Fic: 'Bridge and Tunnel' (Sam/Dean; NC-17)
Title: Bridge and Tunnel
Authors: ignited & regala_electra
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,110
Spoilers: S3, semi-spoiler for 3x02
Warnings: Sexual content and language
Summary: It’s right up near the edge, bridge supports, dark shine of water lapping at them, at the rocks and right there, is where Dean pushes Sam, against the wrought iron railing and fence. Sam’s curiosity, Dean’s past, and a detour to New York City can only lead to one solution, which, thankfully, involves sex.
Author’s Notes: Written for arabella_hope.
-
It happened like this.
Mouth’s slick, wet, soft pop as the head of his dick is freed. Exhale of breath from both of them-and Dean’s gaze is half-lidded, thumb and index finger wipe around the bend of his mouth, lips, drag along stubble to wipe away the excess come. He’s missed a spot, but can’t, not for lack of trying, point it out. Wants to keep it there, proof that’ll get rubbed away the moment Dean notices his reflection in a mirror or something else, this shiny sticky mess.
Like this, he says, and cants his head, stretching upwards, hands sliding over the sweat on Sam’s legs, thighs, the coarse hair at the base of his dick and the trail of dark hair up the length of his belly. Brush of fingertips against the ticklish parts of Sam’s stomach, parts he doesn’t admit to having, but still there’s a reaction, better, the smile on Dean’s wet lips, knowing he’s victorious.
Dean stretches, up.
-
It’s not what you see on television, or movies, or-god, who the fuck is Sam kidding, he can’t help but crane his neck up to stare at the tall buildings, high rise apartments, lights that strobe and flicker in the middle of the day, glowy bright and vivid at night. There’s the crowds, the stores, and the food, strong smell of sidewalk carts and other things, car exhaust, traffic congestion from here to New Jersey. Maybe beyond Jersey, from what the nonstop throngs of people mutter, talk of coming in from other states to pay the bills or for the prestige to be working in the city. Their voices, a distinctive acidic cacophony even with all the accents, languages, thrown in, singing out an age old hymn, stop your gawking and let me move on, nothing to see here-problem is, there’s everything to see here.
Sam would rather risk tourist comparisons than be fully aware of what’s going on now, bumper to bumper traffic and Dean cursing a storm under his breath. He clenches the driver’s wheel for dear life, like he’s afraid-correction, like Sam’s afraid-that he’ll open the trunk and drag out a flamethrower or a shotgun in order to get things moving.
They’re in New York City-Manhattan, to be specific, five other boroughs Dean wants to check out, like the gorillas at the Bronx Zoo or the Cyclone at Coney Island in Brooklyn-reenactment of Dean’s five states, five days, because Sam had to open his big damn mouth.
At the looks of things, this day’ll be spent in the car for the most part, and as agile as Dean claims to be, Sam isn’t gonna fuck him in the car. Can’t fit, and this traffic should move before he starts thinking about impossible logistics. Before he gets hard and can’t think of anything else but sex, because unlike Dean, Sam can ignore base instincts. If he keeps on telling himself that, it’s bound to be totally true one day.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam says, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Forget it, Dean, we don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, we’re gonna do it, Sam,” Dean responds through gritted teeth. “We’re gonna do it. This is just a technicality.. An obstacle to be, uh... overcome before we can come.”
“Uh huh.”
Dean leans back, forward, uneasy, then shakes the driver’s wheel, grunting.
“What is it?”
“Traffic’s clearing up.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “And that’s a bad thing, how?”
“Can’t give you a handjob when I’m drivin’,” Dean says, words spill out in a hurried breath as the car rumbles forward-he shifts his weight in his seat, uncomfortable, rough and there’s a burn to his skin like he’s being reigned in, not a blush, because Dean’ doesn’t do that, but there’s heat in him that can’t be released, frustrating for him.
Sam’s shaking his head, slumping down, knees knock painfully against the dashboard and for once, he misses the traffic.
-
Like this? Yes, like this, right here, under the fucking bridge of all places. A bridge, not the Brooklyn one-similar, less grandiose, it’s the Manhattan Bridge that runs from its namesake to Brooklyn, within eyesight of the other. Sam’s seen this place in movies he won’t let Dean know about, lots of long walks and sunsets, couples discussing their romances and lofts. Things Jess would laugh and sniffle at, couldn’t help herself when she sank into the couch with her bare legs on Sam’s lap, throwing popcorn at his face and mouth.
But it’s not pretty, there aren’t any overhead lights and green screen and wind machines or whatever-it’s fucking private, is what it is, Dean says, waves his hands in his jacket pockets, outline of his erection obvious, jeans can’t hide that much.
“Here,” Dean says, and “Here?” Sam asks, white glow of the street lamp and soft haze of blue and orange from the buildings, from the bridge illuminating the area. It’s right up near the edge, bridge supports, dark shine of water lapping at them, at the rocks and right there, is where Dean pushes Sam against the wrought iron railing and fence.
“Seriously? Here?” Sam says, more sarcastic than he means to; it’s a little cold, wisp of air that catches between his shirt and waistband, Dean’s hand already there, soft touch, light pressure.
“Dude, there’s nothin’ wrong with a little PDA.”
“Under a bridge.”
“Don’t be a wuss, Sam,” Dean says, clips the sentence dead when he shoves his mouth against Sam’s, the kind of kissing that’s almost desperate, hungry, fast and sudden, stops. “You expecting something else?”
Doesn’t let Sam answer, instead, Dean’s kissing him again, rough, rough, hasn’t shaved for a few days. Stubble against smoother skin, and he’s too fast, one hand fumbles and twines in Sam’s hair, the other at the waistband of his jeans.
Dean unbuckles Sam’s belt, unzips his jeans and then, he winks, the bastard, just slides down low as his hands travel the distance of Sam’s waist and thighs, drag down cotton and denim in the journey, then pulls his boxer-briefs and jeans down, far as it’ll go, far enough to make this kind of awkward just right. Snap of the night’s chill’ll get to Sam in a minute, he figures, hands grab wildly for balance, one on the railing behind, the other hand on Dean’s hair, pulls away, knows he doesn’t like that.
He grunts, Dean, as if to show it, doesn’t like to be handled that way, ducks his head and kisses the inside of Sam’s thigh. His lips drag up against Sam’s skin, slide of wetness that’s got heat pooling deep in Sam’s belly, goes right to his cock, head already wet with pre-come.
“Aching for it,” Dean says, doesn’t give Sam a shot to answer in the affirmative or tell Dean what he should be doing with his mouth.
Because that’s when Dean angles his head and moves closer, tease of one or two seconds before his tongue drags up the length of Sam’s cock, the underside. Drags, takes too long, Sam grunting, bites his lip to keep himself in check, ‘cause he doesn’t need Dean’s commentary, later, when his mouth’s not wrapped around Sam’s cock.
It is now though, Dean swallowing, too messy, doing this on purpose, goes deeper, mouth widens. Takes him all in, something that’s got Sam groaning, isn’t quite used to the way Dean takes to this, like a freakin’ goal he’s got to win, determined, even cups Sam’s balls and Jesus. The warmth of Dean’s mouth as he pushes forward, hand sliding around to Sam’s thigh, ass, grabbing him; it’s almost too much.
No, fuck, it is too much, glint of streetlamp light catching on Dean’s hair and face, reminder of where they are, and that it’s fucking cold, and that has Sam spurting in Dean’s mouth. When he does, he exhales, like it’s a pent-up breath, makes himself look up and away from the sight of Dean, devil of a gleam in his eyes.
Sam pants now, breathing heavy, brow furrows when Dean’s getting up a little too quickly, knee pops.
“Zip up, Sammy, somebody’s comin’,” Dean says, licks his lips and rubs away the spot of come at the corner of his mouth. “Come on.”
“Thought you liked a little PDA,” Sam says, can’t help the incredulity sneak into his voice. He’s trying to clean himself up and pull up his jeans, friction against sweat, fix his jacket.
“Could be cops. They like to patrol around here.”
“Cops? Seriously? And we’re-Dean, last thing we need is to get caught in the middle of-” Sam can’t quite put words together, lamely finishing, “you giving me a blowjob.”
Dean scrunches his nose, his eyes all wide in mock anger. “Hey, that takes a lot of skill, dude. And you’re welcome. Man, only you’d still be pissy after getting some fuckin’ amazing head. And don’t even say it wasn’t awesome.”
Sam would say something but when he stumbles after Dean, weak-kneed for a moment, needing to regain his balance, that’s all the thanks Dean needs for a job well done.
When they’re driving down the street later, Dean tells Sam they’re going to the place, now, you know, the one he fucked the meter maid in.
“You’re not serious-you’re-wait, you’re serious, aren’t you? A freakin’ meter maid, Dean?”
“We’re in New York. Traffic. Shitload of meters that’ll expire if you forget to feed it just one extra goddamn quarter. Yeah, a meter maid. Kept her hat on the whole time too,” he says, bright smile in the dark. He catches a glimpse of his face in the rearview mirror when he looks back, sees that he didn’t manage to get all the come off his face, but for some reason, doesn’t wipe it off.
God, and what does that say about Sam that he gets almost hard all over again, seeing that?
Dean says it’s a good thing her name wasn’t Rita-“Get it? ‘Lovely Rita’?” and thing is, Sam’s not sure if Dean knowing about a Beatles song is more surprising than, you know, fucking a meter maid-and Sam groans when the car slows at a red light.
-
This is where it happens, with Dean leaning over Sam, erection rubbing against Sam’s thigh, bends and plants his palms firmly on either side of Sam’s shoulders. He kisses his mouth, cheekbone, forehead, almost spits and blows away the hair sticking to his lips, leaning up to irritably mutter, “You and your goddamn hair.” Sam can’t help but laugh in response.
So you didn’t take her there?
I did, I did. Not like I remember too much. Appetizer before the main course, Sam, gotta treat a lady right.
Here, he’d said, he says now, “Here.”
Sam grinning against Dean’s mouth when he grabs him, oof of noise exhaled from Dean, pulls him and twists around, bedsheets clinging sticky, not-quite-smooth against their legs. The hotel’s right in the middle of Manhattan, below Central Park, cramped and tall between residential buildings, restaurant at the first floor. It’s decades old and too small, lots of dulled gold and reflective surfaces.
Flower patterns and tiny little beds, edges of the ridiculously undersized frames digging into the back of Sam’s calves, Dean’s now, Sam having turned to straddle Dean’s hips. Dean grunts and rolls his shoulder, reaching to swipe the bottle of lube off the nightstand, slaps it into Sam’s palm.
“Let’s see if you can keep it up, Sammy,” Dean says, in more ways than one implied in his comment. But Sam’s still burning, ready to go, blowjob outside and blowjob here, now has Dean the one muttering, rubbing his jaw.
He gets like this, testy, says do it like this and no and come on, Sammy, do I have to teach you everything? Only between groans, sharp intakes of breath, like the way he clenches up when Sam slips a lubed up finger in, then two.
Dean pressing into the touch, hips bucking up, trying to keep Sam’s fingers inside of him as Sam keeps on teasing, massaging. Dean can’t do much, can’t help his body stretching up, his back, muscles, taut under Sam’s belly. Ready for anything.
Says to Dean, “Turn over,” and Dean complies with barely a complaint, but Dean’s like this sometimes, eager for the fuck and not thinking about much else, a rare chance that Sam’ll abuse gladly.
Gets up on his knees and almost waggles his ass, does waggle his eyebrows, saying, “Let’s get it on,” and if it wasn’t Dean, he couldn’t get away with that, barely does, as it is. Pushes two fingers in right away, the shock a good thing, Dean choking out, “Warn me when you stick in the next finger, you fuckin’ giant.”
But fuck using his fingers, he feels too impatient, horny as all hell right now, the way Dean’s neck muscles go tight as his head almost snaps back when Sam’s dick pushes in, slicked up, Dean tightening around him, not giving him much choice but to go slow, take time that he doesn’t want to take, not at all. Dean mumbles some comment Sam doesn’t catch; he’s too busy readjusting himself, thrusts in, quick, tries to do a steady rhythm without falling off the small bed. Can barely push deep inside, Dean pushing back, back, disagreeing when Sam says, “C’mon, you can take more.”
“Christ, Sammy, not unless you want to fuckin’ kill me...by fucking me to death.”
His knees keep moving as he tries to find better purchase on the bed, nearly slips out of Dean, Dean saying, “Take it easy, princess.”
Dean smirks after that, bites his lip almost immediately, and the comment won’t do a thing to kill Sam’s erection-no, Sam’s the one who says, rough, “You take it easy, you’re so tight, Dean.”
“Shut up and keep at it,” Dean bites out. “Don’t stop.” Doesn’t say much after that, when Sam follows with his mouth, teeth then tongue, sucking at the hollow point of his neck, goes towards his pulse next, then where his neck meets shoulder, leaving a bruise or worse.
Sam reaches for Dean’s dick, hands almost on autopilot, and Dean’s dick, swollen and so damn hard it’s right up against Dean’s belly, nothing better to stroke Dean once, nearly sets him off, Dean’s head throws back in a wordless cry as Sam’s cock goes in-and-out, making sure to make the speed of the strokes. It’s a rhythm that has Dean’s hips shaking, only thing coming out of his mouth are moans now, too caught up to give Sam orders.
Can’t protest when Sam jerks him off, slowly, slowly, long and slow and torturous even, then changes the plan, his thrusts timed faster, a competing pace, stroking off Dean too slow, just the way Dean likes it but fucking Dean hard, the way Sam’s always going to want it, the way it always has to be.
Continues doing this, yes, this, one hand on Dean’s cock, other on his balls, breathing words against Dean’s back, “I can feel how much you’re holding back. Don’t.”
Sam grunts as Dean angles up a little, towards him, spreading his legs wider, their position finally what Sam’s needed, and this is enough, holding out for too long-his actions switch up, slowed down thrust as he comes, faster hands fumbling, once, twice. He adjusts himself, doesn’t pull out yet. Not yet, not when Dean’s set to go off, little rivulets of sweat that Sam runs his fingers down, mix of softness and firmness of Dean’s belly, abs.
But can’t stay in forever and Dean damn near bucks Sam off, only in a blind moment does Sam manage to right the situation, keep Dean from coming all over the mattress, Sam falling to one side, and then, facing each other, sees it happen, amazing each time it does, probably why Dean hates Sam seeing him like this, completely exposed.
Dean bares his teeth, eyes clamped shut when he shudders, full body, head to toe, spurts thick ropes of come all over Sam’s hands and belly. Then he falls back all the way, Sam grunting, almost cut short of his own wave of, god, he can’t think straight like that, still burning in a good way. Greedy lick of his palms, tasting Dean, knows that Dean’s watching him through slanted eyelids, doesn’t care at all, can’t help himself. Then, needing contact, touch, that heat of Dean that rises out him after sex, Sam lies half on top of him, weakly smiling at Dean’s harrumph; if Sam moves any more, he’ll fall off, and Dean’s a good cushion.
Telling him that isn’t the best idea, his eyes narrowing, slip of self-consciousness and vanity mix at once before he elbows Sam in the gut. “Get off, you weigh a fucking ton.”
Sam coughs and slowly lets himself fall off the bed, weakly scrambling and sitting up to lean his back on the edge of his own bed. “Huh, so you’re always like this with everyone you fuck?” Then, thinking of what started this whole...mess they’re in, Sam says, “You sure do treat a lady right.”
“Yeah.” Dean’s breathing still hasn’t evened out, labored and he tries to lean up, balance on one elbow and nearly topples over. Sam stifles his laugh with a fortunately decent fake cough. “You, Sam, are the girl in this relationship. Granted, you’re missing a set of tits but you got the nagging part down pat.”
“Dean.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, shifts his weight to lie back on his elbows, hair sticking up this way and that. “Dude, welcome to New York. You got your buildings, your cabbies, your secret little rendezvous. That’s for you, Sam. You might pretend not to be one kinky ass fucker, but I know better.”
“Especially about the ass fucking, huh?”
Dean manages to swivel his head ‘round over to see Sam’s face, twitching with purpose, because if he doesn’t look serious, then the joke’s ruined. Fortunately he manages it and Dean almost looks proud.
No, screw the almost, he is, and when Dean speaks, his voice ragged and rough, way he always sounds after being nearly fucked to exhaustion, “Whatever man, just fucking go to bed and we’ll head off to wherever the fuck you wanna fuck next. Hey, you wanna blow me at this apple orchard upstate? I totally met a chick up there a while back and man, let me tell you, I really learned to appreciate all the hard work that goes into a gallon of cider, if you know what I mean.”
end
Authors: ignited & regala_electra
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,110
Spoilers: S3, semi-spoiler for 3x02
Warnings: Sexual content and language
Summary: It’s right up near the edge, bridge supports, dark shine of water lapping at them, at the rocks and right there, is where Dean pushes Sam, against the wrought iron railing and fence. Sam’s curiosity, Dean’s past, and a detour to New York City can only lead to one solution, which, thankfully, involves sex.
Author’s Notes: Written for arabella_hope.
-
It happened like this.
Mouth’s slick, wet, soft pop as the head of his dick is freed. Exhale of breath from both of them-and Dean’s gaze is half-lidded, thumb and index finger wipe around the bend of his mouth, lips, drag along stubble to wipe away the excess come. He’s missed a spot, but can’t, not for lack of trying, point it out. Wants to keep it there, proof that’ll get rubbed away the moment Dean notices his reflection in a mirror or something else, this shiny sticky mess.
Like this, he says, and cants his head, stretching upwards, hands sliding over the sweat on Sam’s legs, thighs, the coarse hair at the base of his dick and the trail of dark hair up the length of his belly. Brush of fingertips against the ticklish parts of Sam’s stomach, parts he doesn’t admit to having, but still there’s a reaction, better, the smile on Dean’s wet lips, knowing he’s victorious.
Dean stretches, up.
-
It’s not what you see on television, or movies, or-god, who the fuck is Sam kidding, he can’t help but crane his neck up to stare at the tall buildings, high rise apartments, lights that strobe and flicker in the middle of the day, glowy bright and vivid at night. There’s the crowds, the stores, and the food, strong smell of sidewalk carts and other things, car exhaust, traffic congestion from here to New Jersey. Maybe beyond Jersey, from what the nonstop throngs of people mutter, talk of coming in from other states to pay the bills or for the prestige to be working in the city. Their voices, a distinctive acidic cacophony even with all the accents, languages, thrown in, singing out an age old hymn, stop your gawking and let me move on, nothing to see here-problem is, there’s everything to see here.
Sam would rather risk tourist comparisons than be fully aware of what’s going on now, bumper to bumper traffic and Dean cursing a storm under his breath. He clenches the driver’s wheel for dear life, like he’s afraid-correction, like Sam’s afraid-that he’ll open the trunk and drag out a flamethrower or a shotgun in order to get things moving.
They’re in New York City-Manhattan, to be specific, five other boroughs Dean wants to check out, like the gorillas at the Bronx Zoo or the Cyclone at Coney Island in Brooklyn-reenactment of Dean’s five states, five days, because Sam had to open his big damn mouth.
At the looks of things, this day’ll be spent in the car for the most part, and as agile as Dean claims to be, Sam isn’t gonna fuck him in the car. Can’t fit, and this traffic should move before he starts thinking about impossible logistics. Before he gets hard and can’t think of anything else but sex, because unlike Dean, Sam can ignore base instincts. If he keeps on telling himself that, it’s bound to be totally true one day.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam says, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Forget it, Dean, we don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, we’re gonna do it, Sam,” Dean responds through gritted teeth. “We’re gonna do it. This is just a technicality.. An obstacle to be, uh... overcome before we can come.”
“Uh huh.”
Dean leans back, forward, uneasy, then shakes the driver’s wheel, grunting.
“What is it?”
“Traffic’s clearing up.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “And that’s a bad thing, how?”
“Can’t give you a handjob when I’m drivin’,” Dean says, words spill out in a hurried breath as the car rumbles forward-he shifts his weight in his seat, uncomfortable, rough and there’s a burn to his skin like he’s being reigned in, not a blush, because Dean’ doesn’t do that, but there’s heat in him that can’t be released, frustrating for him.
Sam’s shaking his head, slumping down, knees knock painfully against the dashboard and for once, he misses the traffic.
-
Like this? Yes, like this, right here, under the fucking bridge of all places. A bridge, not the Brooklyn one-similar, less grandiose, it’s the Manhattan Bridge that runs from its namesake to Brooklyn, within eyesight of the other. Sam’s seen this place in movies he won’t let Dean know about, lots of long walks and sunsets, couples discussing their romances and lofts. Things Jess would laugh and sniffle at, couldn’t help herself when she sank into the couch with her bare legs on Sam’s lap, throwing popcorn at his face and mouth.
But it’s not pretty, there aren’t any overhead lights and green screen and wind machines or whatever-it’s fucking private, is what it is, Dean says, waves his hands in his jacket pockets, outline of his erection obvious, jeans can’t hide that much.
“Here,” Dean says, and “Here?” Sam asks, white glow of the street lamp and soft haze of blue and orange from the buildings, from the bridge illuminating the area. It’s right up near the edge, bridge supports, dark shine of water lapping at them, at the rocks and right there, is where Dean pushes Sam against the wrought iron railing and fence.
“Seriously? Here?” Sam says, more sarcastic than he means to; it’s a little cold, wisp of air that catches between his shirt and waistband, Dean’s hand already there, soft touch, light pressure.
“Dude, there’s nothin’ wrong with a little PDA.”
“Under a bridge.”
“Don’t be a wuss, Sam,” Dean says, clips the sentence dead when he shoves his mouth against Sam’s, the kind of kissing that’s almost desperate, hungry, fast and sudden, stops. “You expecting something else?”
Doesn’t let Sam answer, instead, Dean’s kissing him again, rough, rough, hasn’t shaved for a few days. Stubble against smoother skin, and he’s too fast, one hand fumbles and twines in Sam’s hair, the other at the waistband of his jeans.
Dean unbuckles Sam’s belt, unzips his jeans and then, he winks, the bastard, just slides down low as his hands travel the distance of Sam’s waist and thighs, drag down cotton and denim in the journey, then pulls his boxer-briefs and jeans down, far as it’ll go, far enough to make this kind of awkward just right. Snap of the night’s chill’ll get to Sam in a minute, he figures, hands grab wildly for balance, one on the railing behind, the other hand on Dean’s hair, pulls away, knows he doesn’t like that.
He grunts, Dean, as if to show it, doesn’t like to be handled that way, ducks his head and kisses the inside of Sam’s thigh. His lips drag up against Sam’s skin, slide of wetness that’s got heat pooling deep in Sam’s belly, goes right to his cock, head already wet with pre-come.
“Aching for it,” Dean says, doesn’t give Sam a shot to answer in the affirmative or tell Dean what he should be doing with his mouth.
Because that’s when Dean angles his head and moves closer, tease of one or two seconds before his tongue drags up the length of Sam’s cock, the underside. Drags, takes too long, Sam grunting, bites his lip to keep himself in check, ‘cause he doesn’t need Dean’s commentary, later, when his mouth’s not wrapped around Sam’s cock.
It is now though, Dean swallowing, too messy, doing this on purpose, goes deeper, mouth widens. Takes him all in, something that’s got Sam groaning, isn’t quite used to the way Dean takes to this, like a freakin’ goal he’s got to win, determined, even cups Sam’s balls and Jesus. The warmth of Dean’s mouth as he pushes forward, hand sliding around to Sam’s thigh, ass, grabbing him; it’s almost too much.
No, fuck, it is too much, glint of streetlamp light catching on Dean’s hair and face, reminder of where they are, and that it’s fucking cold, and that has Sam spurting in Dean’s mouth. When he does, he exhales, like it’s a pent-up breath, makes himself look up and away from the sight of Dean, devil of a gleam in his eyes.
Sam pants now, breathing heavy, brow furrows when Dean’s getting up a little too quickly, knee pops.
“Zip up, Sammy, somebody’s comin’,” Dean says, licks his lips and rubs away the spot of come at the corner of his mouth. “Come on.”
“Thought you liked a little PDA,” Sam says, can’t help the incredulity sneak into his voice. He’s trying to clean himself up and pull up his jeans, friction against sweat, fix his jacket.
“Could be cops. They like to patrol around here.”
“Cops? Seriously? And we’re-Dean, last thing we need is to get caught in the middle of-” Sam can’t quite put words together, lamely finishing, “you giving me a blowjob.”
Dean scrunches his nose, his eyes all wide in mock anger. “Hey, that takes a lot of skill, dude. And you’re welcome. Man, only you’d still be pissy after getting some fuckin’ amazing head. And don’t even say it wasn’t awesome.”
Sam would say something but when he stumbles after Dean, weak-kneed for a moment, needing to regain his balance, that’s all the thanks Dean needs for a job well done.
When they’re driving down the street later, Dean tells Sam they’re going to the place, now, you know, the one he fucked the meter maid in.
“You’re not serious-you’re-wait, you’re serious, aren’t you? A freakin’ meter maid, Dean?”
“We’re in New York. Traffic. Shitload of meters that’ll expire if you forget to feed it just one extra goddamn quarter. Yeah, a meter maid. Kept her hat on the whole time too,” he says, bright smile in the dark. He catches a glimpse of his face in the rearview mirror when he looks back, sees that he didn’t manage to get all the come off his face, but for some reason, doesn’t wipe it off.
God, and what does that say about Sam that he gets almost hard all over again, seeing that?
Dean says it’s a good thing her name wasn’t Rita-“Get it? ‘Lovely Rita’?” and thing is, Sam’s not sure if Dean knowing about a Beatles song is more surprising than, you know, fucking a meter maid-and Sam groans when the car slows at a red light.
-
This is where it happens, with Dean leaning over Sam, erection rubbing against Sam’s thigh, bends and plants his palms firmly on either side of Sam’s shoulders. He kisses his mouth, cheekbone, forehead, almost spits and blows away the hair sticking to his lips, leaning up to irritably mutter, “You and your goddamn hair.” Sam can’t help but laugh in response.
So you didn’t take her there?
I did, I did. Not like I remember too much. Appetizer before the main course, Sam, gotta treat a lady right.
Here, he’d said, he says now, “Here.”
Sam grinning against Dean’s mouth when he grabs him, oof of noise exhaled from Dean, pulls him and twists around, bedsheets clinging sticky, not-quite-smooth against their legs. The hotel’s right in the middle of Manhattan, below Central Park, cramped and tall between residential buildings, restaurant at the first floor. It’s decades old and too small, lots of dulled gold and reflective surfaces.
Flower patterns and tiny little beds, edges of the ridiculously undersized frames digging into the back of Sam’s calves, Dean’s now, Sam having turned to straddle Dean’s hips. Dean grunts and rolls his shoulder, reaching to swipe the bottle of lube off the nightstand, slaps it into Sam’s palm.
“Let’s see if you can keep it up, Sammy,” Dean says, in more ways than one implied in his comment. But Sam’s still burning, ready to go, blowjob outside and blowjob here, now has Dean the one muttering, rubbing his jaw.
He gets like this, testy, says do it like this and no and come on, Sammy, do I have to teach you everything? Only between groans, sharp intakes of breath, like the way he clenches up when Sam slips a lubed up finger in, then two.
Dean pressing into the touch, hips bucking up, trying to keep Sam’s fingers inside of him as Sam keeps on teasing, massaging. Dean can’t do much, can’t help his body stretching up, his back, muscles, taut under Sam’s belly. Ready for anything.
Says to Dean, “Turn over,” and Dean complies with barely a complaint, but Dean’s like this sometimes, eager for the fuck and not thinking about much else, a rare chance that Sam’ll abuse gladly.
Gets up on his knees and almost waggles his ass, does waggle his eyebrows, saying, “Let’s get it on,” and if it wasn’t Dean, he couldn’t get away with that, barely does, as it is. Pushes two fingers in right away, the shock a good thing, Dean choking out, “Warn me when you stick in the next finger, you fuckin’ giant.”
But fuck using his fingers, he feels too impatient, horny as all hell right now, the way Dean’s neck muscles go tight as his head almost snaps back when Sam’s dick pushes in, slicked up, Dean tightening around him, not giving him much choice but to go slow, take time that he doesn’t want to take, not at all. Dean mumbles some comment Sam doesn’t catch; he’s too busy readjusting himself, thrusts in, quick, tries to do a steady rhythm without falling off the small bed. Can barely push deep inside, Dean pushing back, back, disagreeing when Sam says, “C’mon, you can take more.”
“Christ, Sammy, not unless you want to fuckin’ kill me...by fucking me to death.”
His knees keep moving as he tries to find better purchase on the bed, nearly slips out of Dean, Dean saying, “Take it easy, princess.”
Dean smirks after that, bites his lip almost immediately, and the comment won’t do a thing to kill Sam’s erection-no, Sam’s the one who says, rough, “You take it easy, you’re so tight, Dean.”
“Shut up and keep at it,” Dean bites out. “Don’t stop.” Doesn’t say much after that, when Sam follows with his mouth, teeth then tongue, sucking at the hollow point of his neck, goes towards his pulse next, then where his neck meets shoulder, leaving a bruise or worse.
Sam reaches for Dean’s dick, hands almost on autopilot, and Dean’s dick, swollen and so damn hard it’s right up against Dean’s belly, nothing better to stroke Dean once, nearly sets him off, Dean’s head throws back in a wordless cry as Sam’s cock goes in-and-out, making sure to make the speed of the strokes. It’s a rhythm that has Dean’s hips shaking, only thing coming out of his mouth are moans now, too caught up to give Sam orders.
Can’t protest when Sam jerks him off, slowly, slowly, long and slow and torturous even, then changes the plan, his thrusts timed faster, a competing pace, stroking off Dean too slow, just the way Dean likes it but fucking Dean hard, the way Sam’s always going to want it, the way it always has to be.
Continues doing this, yes, this, one hand on Dean’s cock, other on his balls, breathing words against Dean’s back, “I can feel how much you’re holding back. Don’t.”
Sam grunts as Dean angles up a little, towards him, spreading his legs wider, their position finally what Sam’s needed, and this is enough, holding out for too long-his actions switch up, slowed down thrust as he comes, faster hands fumbling, once, twice. He adjusts himself, doesn’t pull out yet. Not yet, not when Dean’s set to go off, little rivulets of sweat that Sam runs his fingers down, mix of softness and firmness of Dean’s belly, abs.
But can’t stay in forever and Dean damn near bucks Sam off, only in a blind moment does Sam manage to right the situation, keep Dean from coming all over the mattress, Sam falling to one side, and then, facing each other, sees it happen, amazing each time it does, probably why Dean hates Sam seeing him like this, completely exposed.
Dean bares his teeth, eyes clamped shut when he shudders, full body, head to toe, spurts thick ropes of come all over Sam’s hands and belly. Then he falls back all the way, Sam grunting, almost cut short of his own wave of, god, he can’t think straight like that, still burning in a good way. Greedy lick of his palms, tasting Dean, knows that Dean’s watching him through slanted eyelids, doesn’t care at all, can’t help himself. Then, needing contact, touch, that heat of Dean that rises out him after sex, Sam lies half on top of him, weakly smiling at Dean’s harrumph; if Sam moves any more, he’ll fall off, and Dean’s a good cushion.
Telling him that isn’t the best idea, his eyes narrowing, slip of self-consciousness and vanity mix at once before he elbows Sam in the gut. “Get off, you weigh a fucking ton.”
Sam coughs and slowly lets himself fall off the bed, weakly scrambling and sitting up to lean his back on the edge of his own bed. “Huh, so you’re always like this with everyone you fuck?” Then, thinking of what started this whole...mess they’re in, Sam says, “You sure do treat a lady right.”
“Yeah.” Dean’s breathing still hasn’t evened out, labored and he tries to lean up, balance on one elbow and nearly topples over. Sam stifles his laugh with a fortunately decent fake cough. “You, Sam, are the girl in this relationship. Granted, you’re missing a set of tits but you got the nagging part down pat.”
“Dean.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, shifts his weight to lie back on his elbows, hair sticking up this way and that. “Dude, welcome to New York. You got your buildings, your cabbies, your secret little rendezvous. That’s for you, Sam. You might pretend not to be one kinky ass fucker, but I know better.”
“Especially about the ass fucking, huh?”
Dean manages to swivel his head ‘round over to see Sam’s face, twitching with purpose, because if he doesn’t look serious, then the joke’s ruined. Fortunately he manages it and Dean almost looks proud.
No, screw the almost, he is, and when Dean speaks, his voice ragged and rough, way he always sounds after being nearly fucked to exhaustion, “Whatever man, just fucking go to bed and we’ll head off to wherever the fuck you wanna fuck next. Hey, you wanna blow me at this apple orchard upstate? I totally met a chick up there a while back and man, let me tell you, I really learned to appreciate all the hard work that goes into a gallon of cider, if you know what I mean.”
end