reikah
in
inmyvortex
SPN: Close your eyes and I'll kiss you, NC-17.
Title: Close your eyes and I'll kiss you
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Author: reikah
Rating: NC-17
Notes: PWP
Word Count: 3,853
He's assaulted as soon as he steps through the door, and really, there's nothing quite like that to make a man feel good about himself. Sam tastes of a variety of things; the blowjob he gave Dean before he left, the tacos they ate for dinner, the beer they shared as they staked out the church - if Dean were a poetic soul, he'd be inclined to add 'sin' to that list, but he's not and never will be, and oh, it's hard to think of sin and right and wrong and societal mores when you're up against Sam Winchester's goddamn tongue.
Bitch.
It's so tempting to just give in, because fuck if this isn't making him hard; Dean barely remembers the groceries in his arms, things for the trip to their next destination, Maine, and the werewolf stalking the students of Katahdin High which awaits them. Sam is growling quietly to himself as he nibbles on Dean's lower lip, hands held out to the side as though he's not sure what to do with them; Dean chuckles into the kiss and thumps the grocery sack into his little brother's chest.
"Dean?" Sam's huh? face is a fascinating thing, and Dean wishes he could see it more frequently; doesn't have time to worry about it, though, as he shucks off the leather jacket. Sam smirks, dumping the groceries on the rickety wooden table next to his laptop and curling his fingers into the hem of his shirt, and Dean yanks his tee off, pitching it at the wall harder than is strictly necessary. He's always had a flair for the dramatic. To be more honest, he's always had a flair for sex, and he barely notices where he throws his belt, in a hurry to get naked as fast as; it is only when he is down to his boxers does he realise Sam still has his fingers twisted into his shirt, still fully clothed, just standing there, watching him.
He tilts his head, silent query. Sam shrugs and smiles; hauls off his shirt and begins painstakingly folding it up, so slowly Dean wants to thump him. Or jump him. It's a bit hard to tell, and that's not the only thing that's a bit hard.
From the look Sam's giving him - his crotch, anyway - from beneath those damn bangs, his kid brother's noticed too; Dean grits his teeth and folds his arms, trying not to glare. "What happened to the eager pawing?" he asks, anyway, because he wouldn't be himself if he didn't bitch, and Sam knows that.
Sam finishes folding his tee and gently puts it on top of his bed, unbuckling his belt with the same even patience. "Well," he says softly, still eyeing Dean's crotch furtively, and if his voice has a slight quaver in it it's not remarkable. "I just thought that for once, we could try going slow."
"Going slow?" Dean's cautious; he's heard that sort of line before from too many chicks. Admittedly, given his inability to stay in one place for very long, without the 'for once' tag, but he knows what it means; crosses his arms over his chest, and asks, quietly, "Is this the 'I want to tie you up and-slash-or render you helpless kind of 'going slow,' Sammy? 'cause if so, you should've said -"
"No!" Sam blinks, startled, and rubs the back of his neck the way he always does when he's slightly nervous. He's got his belt hanging from his other hand, and Dean swallows slightly. "I mean, I'd... never mind. But not this time, Dean, I just kinda meant the 'lasting longer than ten minutes' sort of 'going slow'."
"Are you saying something about my stamina?" Dean's grinning despite himself, and Sam fixes him with a Look that says everything.
And he has a point, although he may not realise it. Because it is rare for Dean to spend time on sex - he can last for ages with a woman, but with Sam there's an undercurrent of need he can't quite explain. He'll take the woman home from the bar, undress her carefully, get her into bed and make love to her to the best of his ability; with Sam he boots the door open, slams it behind him, grabs his little brother and pushes him against the door, thrusting against him hard as Sam claws at his back, teeth bared and leaving harsh, bruising kisses over each other's faces and throats and shoulders before coming hard in their pants.
... Okay, as much as he likes the whole frantic-sex-against-the-door thing, he can kinda see Sam's point about slow sex being nice, too.
"We might as well take advantage of being at the end," Sam says evenly, and Dean has a brief flash of paranoia that maybe Sam's foreseen the apocalypse before he realises his little brother's talking about the location of their fucking room. Yeah, he needs to unwind, and soon.
"Sure," he says cheerfully. "Who's on top tonight?"
Sam replies without missing a beat, "Me."
"Like hell," Dean snorts. "I'm the older, I go on top tonight." He pads across the room, sitting on one of the two beds; his ego is still bruised from the jab about his stamina, and he knows it. Sam looks affronted - opens his mouth to protest, but Dean really isn't in the mood for bitching about sex that'll lead to bitching about everything else he's done to annoy Sam today, and so he raises a hand and says, smirking, "Wanna flip a coin?"
Sam raises an eyebrow. "If anyone can hustle a coin flip, you can," he points out, and Dean gives him his best wounded look, all big eyes and sad curve to his lips. It works; Sam looks distinctly uncomfortable, then sighs. "Look, fine, just - go slow, okay?"
Dean smirks triumph, leaning back. "Sure," he says, aware that he is exuding effortless charm and ease and that it is having an effect on his little brother, who is watching him with a lot less grump and a little more lust.
Sam licks his lips - probably not even aware that he is doing so, and the movement sends a spike of something sharp straight down to Dean's cock. He knows Sam's mouth; knows driving through some backwards Southern state, Mississippi or wherever, and Sam reaching out, casual as you please, plucking his hand off the gear stick and slipping his older brother's index finger in his mouth before Dean was even aware his hand had moved.
"Sam?" he'd said, cautiously, when he was. The road was empty, had been for miles, but there were trees lining the side; Dean loved the Impala too much to even scratch the paintwork, and the way Sam was running his fucking tongue over the pad of Dean's finger, following the whorls, sending a delicious wave of pure arousal down to Dean's groin - well, that ensured some scratched paintwork was the least likely outcome of Dean's continuing to drive with this damn distraction. In the end he'd pulled over, hauled Sam out the car and threw him over the hood.
"Let's get something straight," he'd said, so hard it hurt but trying to be in control, "You do not distract me while I'm driving, Sam, 'cause if you do, I'll total the car, and if I total the car, I'm gonna kick your ass right back to Stanford. Got it?"
Sam had grinned at him, languid, eyes half-shuttered; had raised his hands and worked them into the hair at the back of Dean's head, pulling him closer. "You're hard," he'd murmured, and Dean had realised his erection was pressing against Sam's thigh, hot and hard and needy and ouch, kinda uncomfortable in these jeans. "Want me to do something about it?"
"We're right next to the fucking road!" Dean had hissed, even as his dick practically jumped at the look in Sam's eyes, the wetness on his finger a memory of what Sam could do with his tongue if he put his mind to it.
"Didn't stop you that time in Connecticut," Sam had replied, corner of his mouth screwed up in a smug I've-got-the-upper-hand-here smirk. One large hand had slipped between them, palming the heated fabric where Dean's jeans could not mask Dean's enthusiasm. "We got pulled over by that cop, remember? And you told him you'd dropped your sunglasses and you were leaning on my thigh and I was - "
"Holdin' onto the wheel, all flushed and sweating, I remember," Dean had finished for him, as they often did, and grinned fondly at the memory - mouthing Sam through his jeans, his little brother's whimpers. "That was just a bit of fun, though, Sammy - "
"So's this," Sam had said, and pressed.
Dean hadn't stood a chance then, and he doesn't now; his younger brother grins like a fucking shark (lawyer grin, Dean thinks, he looks like a mafia lawyer when he does that) and crosses the distance between them, crouching between Dean's thighs.
"Dean," Sam says softly, eyes glinting from beneath that scruffy mop and hands hot on Dean's hips, thumbs stroking the waistband of his boxers. He leans in - or maybe Dean does, he's not quite sure - and their mouths meet, opening under each other. This is familiar, the taste of Sam and the feeling of his tongue, warm and rough and confident, stroking slowly over the roof of Dean's mouth. Sam kisses like a pro - all tongue and spit and hollowed out cheeks, and Dean has to grab for his shoulders just to prevent himself from slipping off the bed and into his little brother's lap, which would be embarrassing as hell later on.
He thinks he breathes Sam's name when they part for air, but he's not sure, and anyway Sam's moving a hand from his hip, placing it on the inside of Dean's thigh so that his fingertips brush the damp spot at the front of Dean's boxers where his cock has leaked. Sam smiles, brushes his forehead briefly against Dean's cheek; Dean swallows and grins, lazily sweeping a hand up, knotting it in Sam's hair and pulling his little brother's head back so that Sam looks up at him, making eye contact. "So," he says and is pleased at how even his voice is. Sam moves his fingers, strokes his index finger down slowly, following the seam and Dean grits his teeth; his little brother smirks victory and raises an eyebrow, as sassy as he'd been when he'd first beat Dean at knife-throwing, fourteen and topless on a summer day.
"You want something?" the little bastard asks and oh, Dean's had it with Sam's look-at-me-I'm-so-unaffected-by-this. Revenge only goes so far. He swings his legs over Sam's shoulders, lifts his jaw and grins imperiously.
"Blow me," he orders, and Sam's eyes widen, the pupils dilating. His thumb, still playing with the waistband of Dean's underpants, hooks in the material and Sam tugs, hard; his other hand comes up to help the first, and Dean leans back against the bed, smirks. Sam gets his boxers down to mid-thigh, pauses.
"You're going to have to move your leg or something, dude," Sam whispers hoarsely, and Dean gives him what he hopes is a passable just-make-do face. Sam's eyes darken, clouded with a sort of deep-rooted lust that makes Dean's nipples tingle and his cock twitch against his belly every-fucking-time. Sam paws briefly at the fabric of Dean's underpants then gives up, leaning forward to swallow Dean down, and the angle must be awkward tall as Sam is but Dean just does not care, because his brother seems to have no fucking gag reflex and is going right at it, sucking and bobbing his head. He skips a hand from Sam's hair, lets it slide down until he's cupping Sam's jaw, one thumb resting against the corner of Sam's mouth, feeling the way Sam's cheeks swell with the thickness of Dean's cock, and awww, fuck.
Stamina, he thinks, dazed. Sam pauses on the upstroke, reaches up and shifts Dean's hand so he can fit the last joint of Dean's thumb into his mouth too, and oh god, it's hotter and wetter than it has the right to be. He thinks I don't have stamina.
His pride might just be the only thing in the world with a chance of trumping his libido at the moment, and so he sets his other hand on Sam's forehead, gives him a little shove. Sam backs off, panting, lips slick and swollen, cheeks flushed and expression incredulous and slightly worried; Dean snorts and flashes him a bright smile. "You did good, baby," he says and Sam rolls his eyes. Dean grins, casual; pushes Sam down and away, through the space between his legs and pulls his boxers off. He scrunches them into a ball, drops them on the floor and sets his hands on his knees, leaning forward to look at Sam, who has a tiny trail of pre-come leaking from the corner of his mouth and is squirming on the floor, clearly hard. "You did real good, but I'm going to fuck you now."
The reaction is instantaneous and really, kinda pitiful in an unbelievably hot way; Sam is pulling his clothes off and is nearly naked before Dean's even gotten the lube and shiny square of silver foil off the night table. "Dean," Sam says, hesitantly, jeans around his ankles; Dean sinks his teeth into a corner of the condom wrapper and raises his eyebrows, and his little brother steps slowly out of them.
"Get on the bed," he says, evenly. There's a spark of glee in Sam's eyes that goes straight to Dean's cock, and he only prays he'll last long enough that he'll be able to make his point. Sam's painfully hard too, though; when he lays face-down on the bed, spreads his thighs and raises his ass into the air, Dean can see his brother's dick rub against the comforter, dark with blood. He rips the foil square open with an urgency that would have embarrassed him, had Sam been in any condition to notice; his brother, however, is making little breathless whimpering noises, propping himself up with his elbows and with his jaw clenched tight.
Dean rolls the condom on with an ease born of experience and heads over to the other bed in what he hopes is a saunter, or maybe a swagger. Possibly even a strut. Sam turns his head, fixes him with a dark glare and rocks his hips against the bed; Dean slaps his ass, smug and knowing it. He pours lube over two fingers, spilling some and not in any position to care, air of effortless superiority be damned; Sam whines and closes his eyes, pressing his face against the sheets. He's beautiful, desperately hard and needy, body a lean expanse of tanned skin and muscle; Dean slaps his ass again, just because he can. The sight of Sam's skin reddening under the contact is arousing in a heady, bright sort of way, and Sam's cry when Dean penetrates him with a finger is deep and startling. Dean shushes him absently, although not unkindly, stroking Sam's back with his free hand; when Sam arches his neck and sets his jaw, nods tersely when he thinks he's ready for another, Dean obliges. They've done this enough times that Dean knows how soon and how many Sam can take, but this time he's got his mind on other matters, and when Sam fists his hand in the covers he leans forward, swiping his tongue over his two fingers and against the outside ring of muscle. Sam jerks like Dean's just slid into him, turns his head. "Dude," he says, "Are you licking me?"
Dean hums agreement, tongue busy, and slides his fingers free slowly. Sam groans like this is the hottest thing that's ever happened to him, bunching those huge hands in cheap motel sheets; pre-come is dripping from the head of his cock, and he rocks his hips absently, despite not making contact with anything. Dean's own cock gives a hard jerk as he thrusts his tongue into Sam, circling the tight hole, his free hand hard on Sam's hip.
Sam's growling under his breath, hips jerking slowly, muttering things that sound like Dean's name and that of the Lord's son. Dean just grins and continues fucking Sam with his tongue, traces a rune useful for warding off banshees and Sam whines and writhes, claws at the streets and arches his back and hisses, "Jesus Christ, Dean, just fuck me!"
Dean draws back, swallows and grins, raises his eyebrows. "Thought you wanted to go slow," he says, cheerfully, attempting to ignore his throbbing, aching cock.
"Somehow I knew you were going to say that," Sam snaps, craning his head back to glare at Dean. His cheeks are flushed and his pupils blown; the sight is breath-taking, and Dean licks his lips slowly. "Look, hurry up or I'll jack myself off, jerk."
As hot as that image is, Dean's already got the condom on; slaps Sam's rump - Sam's spine dips and he gasps, low and hoarse in the back of his throat - and raises himself onto his knees. Sam's already slick and stretched; it doesn't take much effort to push himself all the way in. He curls a hand around Sam's body to his cock, feels Sam buck hard under him when he wraps his fingers around his brother's hot steel-hard shaft. Yeah, Sam's close, body slippery with sweat, making soft little panting noises as he rocks himself in time with Dean's thrusts. His cock is leaking in Dean's grasp and he's fucking perfect inside, moving in time with Dean, and oh god Dean's been close since the blowjob and now Sam's fucking himself on Dean at the same time as Dean fucks him and yeah, who fucking cares about stamina? Quality, not quantity, Dean thinks, echoes of some distant high school English teacher's angry red comment at the foot of an essay, and Sam's spine ripples as he shifts his arms, displaying the long curve of neck, and oh, fuck he's too fucking gorgeous.
Dean comes without noise - and Sam'd teased him for that, the first time; teased him for being so loud everywhere else but in bed, had shut up when Dean retorted that he'd rather be silent than as girly a screamer as Sam was. Sam is whining desperately now, hips jerking almost spasmodically as Dean grips too tight, his teeth gritted against the pleasure, and then he almost can't see or hear or feel anything at all, lost in the sensation rocking up from his balls to the rest of his body.
He comes back to Sam, whimpering and movements slow and static, attempting to get a hand free but seemingly unable to control his own body. He still has a hand wrapped around Sam, around his little brother's cock; begins to pull, taking satisfaction in the way Sam sighs and shivers and thrusts desperately forward, fucking Dean's hand with a sort of desperation Dean's never seen before. It's unbelievably hot, and Dean leans forward, pushing Sam's hips down with his body weight and nuzzling the sweat-slick hair at the nape of Sam's neck as he slides his hand down, cupping Sam's balls with a sort of lazy ease.
"Dean," Sam gasps, "Dean, please -" And a shiver arches up Dean's spine, warm and sleek. He curls his toes, nuzzles Sam's neck, shifts his grip and rubs a thumb against the sensitive strip of skin behind Sam's balls; his younger brother comes with a yelp, high-pitched and sounding for all the world like a puppy in pain.
He pulls out of Sam, wincing slightly as he does so. Sam growls softly and cants over to the side, just collapsing as if every bone in his body's melted; Dean can't resist reaching out and stroking his side, petting his brother like he had when they were younger and Sammy had crawled into his bed, seeking comfort after a nightmare. He feels dazed and warm but also kinda soft and sated, more so when Sam rolls into him and buries into his side. For a while Dean is content to just lie there, despite the fact that he still has the condom on and he's covered in cool sweat and really, when he gets down to it, feels kinda disgusting; the air is heavy with the scent of sex and sweat and Sam and something else that might be him but is more likely to be Sam's semen, and you know, that's fine.
Sam stirs besides him, a couple of minutes later, brushing his hair out of his face with one hand and then rubbing at his eyes. "Hey," Dean says, comfortably. He could taunt Sam about the stamina thing, but doesn't really feel like it. "Wanna catch a shower?"
Sam blinks at him, then nods, swinging his legs out of bed. "Sure," he says, stretches like he's just woken up instead of just been fucked. "You reek, dude."
"You're not exactly a walking Axe commercial, either," Dean points out, sitting up and beginning to roll the condom off. Sam snorts, pushes himself to his feet, and Dean feels a flicker of - something - in his gut. "Was that what you wanted?" he asks carefully.
Sam yawns and nods, linking his fingers together and stretching his arms out above his head. "Yeah," he says, lowers them. "Where'd you learn the thing with your tongue?"
Dean just winks at him, as lewdly as he can. "Trade secret, Sammy," he replies, keeping his voice in a sort of sultry purr, although he thinks the only way he could get it up again so soon after an orgasm like that would be if Sam were possessed by a succubus. His little brother just rolls his eyes, albeit with a touch of fondness in his expression, and walks - not without a hitch - over to the bathroom, pausing at the entrance.
"So," he says carefully, then clears his throat and jerks his head. "You gonna shower with me or what?"
Dean just grins, letting that be his answer as he tosses the used condom in the trash can. He's tempted to check the clock, see how long this took; decides not to, not when Sam's waiting in the door of the bathroom, naked and inviting. Yeah, he's a lucky man.
Ten minutes later, as Sam goes down on his knees in the cramped shower cubicle, proceeding to make him an even luckier man, Dean will grip the shower wall hard and squeeze his eyes closed, thinking as he does so that yeah, maybe taking his time does have its advantages, despite the fact that he doesn't always have the time to give.
Then Sam will move his tongue just so and the thought will be blasted out of his head by the sheer pleasure, but hey, at least he'll've thought it.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Author: reikah
Rating: NC-17
Notes: PWP
Word Count: 3,853
He's assaulted as soon as he steps through the door, and really, there's nothing quite like that to make a man feel good about himself. Sam tastes of a variety of things; the blowjob he gave Dean before he left, the tacos they ate for dinner, the beer they shared as they staked out the church - if Dean were a poetic soul, he'd be inclined to add 'sin' to that list, but he's not and never will be, and oh, it's hard to think of sin and right and wrong and societal mores when you're up against Sam Winchester's goddamn tongue.
Bitch.
It's so tempting to just give in, because fuck if this isn't making him hard; Dean barely remembers the groceries in his arms, things for the trip to their next destination, Maine, and the werewolf stalking the students of Katahdin High which awaits them. Sam is growling quietly to himself as he nibbles on Dean's lower lip, hands held out to the side as though he's not sure what to do with them; Dean chuckles into the kiss and thumps the grocery sack into his little brother's chest.
"Dean?" Sam's huh? face is a fascinating thing, and Dean wishes he could see it more frequently; doesn't have time to worry about it, though, as he shucks off the leather jacket. Sam smirks, dumping the groceries on the rickety wooden table next to his laptop and curling his fingers into the hem of his shirt, and Dean yanks his tee off, pitching it at the wall harder than is strictly necessary. He's always had a flair for the dramatic. To be more honest, he's always had a flair for sex, and he barely notices where he throws his belt, in a hurry to get naked as fast as; it is only when he is down to his boxers does he realise Sam still has his fingers twisted into his shirt, still fully clothed, just standing there, watching him.
He tilts his head, silent query. Sam shrugs and smiles; hauls off his shirt and begins painstakingly folding it up, so slowly Dean wants to thump him. Or jump him. It's a bit hard to tell, and that's not the only thing that's a bit hard.
From the look Sam's giving him - his crotch, anyway - from beneath those damn bangs, his kid brother's noticed too; Dean grits his teeth and folds his arms, trying not to glare. "What happened to the eager pawing?" he asks, anyway, because he wouldn't be himself if he didn't bitch, and Sam knows that.
Sam finishes folding his tee and gently puts it on top of his bed, unbuckling his belt with the same even patience. "Well," he says softly, still eyeing Dean's crotch furtively, and if his voice has a slight quaver in it it's not remarkable. "I just thought that for once, we could try going slow."
"Going slow?" Dean's cautious; he's heard that sort of line before from too many chicks. Admittedly, given his inability to stay in one place for very long, without the 'for once' tag, but he knows what it means; crosses his arms over his chest, and asks, quietly, "Is this the 'I want to tie you up and-slash-or render you helpless kind of 'going slow,' Sammy? 'cause if so, you should've said -"
"No!" Sam blinks, startled, and rubs the back of his neck the way he always does when he's slightly nervous. He's got his belt hanging from his other hand, and Dean swallows slightly. "I mean, I'd... never mind. But not this time, Dean, I just kinda meant the 'lasting longer than ten minutes' sort of 'going slow'."
"Are you saying something about my stamina?" Dean's grinning despite himself, and Sam fixes him with a Look that says everything.
And he has a point, although he may not realise it. Because it is rare for Dean to spend time on sex - he can last for ages with a woman, but with Sam there's an undercurrent of need he can't quite explain. He'll take the woman home from the bar, undress her carefully, get her into bed and make love to her to the best of his ability; with Sam he boots the door open, slams it behind him, grabs his little brother and pushes him against the door, thrusting against him hard as Sam claws at his back, teeth bared and leaving harsh, bruising kisses over each other's faces and throats and shoulders before coming hard in their pants.
... Okay, as much as he likes the whole frantic-sex-against-the-door thing, he can kinda see Sam's point about slow sex being nice, too.
"We might as well take advantage of being at the end," Sam says evenly, and Dean has a brief flash of paranoia that maybe Sam's foreseen the apocalypse before he realises his little brother's talking about the location of their fucking room. Yeah, he needs to unwind, and soon.
"Sure," he says cheerfully. "Who's on top tonight?"
Sam replies without missing a beat, "Me."
"Like hell," Dean snorts. "I'm the older, I go on top tonight." He pads across the room, sitting on one of the two beds; his ego is still bruised from the jab about his stamina, and he knows it. Sam looks affronted - opens his mouth to protest, but Dean really isn't in the mood for bitching about sex that'll lead to bitching about everything else he's done to annoy Sam today, and so he raises a hand and says, smirking, "Wanna flip a coin?"
Sam raises an eyebrow. "If anyone can hustle a coin flip, you can," he points out, and Dean gives him his best wounded look, all big eyes and sad curve to his lips. It works; Sam looks distinctly uncomfortable, then sighs. "Look, fine, just - go slow, okay?"
Dean smirks triumph, leaning back. "Sure," he says, aware that he is exuding effortless charm and ease and that it is having an effect on his little brother, who is watching him with a lot less grump and a little more lust.
Sam licks his lips - probably not even aware that he is doing so, and the movement sends a spike of something sharp straight down to Dean's cock. He knows Sam's mouth; knows driving through some backwards Southern state, Mississippi or wherever, and Sam reaching out, casual as you please, plucking his hand off the gear stick and slipping his older brother's index finger in his mouth before Dean was even aware his hand had moved.
"Sam?" he'd said, cautiously, when he was. The road was empty, had been for miles, but there were trees lining the side; Dean loved the Impala too much to even scratch the paintwork, and the way Sam was running his fucking tongue over the pad of Dean's finger, following the whorls, sending a delicious wave of pure arousal down to Dean's groin - well, that ensured some scratched paintwork was the least likely outcome of Dean's continuing to drive with this damn distraction. In the end he'd pulled over, hauled Sam out the car and threw him over the hood.
"Let's get something straight," he'd said, so hard it hurt but trying to be in control, "You do not distract me while I'm driving, Sam, 'cause if you do, I'll total the car, and if I total the car, I'm gonna kick your ass right back to Stanford. Got it?"
Sam had grinned at him, languid, eyes half-shuttered; had raised his hands and worked them into the hair at the back of Dean's head, pulling him closer. "You're hard," he'd murmured, and Dean had realised his erection was pressing against Sam's thigh, hot and hard and needy and ouch, kinda uncomfortable in these jeans. "Want me to do something about it?"
"We're right next to the fucking road!" Dean had hissed, even as his dick practically jumped at the look in Sam's eyes, the wetness on his finger a memory of what Sam could do with his tongue if he put his mind to it.
"Didn't stop you that time in Connecticut," Sam had replied, corner of his mouth screwed up in a smug I've-got-the-upper-hand-here smirk. One large hand had slipped between them, palming the heated fabric where Dean's jeans could not mask Dean's enthusiasm. "We got pulled over by that cop, remember? And you told him you'd dropped your sunglasses and you were leaning on my thigh and I was - "
"Holdin' onto the wheel, all flushed and sweating, I remember," Dean had finished for him, as they often did, and grinned fondly at the memory - mouthing Sam through his jeans, his little brother's whimpers. "That was just a bit of fun, though, Sammy - "
"So's this," Sam had said, and pressed.
Dean hadn't stood a chance then, and he doesn't now; his younger brother grins like a fucking shark (lawyer grin, Dean thinks, he looks like a mafia lawyer when he does that) and crosses the distance between them, crouching between Dean's thighs.
"Dean," Sam says softly, eyes glinting from beneath that scruffy mop and hands hot on Dean's hips, thumbs stroking the waistband of his boxers. He leans in - or maybe Dean does, he's not quite sure - and their mouths meet, opening under each other. This is familiar, the taste of Sam and the feeling of his tongue, warm and rough and confident, stroking slowly over the roof of Dean's mouth. Sam kisses like a pro - all tongue and spit and hollowed out cheeks, and Dean has to grab for his shoulders just to prevent himself from slipping off the bed and into his little brother's lap, which would be embarrassing as hell later on.
He thinks he breathes Sam's name when they part for air, but he's not sure, and anyway Sam's moving a hand from his hip, placing it on the inside of Dean's thigh so that his fingertips brush the damp spot at the front of Dean's boxers where his cock has leaked. Sam smiles, brushes his forehead briefly against Dean's cheek; Dean swallows and grins, lazily sweeping a hand up, knotting it in Sam's hair and pulling his little brother's head back so that Sam looks up at him, making eye contact. "So," he says and is pleased at how even his voice is. Sam moves his fingers, strokes his index finger down slowly, following the seam and Dean grits his teeth; his little brother smirks victory and raises an eyebrow, as sassy as he'd been when he'd first beat Dean at knife-throwing, fourteen and topless on a summer day.
"You want something?" the little bastard asks and oh, Dean's had it with Sam's look-at-me-I'm-so-unaffected-by-this. Revenge only goes so far. He swings his legs over Sam's shoulders, lifts his jaw and grins imperiously.
"Blow me," he orders, and Sam's eyes widen, the pupils dilating. His thumb, still playing with the waistband of Dean's underpants, hooks in the material and Sam tugs, hard; his other hand comes up to help the first, and Dean leans back against the bed, smirks. Sam gets his boxers down to mid-thigh, pauses.
"You're going to have to move your leg or something, dude," Sam whispers hoarsely, and Dean gives him what he hopes is a passable just-make-do face. Sam's eyes darken, clouded with a sort of deep-rooted lust that makes Dean's nipples tingle and his cock twitch against his belly every-fucking-time. Sam paws briefly at the fabric of Dean's underpants then gives up, leaning forward to swallow Dean down, and the angle must be awkward tall as Sam is but Dean just does not care, because his brother seems to have no fucking gag reflex and is going right at it, sucking and bobbing his head. He skips a hand from Sam's hair, lets it slide down until he's cupping Sam's jaw, one thumb resting against the corner of Sam's mouth, feeling the way Sam's cheeks swell with the thickness of Dean's cock, and awww, fuck.
Stamina, he thinks, dazed. Sam pauses on the upstroke, reaches up and shifts Dean's hand so he can fit the last joint of Dean's thumb into his mouth too, and oh god, it's hotter and wetter than it has the right to be. He thinks I don't have stamina.
His pride might just be the only thing in the world with a chance of trumping his libido at the moment, and so he sets his other hand on Sam's forehead, gives him a little shove. Sam backs off, panting, lips slick and swollen, cheeks flushed and expression incredulous and slightly worried; Dean snorts and flashes him a bright smile. "You did good, baby," he says and Sam rolls his eyes. Dean grins, casual; pushes Sam down and away, through the space between his legs and pulls his boxers off. He scrunches them into a ball, drops them on the floor and sets his hands on his knees, leaning forward to look at Sam, who has a tiny trail of pre-come leaking from the corner of his mouth and is squirming on the floor, clearly hard. "You did real good, but I'm going to fuck you now."
The reaction is instantaneous and really, kinda pitiful in an unbelievably hot way; Sam is pulling his clothes off and is nearly naked before Dean's even gotten the lube and shiny square of silver foil off the night table. "Dean," Sam says, hesitantly, jeans around his ankles; Dean sinks his teeth into a corner of the condom wrapper and raises his eyebrows, and his little brother steps slowly out of them.
"Get on the bed," he says, evenly. There's a spark of glee in Sam's eyes that goes straight to Dean's cock, and he only prays he'll last long enough that he'll be able to make his point. Sam's painfully hard too, though; when he lays face-down on the bed, spreads his thighs and raises his ass into the air, Dean can see his brother's dick rub against the comforter, dark with blood. He rips the foil square open with an urgency that would have embarrassed him, had Sam been in any condition to notice; his brother, however, is making little breathless whimpering noises, propping himself up with his elbows and with his jaw clenched tight.
Dean rolls the condom on with an ease born of experience and heads over to the other bed in what he hopes is a saunter, or maybe a swagger. Possibly even a strut. Sam turns his head, fixes him with a dark glare and rocks his hips against the bed; Dean slaps his ass, smug and knowing it. He pours lube over two fingers, spilling some and not in any position to care, air of effortless superiority be damned; Sam whines and closes his eyes, pressing his face against the sheets. He's beautiful, desperately hard and needy, body a lean expanse of tanned skin and muscle; Dean slaps his ass again, just because he can. The sight of Sam's skin reddening under the contact is arousing in a heady, bright sort of way, and Sam's cry when Dean penetrates him with a finger is deep and startling. Dean shushes him absently, although not unkindly, stroking Sam's back with his free hand; when Sam arches his neck and sets his jaw, nods tersely when he thinks he's ready for another, Dean obliges. They've done this enough times that Dean knows how soon and how many Sam can take, but this time he's got his mind on other matters, and when Sam fists his hand in the covers he leans forward, swiping his tongue over his two fingers and against the outside ring of muscle. Sam jerks like Dean's just slid into him, turns his head. "Dude," he says, "Are you licking me?"
Dean hums agreement, tongue busy, and slides his fingers free slowly. Sam groans like this is the hottest thing that's ever happened to him, bunching those huge hands in cheap motel sheets; pre-come is dripping from the head of his cock, and he rocks his hips absently, despite not making contact with anything. Dean's own cock gives a hard jerk as he thrusts his tongue into Sam, circling the tight hole, his free hand hard on Sam's hip.
Sam's growling under his breath, hips jerking slowly, muttering things that sound like Dean's name and that of the Lord's son. Dean just grins and continues fucking Sam with his tongue, traces a rune useful for warding off banshees and Sam whines and writhes, claws at the streets and arches his back and hisses, "Jesus Christ, Dean, just fuck me!"
Dean draws back, swallows and grins, raises his eyebrows. "Thought you wanted to go slow," he says, cheerfully, attempting to ignore his throbbing, aching cock.
"Somehow I knew you were going to say that," Sam snaps, craning his head back to glare at Dean. His cheeks are flushed and his pupils blown; the sight is breath-taking, and Dean licks his lips slowly. "Look, hurry up or I'll jack myself off, jerk."
As hot as that image is, Dean's already got the condom on; slaps Sam's rump - Sam's spine dips and he gasps, low and hoarse in the back of his throat - and raises himself onto his knees. Sam's already slick and stretched; it doesn't take much effort to push himself all the way in. He curls a hand around Sam's body to his cock, feels Sam buck hard under him when he wraps his fingers around his brother's hot steel-hard shaft. Yeah, Sam's close, body slippery with sweat, making soft little panting noises as he rocks himself in time with Dean's thrusts. His cock is leaking in Dean's grasp and he's fucking perfect inside, moving in time with Dean, and oh god Dean's been close since the blowjob and now Sam's fucking himself on Dean at the same time as Dean fucks him and yeah, who fucking cares about stamina? Quality, not quantity, Dean thinks, echoes of some distant high school English teacher's angry red comment at the foot of an essay, and Sam's spine ripples as he shifts his arms, displaying the long curve of neck, and oh, fuck he's too fucking gorgeous.
Dean comes without noise - and Sam'd teased him for that, the first time; teased him for being so loud everywhere else but in bed, had shut up when Dean retorted that he'd rather be silent than as girly a screamer as Sam was. Sam is whining desperately now, hips jerking almost spasmodically as Dean grips too tight, his teeth gritted against the pleasure, and then he almost can't see or hear or feel anything at all, lost in the sensation rocking up from his balls to the rest of his body.
He comes back to Sam, whimpering and movements slow and static, attempting to get a hand free but seemingly unable to control his own body. He still has a hand wrapped around Sam, around his little brother's cock; begins to pull, taking satisfaction in the way Sam sighs and shivers and thrusts desperately forward, fucking Dean's hand with a sort of desperation Dean's never seen before. It's unbelievably hot, and Dean leans forward, pushing Sam's hips down with his body weight and nuzzling the sweat-slick hair at the nape of Sam's neck as he slides his hand down, cupping Sam's balls with a sort of lazy ease.
"Dean," Sam gasps, "Dean, please -" And a shiver arches up Dean's spine, warm and sleek. He curls his toes, nuzzles Sam's neck, shifts his grip and rubs a thumb against the sensitive strip of skin behind Sam's balls; his younger brother comes with a yelp, high-pitched and sounding for all the world like a puppy in pain.
He pulls out of Sam, wincing slightly as he does so. Sam growls softly and cants over to the side, just collapsing as if every bone in his body's melted; Dean can't resist reaching out and stroking his side, petting his brother like he had when they were younger and Sammy had crawled into his bed, seeking comfort after a nightmare. He feels dazed and warm but also kinda soft and sated, more so when Sam rolls into him and buries into his side. For a while Dean is content to just lie there, despite the fact that he still has the condom on and he's covered in cool sweat and really, when he gets down to it, feels kinda disgusting; the air is heavy with the scent of sex and sweat and Sam and something else that might be him but is more likely to be Sam's semen, and you know, that's fine.
Sam stirs besides him, a couple of minutes later, brushing his hair out of his face with one hand and then rubbing at his eyes. "Hey," Dean says, comfortably. He could taunt Sam about the stamina thing, but doesn't really feel like it. "Wanna catch a shower?"
Sam blinks at him, then nods, swinging his legs out of bed. "Sure," he says, stretches like he's just woken up instead of just been fucked. "You reek, dude."
"You're not exactly a walking Axe commercial, either," Dean points out, sitting up and beginning to roll the condom off. Sam snorts, pushes himself to his feet, and Dean feels a flicker of - something - in his gut. "Was that what you wanted?" he asks carefully.
Sam yawns and nods, linking his fingers together and stretching his arms out above his head. "Yeah," he says, lowers them. "Where'd you learn the thing with your tongue?"
Dean just winks at him, as lewdly as he can. "Trade secret, Sammy," he replies, keeping his voice in a sort of sultry purr, although he thinks the only way he could get it up again so soon after an orgasm like that would be if Sam were possessed by a succubus. His little brother just rolls his eyes, albeit with a touch of fondness in his expression, and walks - not without a hitch - over to the bathroom, pausing at the entrance.
"So," he says carefully, then clears his throat and jerks his head. "You gonna shower with me or what?"
Dean just grins, letting that be his answer as he tosses the used condom in the trash can. He's tempted to check the clock, see how long this took; decides not to, not when Sam's waiting in the door of the bathroom, naked and inviting. Yeah, he's a lucky man.
Ten minutes later, as Sam goes down on his knees in the cramped shower cubicle, proceeding to make him an even luckier man, Dean will grip the shower wall hard and squeeze his eyes closed, thinking as he does so that yeah, maybe taking his time does have its advantages, despite the fact that he doesn't always have the time to give.
Then Sam will move his tongue just so and the thought will be blasted out of his head by the sheer pleasure, but hey, at least he'll've thought it.