recover enough to slide off and over, and Sam’s eyes are scrunched closed, like by sheer force of will he can stop his muscles from cramping.
“Killed me,” he grits out. “Evil.”
Dean laughs softly, buries his face in the pillow and tries not to think about how gross they’ll be tomorrow. “Be better in the morning,” he says, even though it really won’t. Sam’s almost immediately out, still sprawled everywhere, and Dean subjects himself to sleeping in a position that will look dangerously like cuddling.
Part Three