Supernatural - A Map of Me and You (1/2)
Title: A Map of Me and You. (1/2)
Author: shanaqui/edenbound (ficjournal).
Fandom: Supernatural.
Pairing/character: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester. (Sam/Dean.)
Rating: NC17.
Word Count: 12,013.
Kink: Multiple (see warnings).
Warnings: Slash, incest, sex, domination/submission, sex toys, spanking, bondage, exhibitionism, voyeurism, orgasm denial, sap. No spoilers.
Notes: Thank you to my artist, auroraprimavera, for being really encouraging, for poking me, and for often being my guinea pig the first one to see the scenes as I finished them. Thank you feywood for the encouragement and the beta (and for being the love of my life ♥).
Summary: It starts with a butt plug in Phoenix, Arizona. Sam makes Dean wear it the whole day. Then it kinda escalates, just like their prank wars -- Dean finds a plug that vibrates, and, well, turn about is fair play. And then there's all the rest of it, too: handcuffs and spanking, and finally Sam figures out that Dean kinda likes the idea of being watched when they have sex. And, yeah, he can't deny Dean anything, really, can he?
Artist: auroraprimavera, providing a banner, two manips, and a minimix. The minimix is here, with a front cover and a back cover. The first manip is here and the other is here. Her full art post is here.
Other: My artist made a mix, and so did I. You can find my mix here.
Part One | Part Two
It's a bar like any other they frequent. Maybe a bit darker than the last, and maybe a bit louder, but it's essentially the same. There was a time when Sam tried to hold onto the details. A crappy painting of a harbour, a washed out watercolour, weird constellations of bright tattered flyers for events long-gone-by and weekend garage sales. The bartender -- male or female, old or young, tired or perky. The quirks of humour, accent, attitude. That was when he felt like his life was sliding away into meaninglessness, when Dad had hurried them from town to town, a month here, a week there.
He knows now that there's no point in trying -- or, at least, that there's something that's more important, something else he needs to spend his energy on. These places are all the same in the end, despite the superficial differences. It might come to matter if they stayed, but they never do, and he's used to that now. It feels right this way, now.
And there's Dean to focus on. Dean looks pretty much just like always, especially in the dim light, but Sam imagines there's more colour in his face, a more awkward slant to his mouth and eyebrows. Secret discomfort. Sam grins, easy, orders them both another drink without even looking at the bartender. He hears Dean's little intake of breath.
He can't understand how he never got it before. How he never understood that it doesn't matter where they are, only that there's him and there's Dean and they're side by side. He has a new mental map across the states now -- a map echoed on Dean's body here and there, in scars, in fading bite marks, in a dusting of freckles from a day in the sun. There's the filthy motel where they first kissed; the first bed they fell into together; the first time Dean let him hold him all night; the first night they slept, dreamless and safe, cocooned together.
This is a brighter map. More precious.
There's something else he's learnt, too. You have to focus on where you are, not where you've been. What you've got, not what you've lost. So there's the motel where he lost his last memento of Jessica, but there is the motel where he gained Dean, and there's Dean, right next to him, always somewhere within reach.
Dean, who looks like he has something to say. Sam raises an eyebrow at him. "I thought we were gonna head back to the motel," he says, quietly, evenly. Like he has to make an effort to get the words out. Sam smiles and shrugs and looks away again, like Dean isn't everything, like every particle of him isn't focused on every particle of Dean.
"Who's a spoilsport now?"
"You're the one who said we wouldn't stay out long."
Sam shrugs again. "Well. I thought maybe you could hustle some pool. Get us some spending money. Or I could, if you're not feeling up to it. If you've got too much on your mind."
"I can do it," Dean says. Sam's sure that's a blush at the unnecessary reminder, even though this is Dean, who is normally pretty unflappable. At least when it comes to this. He grins.
"Just don't drink too much more, huh?" he says. It sounded like a request, but it's not. It's an order. "I want you to be able to get it up, later."
"Fuck you, man," Dean says, standing up, and Sam watches the little hitch of his movement, the hesitation. The way Dean's eyes flicker, like he wants to close them. He watches the movement of Dean's throat as he swallows, the way he bites down on his lip for that split second.
"Actually, it's my turn to fuck you," he says.
Dean looks away. "Yeah, whatever."
Sam settles back, still grinning, watching Dean. He can wait. This is something he can fix in his memory, this can be a compass point, an 'x' on the map. He's not going to waste this time.
---
It's totally worth the patience when they finally get back to the hotel room. It's easy to get Dean worked up, but it's not easy to drive him absolutely mad with it like this, to the point where he doesn't mind it when Sam slams him up against something, when he's halfway through a game, kisses him in front of everyone and tells him they're going home. In point of fact, this is the first time Sam's managed that much, but he's definitely going to work on it, do it again, do it better.
He's not sure how that works, but messing around with Dean gets better all the time, so it has to be possible.
And he's never going to forget this, the memory of Dean's quick desperate look, the spike of heat that shot through him when Dean just did what he wanted so easily. And this isn't even the end of the night. Sam takes a deep breath, even though that barely helps, barely calms him. He needs to sound steady.
"Get on the bed," he says, and Dean does as he's told, Dean moves to the bed, already anticipating the next order, starting to strip out of his clothes. Easy.
"I don't get how you're so calm," he says, and his voice sounds a little strained, rough, almost hoarse. He throws his shirt on the floor, raising his eyes to Sam's. He looks flushed, almost fevered, but Sam knows what it really is. How much he really wants him.
"I'm not," Sam says, which is true, because he's been hard all evening. Hiding it better than Dean, yeah, but he couldn't stop thinking about it, the whole time, how Dean must be feeling it, how every time he moved -- "Get on your knees. Show me."
"You're such a dick," Dean says, which isn't much of an answer and even smacks a bit of Dean's normal attitude. It doesn't really matter, though, 'cause he kicks his shoes off, undoes his pants, slides them off and then gets up on the bed, just like Sam wanted. He isn't even acting all embarrassed and hesitant now, so into it that he doesn't stop to think. He just kneels there, and Sam can see -- he takes a deep breath and steps closer, making Dean move, making him move so he can see --
"You've been an ass all day," he says, calmly, even though his cock is throbbing, pressing up uncomfortably inside his underwear, and he's sure the head is leaking pre-come, sticky and wet. It's distracting, but he has to be in control right now, because Dean sure as hell isn't going to be. Not when they're like this. He's never even seen Dean like this before, and he doesn't want to fall short -- he has to match it, has to make Dean so crazy, keep pushing him further. He pushes gently at the base of the plug inside Dean, grins at his little gasp, the way he suddenly rocks away from it and then into it.
"Gee, I wonder why," Dean says, but Sam can see that he's shaking with it -- with want, with tension.
"Don't talk back like that, Dean. Show some respect." He pushes at the plug again, twists it in deeper, and Dean shakes harder, moans. "I'm in charge, remember?"
"For today," Dean says, and then, offering it up reluctantly, he adds, "Sir."
Sam takes a deep breath. It sounds good, the way Dean says that: a little rough, just a little hesitant. Not easy, but real. It makes Sam's cock throb uncomfortably again. He ignores it, though -- for now -- and plays with the plug again, twisting and pushing and making Dean squirm, until he starts making these little noises, half-moans, almost whimpers. "Tell me what you want," Sam says, then.
"You," he says, quickly, "sir." Which is nice, but not good enough. Sam pulls back a bit, slaps Dean lightly -- just lightly, because this isn't something they've really talked about -- on the hip. Dean squirms, and Sam thinks maybe they don't have to talk about it, maybe he can push it just a bit further without that. He slaps Dean's other hip.
"That's not good enough, Dean."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to tell me what you want. All of it. Don't hide anything from me."
Dean squirms again, awkwardly. "Sammy -- "
Another light slap, and Dean takes in a breath, sharply, rocking into it a little. Sam didn't expect him to react quite that much, but he keeps the surprise out of his voice, pushes down the hot swirl of need. He finds sternness, tries not to think about how he sounds like their dad. "Dean."
"Sir," Dean says, correcting himself. Sam glances at him, at his face. Definitely flushed, now; he's biting at his lips again, closing his eyes tightly, screwing them shut. His lips look a little swollen, puffy, from the scrape of his teeth.
"Tell me what you want," he says, forcing it out, forcing it to sound easy.
Dean isn't normally bad at talking about what he wants, in one way. He's perfectly happy to talk dirty, to tell Sam it's good and that it's just what he wants, tell Sam he looks pretty stuffed full of cock or that he wants to fuck him or whatever -- but he's always been bad at asking for things he really, really wants. Like this. Sam never knew Dean would even like something like this, being made to wear a butt plug all day while they go about their normal lives. He'd suggested it almost as a joke, but then he'd caught Dean's reaction, the slight guilty look in his eyes, and he'd known that this was something he really actually wanted, something he'd never ask for. Something he won't let himself ask for.
Dean's spent most of his life doing, one way or another, what he thinks Sam needs. Even, usually, what he thinks he wants. It's only right for Sam to reciprocate, sometimes -- even though it might be too little too late, in some ways.
Sam's going to make it enough, somehow.
"You," Dean says again, "I just want you." He swallows hard, and Sam waits, like he's got all the time and patience in the world. "I want you -- to do whatever you want. To take whatever you want."
He runs a hand over Dean's side. "You'll let me do whatever I want, huh? Fuck you hard, hit you, make you wait and wait before I let you come? You want that, Dean?"
"Do what you want," he says, still not quite submissive, still with that edge of Dean. But wanting it, wanting it all the same. It makes Sam's stomach twist, honestly, with how much Dean trusts him.
"I'll make you feel so good," Sam tells him. He reaches around him, wraps his hand around his cock and squeezes. "You've been waiting all day for this, haven't you? Every time you moved, you could feel it, every time you sat down it pushed so deep into you, didn't it? Did you like it? Were you hard?"
Dean takes a deep breath, like he's trying to steady himself. It doesn't work, because he's still shaking, a little tremor of tenseness, an inability to let go and relax into it. Sam will get him there, in the end, he'll have Dean just relaxing into the feeling, trusting Sam, trusting everything to Sam and letting himself go. It'll take time, though, and he has to be patient. Give Dean what he wants, what he needs.
"Dean," he says, gently. "Tell me."
"Yes. I -- All day. I was hard all day. Sir." Dean sounds jerky, unsettled, desperate.
Sam takes a deep breath of his own and steps away from Dean, leaving him just kneeling there on the bed. He can't really take his eyes off the plug, now, pushing so deep into Dean. He's going to be so slick inside with all the lube Sam used to put it in there, he's going to be so hot, and so ready, and -- Sam squeezes himself through his pants, once, because he's so hard it almost hurts, now, and if he keeps thinking like this he's not going to be as patient, as thorough as he'd like. He moves another step away from the bed, so he can get the whole picture. He looks Dean over as he starts to undress, pulling his shirt up over his head quickly, so he doesn't have to take his eyes off Dean for long.
"You look so good," he tells him. "So hot. Just waiting for me. Stay still. Don't look at me. Just wait, like that."
Dean nods. Sam wonders if it's because he can't really speak, already gone somewhere beyond words. That's hot, too, that's surprisingly hot, twisting something tighter in the pit of his stomach. He toes his shoes off, kicks his pants and boxers off, and then goes to sit on the bed in front of Dean.
"You want to suck me off?" he asks, casually as he can, leaning back into the pillows. Dean moans, not looking up at him, just looking at his cock. He nods again. "Say it."
"Yes, sir," Dean says, almost whispers, and Sam cups his cheek and makes him look up.
"Louder."
"I want to suck your cock, sir," Dean says, and it's kind of defiant, which makes Sam think maybe he should punish Dean somehow, make him wait -- but it's hot, too, it's so fucking hot, and Sam just wants to fuck his mouth, push in deep. He knows Dean will take it -- knows Dean likes to, and wonders why he's never bothered to push these boundaries before.
"Okay," he says, ignoring the idiot tenderness that's creeping in. "Move closer. Open your mouth."
Dean does as he's told right away and Sam smiles, gets comfortable, shifting the pillows around. Then he wraps his hand around his cock, strokes himself once or twice, rubs his thumb over the tip, spreading pre-come.
"How much do you want it, Dean? You want to taste me? You want me to fill your mouth up with it?"
Dean moans. "Sam -- sir... Let me... I want it so much."
Sam gets one hand in Dean's hair, guides him closer again, tugs a little just because he can. He rubs the tip of his cock over Dean's lips, spreading the little slick of pre-come there. Dean just looks up at him, his eyes wide, his mouth opening just a little more, and it's so fucking hot. Sam's never seen Dean quite like this -- he likes sex a lot, he makes no secret about that, but he's never seen him let go and let someone else be in charge.
He thinks, maybe, that's what Dean needs now and then, that he's put his finger on it here and now, but he can't say that. Instead he just pushes into Dean's mouth a little, making a soft noise when Dean's teeth scrape, just a little, over the tip of his cock. "Suck," he says, and Dean's eyes dip closed for a second, and he starts to suck eagerly, running his tongue over the head and sucking hard and making a little noise like it's the best thing ever. The kind of noise he makes when he's just bitten into a really good apple pie, or something, and that's kind of not what Sam wants to think about right now, with Dean's teeth so close against his cock, but at least Dean seems like he's getting what he really wants, and that's what Sam wants this to be about.
Well, that and seeing his big brother take orders from him for once, but that's mostly just a perk.
"You want more?" he asks Dean, but he doesn't wait for any kind of response before he's sliding in deeper, pulling Dean's head down more. Dean moans around him, and -- Christ, that feels good, the little vibrations of it, and Dean sucking harder again, bobbing his head a little. Sam's hand clenches in his hair, pulls at the short strands. He wishes Dean's hair was just a bit longer, so he could really hold on -- but it doesn't matter, this is good, this is really fucking good. "You like this, huh? You love having my cock inside you. I bet you want me to fuck you, don't you? You've been waiting for it all day. Were you thinking about it when we were in the library? Hoping I'd say, okay, Dean, let's do it?"
It's kind of effortless, talking like that, which is a good thing because this is actually blowing Sam's mind quite a bit. He can't quite think straight -- Dean's mouth is hot and wet and so perfect, so good, and he really loves doing this so he's doing his best to make it good. Doing his best to be good, and shit, that's so hot too.
Sam is definitely going to do this to him more often -- make him wait all day, or whatever it takes to make him so desperate that he'll take Sam's orders, do stuff like this. He's going to do this as often as he can.
"I bet you're clenching around the plug," he says, desperately, breathlessly, "bet you wish it was bigger, deeper, bet you wish I'd just pull it out and fuck you stupid -- "
Dean moans again, and Jesus Christ.
"You want me to come in your mouth?" he asks. He was planning to last, in the vague half-formed plan he had before -- but he didn't think about this, didn't think about how -- "Do you want me to come now? Want to swallow it? Or do you want it on your face?"
Dean moans deeper, and shit -- that's good, that's -- Sam takes a couple of deep breaths.
"Was that a yes, Dean? You want it on your face?"
Another moan, and Dean's sucking harder, taking Sam in as deep as he can, and Sam has to try not to come just like that. He rocks deep into Dean's mouth for a moment, trying to drag it out. He hopes Dean isn't going to remember this afterwards and tease him about how fast he came, because this is too good, and he's lasted for-fucking-ever all things considered.
He pulls Dean back by his hair, pulls his head back so he can see his face, keeps gripping his hair tightly and pulls all the way out of his mouth, and lets himself come. He can't keep his eyes open, and it's so good he doesn't know how to -- He opens his eyes as soon as he can, still panting, still rocking his hips up, and looks, and --
"Fuck, Dean," he says, and Dean just looks up at him, his face covered in come, his mouth still open -- licking some off his lip to taste it, and Sam feels like he might come all over again.
He kind of hopes the rest of it isn't quite this good, because if he comes as hard as that more than once in a night, he's not going to want to move for the next three days. He's not sure he wants to move now. Except Dean is hard, he can see, and panting, and wanting so much and -- okay, yeah, he's got to do something about that, he's going to. He's going to make Dean feel so damn good, he's going to make Dean think it'll never end, he's going to make him love it so much.
"Dean," he says again, and pulls him up, kisses him hard, and he's been waiting for that all day, too, the way Dean opens to him, the way they fit and kiss each other just right.
---
"This is lame," Sam says. His cheeks are flushed though, he knows that, and he knows it shows when he hesitates before sitting down, the little pause before he settles his weight. He knows Dean is watching.
"Why d'you say that?" Dean asks, raising an eyebrow. He picks up the menu, trying to act like he's more interested in that than in Sam, but Sam can see the way he's glancing over the top of the menu, not wanting to miss a moment of today. Sam knows how he feels. He was the same way, when he did this to Dean, probably just as distracted by Dean as Dean was by the plug inside him. He squirms a little, gasping a little when the plug nudges that bit deeper into him. He takes a deep breath, feeling hot, suffocated by want. He tries not to show it.
"You're not one-upping me. It totally doesn't count if you just do the same thing as I did to you," he says. "And I always last longer than you without begging anyway."
"I didn't beg," Dean says, a little sharply.
"You did," Sam says, and shifts again, pauses before he tries to imitate Dean's voice. "Oh, Sammy, please, sir, I want -- "
"Shut up," Dean says, huffing softly. He leans back in his seat and puts the menu down. "It doesn't matter, anyway."
"What doesn't?"
"I'm not doing the same as you. Not exactly."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You'll see," Dean says, and the look on his face makes Sam's stomach twist and knot, because that's the look he's got when he's thought of something really good, and he's planning on exploiting it for all he's worth. The kind of look he got when he put Nair in Sam's shampoo, or itching powder in his boxers. When he's got a plan and he knows it's a good one.
"Dean -- "
"Hi," Dean says, to the waitress, grinning up at her. "I'll have -- "
Sam realises, after, that he doesn't remember what Dean ordered. More than that, he doesn't remember what he ordered -- or what the waitress looked like, or what colour the seats were. He doesn't remember anything but the feeling, the urgency he had to deny. The whole time he was just thinking about Dean, and about the plug inside him, and the way if he rocked his weight just a little it'd press into his prostate, and how he did that by accident halfway through his drink -- whatever it was -- and nearly inhaled the damn stuff.
He remembers Dean, too, the way he was watching him, the hot focus in his eyes, and the way he didn't touch Sam, not once, not even by accident. The way he looked sometimes, when he was so obviously thinking about however he was planning to one-up Sam. The calculating sort of look.
He clenches his fists. He knows Dean will drag it out the whole day, just like he did. He has to focus, though -- they've got a job, for god's sake, and he needs to go in and talk to little old ladies, perfectly calm, perfectly nice, like butter won't melt in his mouth, with the plug so deep inside him, pushing up against his prostate every time he settles back in a chair.
And this is something Dean wants, something else he can give Dean -- under the trying to one-up each other, that's what it is, if all was said and done and they were telling the truth. He's doing something for Dean and part of the heat and spark is just that, just the knowledge that he's doing this for Dean, that Dean loves it.
He takes a deep breath.
Dean, beside him, driving, smirks. Then he reaches into his pocket for something.
---
"Dean, please," Sam says. Dean presses him back against the wall, kissing him, and he can hardly breathe. He curls his fingers in Dean's shirt, kisses back every time, but it's so much. Anybody could see them, if they walk past the alleyway, but he kind of doesn't care, moving against Dean, rubbing against him, urgent. "Come on. Please."
"Had that thing vibrating inside you all day," Dean says, pulling back a little. There's barely an inch between their bodies, but it's too much. Sam pushes against Dean's hold, tries to pull him closer. Needs him closer, needs touch, heat, Dean. Dean doesn't budge, the asshole, even know he must know -- he just grins. "How are you feelin', Sparky?"
"Shut up and let me come already," Sam says, biting his lip. He's so hard it hurts, and it never lets up, this steady buzz deep inside him, snug up against his prostate. He'd thought it'd be maddening enough wearing an ordinary butt plug all day, but this -- this is so much worse. And Dean's been taking advantage of it for all he's worth, constantly turning the vibrations on. Even when Sam was talking to sweet old ladies about the job. He has no idea how he's managed to concentrate on anything at all.
"Hey, Sammy, remember who's in charge today."
"Didn't agree to take orders, just to wear this damn thing."
Dean shrugs. "Well, I could always leave you longer. If you don't want to show any respect to the guy who gets to say whether you come or not."
"Jerk," Sam says, squirming a little, because it's too much, way too much.
"Bitch," Dean says, because he's predictable, and then he's pressing up against Sam again, close and real, solid. Sam can feel the hardness of his cock against his hip. "Come on, Sammy. Play along, huh? It won't kill you. And it's what I want. Just... do what I want."
Sam hesitates and then nods, because he has to, because that's what this is all about. It isn't just doing what Dean wants when he gets to call the shots -- it's this, too, letting Dean take control, letting Dean have him. Because he is Dean's, as much as Dean is his. "As long as you're not an ass about it."
"Says the guy who made me beg and plead for hours."
"You liked that."
"And you'd like it too." Dean rolls his eyes and presses in closer. He kisses Sam again, and it's easy to relax into it. Dean takes control of this one, kissing him deep and wet, hands just moving over his chest, not even pushing up under his shirt. He rubs over his nipples, through his shirt, pinches them lightly. But he's focusing on the kiss, like he's planning on blowing Sam's mind with kisses alone -- and Sam has to admit, he could do it. Dean's had a lot of practice at kissing, after all.
"Dean," he says, when Dean pulls back a bit. "Please."
"You want me to touch you?" Dean asks. "Take the edge off?"
"Yes," Sam says, biting his lip. "Yes. Now."
"Say please, Sammy. What did I say about respect?"
"Goddamnit, Dean, please. Now." Sam lets his head loll back against the wall, tries to catch Dean's eyes, plead with more than words. "Please."
"Anyone could see," Dean says, but he doesn't seem to care. He undoes Sam's belt, unbuttons his jeans, slipping a hand inside to cup Sam's cock through his boxers. "You've been leaking, huh? All damn day. You want me so bad. You don't even care if someone catches us, you just want to come."
"You've been driving me crazy," Sam says, rocking into the touch, panting softly.
"I should've got you a cock ring, too. Kept you hard all day."
"Didn't need to," he says, breathlessly, and groans when Dean squeezes his cock. Dean grins, pushes Sam's pants down a little so he can get to him easier. Peels his boxers down too, and then wraps a hand around his cock, and bare skin to bare skin -- fuck, that's more intense, and Sam nearly comes just like that. He is pretty good at driving Dean crazy, but at this rate he's going to have to admit that Dean's just as good at turning the tables. He takes a deep breath, sinks his teeth into his lip until he tastes blood, to try and keep some semblance of control.
As long as he doesn't have to admit it aloud, it's fine.
Dean knows, though, the asshole. He knows just exactly what he's doing to Sam. He grins. "Hard all day, huh? I bet you were. Now you know how it feels. Maybe I shouldn't let you come. Maybe I should just do this -- " he squeezes Sam's cock again, strokes once and then stops, just holding, pressure and contact without movement -- "and then stop, and just leave you hanging, and then do it again and again, until -- "
"Dean, please," Sam says, hastily, rocking his hips. Dean looks too much like he thinks that's an awesome idea. "Please, just let me -- you said you'd let me -- "
"I didn't say I would. I suggested it."
"You're... oh, fuck. You're pure evil." He's pretty sure he doesn't sound impressive, though. He's pretty sure he sounds like a wreck, like someone who really needs to come and doesn't have that much control. The damn butt plug is still vibrating inside him, after all -- and then Dean makes it worse, pulls Sam away from the wall a bit and gets a hand behind him, presses against the base of the plug so it presses in deeper, just right, too much -- "Dean, please. Please. Goddamnit, please -- "
The words just keep on rolling out, just as sincere as the way he was ordering Dean around. Just as real.
Dean pulls back a little and just looks at him. Sam doesn't really mind being looked at, normally. He's not self-conscious, anyway. But the way Dean's looking at him now -- it's like a physical touch, just one more thing to overload him -- and the way the damn thing is vibrating inside him -- and Dean's hand around his cock --
"Please," he says again, closing his eyes tightly, arching into Dean's body. The tip of his cock rubs against Dean's jeans, and the rough touch of the denim is almost too much.
"Don't come," Dean says, his voice gritty, like he can't stand much more of this either. "Not yet. Want to -- just hold on, Sam."
Less an order than a plea, that, but Sam doesn't call him on it. Can't call him on it.
"Want me to touch you?" he asks, biting his lip, trying to ignore the way the pleasure is knotting tight in him, drawing together, almost too much. Dean is in charge, after all. Kind of.
"No," Dean says, pressing in closer again. Their foreheads knock together, noses bump, and then he kisses Sam deeply, wetly, pushing his tongue into his mouth. He's pressed so close that Sam's cock is rubbing up against denim again, and it's too much -- it's just too goddamn much, in a day that has been too goddamn much in itself. Sam grabs at Dean again, holds on tight, arches away from the wall and into his body, coming so goddamn hard that he thinks his knees are going to give, that maybe he might actually pass out, and Dean is going to mock him forever, but --
"Dean," he whispers, shakily, and Dean kisses him again, sweeter, slower.
"Jesus, Sam," he says, biting at his lip, sucking, nuzzling against him. He's touching him all over -- hands up under Sam's shirt now, resting against his stomach like he just needs to touch him. "We need to get out of here. Go to a motel. We're going to get caught like this."
But he doesn't move, and Sam wonders for a second -- but then Dean's kissing him again, and there are more important things to wonder about, like whether he can stand up right, and he suspects the answer to that question is no.
"Are you going to turn it off?" he asks, when coherent speech is just about possible, and Dean grins again, pulls back a little.
"Of course not, Sammy," he says. "You've gotta wear it all day, like I wore mine. That's fair, isn't it?"
And it manifestly isn't, because Dean didn't have to have something sat up against his prostate vibrating all goddamn day, but Dean looks -- he looks kind of happy, pleased, and Sam likes seeing that look there -- even if this time it's at his own expense. So for some reason, he says nothing.
And anyway, Dean's the one who got covered in come, mostly. He can feel kind of smug about that.
Part One | Part Two
Author: shanaqui/edenbound (ficjournal).
Fandom: Supernatural.
Pairing/character: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester. (Sam/Dean.)
Rating: NC17.
Word Count: 12,013.
Kink: Multiple (see warnings).
Warnings: Slash, incest, sex, domination/submission, sex toys, spanking, bondage, exhibitionism, voyeurism, orgasm denial, sap. No spoilers.
Notes: Thank you to my artist, auroraprimavera, for being really encouraging, for poking me, and for often being my guinea pig the first one to see the scenes as I finished them. Thank you feywood for the encouragement and the beta (and for being the love of my life ♥).
Summary: It starts with a butt plug in Phoenix, Arizona. Sam makes Dean wear it the whole day. Then it kinda escalates, just like their prank wars -- Dean finds a plug that vibrates, and, well, turn about is fair play. And then there's all the rest of it, too: handcuffs and spanking, and finally Sam figures out that Dean kinda likes the idea of being watched when they have sex. And, yeah, he can't deny Dean anything, really, can he?
Artist: auroraprimavera, providing a banner, two manips, and a minimix. The minimix is here, with a front cover and a back cover. The first manip is here and the other is here. Her full art post is here.
Other: My artist made a mix, and so did I. You can find my mix here.
Part One | Part Two
It's a bar like any other they frequent. Maybe a bit darker than the last, and maybe a bit louder, but it's essentially the same. There was a time when Sam tried to hold onto the details. A crappy painting of a harbour, a washed out watercolour, weird constellations of bright tattered flyers for events long-gone-by and weekend garage sales. The bartender -- male or female, old or young, tired or perky. The quirks of humour, accent, attitude. That was when he felt like his life was sliding away into meaninglessness, when Dad had hurried them from town to town, a month here, a week there.
He knows now that there's no point in trying -- or, at least, that there's something that's more important, something else he needs to spend his energy on. These places are all the same in the end, despite the superficial differences. It might come to matter if they stayed, but they never do, and he's used to that now. It feels right this way, now.
And there's Dean to focus on. Dean looks pretty much just like always, especially in the dim light, but Sam imagines there's more colour in his face, a more awkward slant to his mouth and eyebrows. Secret discomfort. Sam grins, easy, orders them both another drink without even looking at the bartender. He hears Dean's little intake of breath.
He can't understand how he never got it before. How he never understood that it doesn't matter where they are, only that there's him and there's Dean and they're side by side. He has a new mental map across the states now -- a map echoed on Dean's body here and there, in scars, in fading bite marks, in a dusting of freckles from a day in the sun. There's the filthy motel where they first kissed; the first bed they fell into together; the first time Dean let him hold him all night; the first night they slept, dreamless and safe, cocooned together.
This is a brighter map. More precious.
There's something else he's learnt, too. You have to focus on where you are, not where you've been. What you've got, not what you've lost. So there's the motel where he lost his last memento of Jessica, but there is the motel where he gained Dean, and there's Dean, right next to him, always somewhere within reach.
Dean, who looks like he has something to say. Sam raises an eyebrow at him. "I thought we were gonna head back to the motel," he says, quietly, evenly. Like he has to make an effort to get the words out. Sam smiles and shrugs and looks away again, like Dean isn't everything, like every particle of him isn't focused on every particle of Dean.
"Who's a spoilsport now?"
"You're the one who said we wouldn't stay out long."
Sam shrugs again. "Well. I thought maybe you could hustle some pool. Get us some spending money. Or I could, if you're not feeling up to it. If you've got too much on your mind."
"I can do it," Dean says. Sam's sure that's a blush at the unnecessary reminder, even though this is Dean, who is normally pretty unflappable. At least when it comes to this. He grins.
"Just don't drink too much more, huh?" he says. It sounded like a request, but it's not. It's an order. "I want you to be able to get it up, later."
"Fuck you, man," Dean says, standing up, and Sam watches the little hitch of his movement, the hesitation. The way Dean's eyes flicker, like he wants to close them. He watches the movement of Dean's throat as he swallows, the way he bites down on his lip for that split second.
"Actually, it's my turn to fuck you," he says.
Dean looks away. "Yeah, whatever."
Sam settles back, still grinning, watching Dean. He can wait. This is something he can fix in his memory, this can be a compass point, an 'x' on the map. He's not going to waste this time.
---
It's totally worth the patience when they finally get back to the hotel room. It's easy to get Dean worked up, but it's not easy to drive him absolutely mad with it like this, to the point where he doesn't mind it when Sam slams him up against something, when he's halfway through a game, kisses him in front of everyone and tells him they're going home. In point of fact, this is the first time Sam's managed that much, but he's definitely going to work on it, do it again, do it better.
He's not sure how that works, but messing around with Dean gets better all the time, so it has to be possible.
And he's never going to forget this, the memory of Dean's quick desperate look, the spike of heat that shot through him when Dean just did what he wanted so easily. And this isn't even the end of the night. Sam takes a deep breath, even though that barely helps, barely calms him. He needs to sound steady.
"Get on the bed," he says, and Dean does as he's told, Dean moves to the bed, already anticipating the next order, starting to strip out of his clothes. Easy.
"I don't get how you're so calm," he says, and his voice sounds a little strained, rough, almost hoarse. He throws his shirt on the floor, raising his eyes to Sam's. He looks flushed, almost fevered, but Sam knows what it really is. How much he really wants him.
"I'm not," Sam says, which is true, because he's been hard all evening. Hiding it better than Dean, yeah, but he couldn't stop thinking about it, the whole time, how Dean must be feeling it, how every time he moved -- "Get on your knees. Show me."
"You're such a dick," Dean says, which isn't much of an answer and even smacks a bit of Dean's normal attitude. It doesn't really matter, though, 'cause he kicks his shoes off, undoes his pants, slides them off and then gets up on the bed, just like Sam wanted. He isn't even acting all embarrassed and hesitant now, so into it that he doesn't stop to think. He just kneels there, and Sam can see -- he takes a deep breath and steps closer, making Dean move, making him move so he can see --
"You've been an ass all day," he says, calmly, even though his cock is throbbing, pressing up uncomfortably inside his underwear, and he's sure the head is leaking pre-come, sticky and wet. It's distracting, but he has to be in control right now, because Dean sure as hell isn't going to be. Not when they're like this. He's never even seen Dean like this before, and he doesn't want to fall short -- he has to match it, has to make Dean so crazy, keep pushing him further. He pushes gently at the base of the plug inside Dean, grins at his little gasp, the way he suddenly rocks away from it and then into it.
"Gee, I wonder why," Dean says, but Sam can see that he's shaking with it -- with want, with tension.
"Don't talk back like that, Dean. Show some respect." He pushes at the plug again, twists it in deeper, and Dean shakes harder, moans. "I'm in charge, remember?"
"For today," Dean says, and then, offering it up reluctantly, he adds, "Sir."
Sam takes a deep breath. It sounds good, the way Dean says that: a little rough, just a little hesitant. Not easy, but real. It makes Sam's cock throb uncomfortably again. He ignores it, though -- for now -- and plays with the plug again, twisting and pushing and making Dean squirm, until he starts making these little noises, half-moans, almost whimpers. "Tell me what you want," Sam says, then.
"You," he says, quickly, "sir." Which is nice, but not good enough. Sam pulls back a bit, slaps Dean lightly -- just lightly, because this isn't something they've really talked about -- on the hip. Dean squirms, and Sam thinks maybe they don't have to talk about it, maybe he can push it just a bit further without that. He slaps Dean's other hip.
"That's not good enough, Dean."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to tell me what you want. All of it. Don't hide anything from me."
Dean squirms again, awkwardly. "Sammy -- "
Another light slap, and Dean takes in a breath, sharply, rocking into it a little. Sam didn't expect him to react quite that much, but he keeps the surprise out of his voice, pushes down the hot swirl of need. He finds sternness, tries not to think about how he sounds like their dad. "Dean."
"Sir," Dean says, correcting himself. Sam glances at him, at his face. Definitely flushed, now; he's biting at his lips again, closing his eyes tightly, screwing them shut. His lips look a little swollen, puffy, from the scrape of his teeth.
"Tell me what you want," he says, forcing it out, forcing it to sound easy.
Dean isn't normally bad at talking about what he wants, in one way. He's perfectly happy to talk dirty, to tell Sam it's good and that it's just what he wants, tell Sam he looks pretty stuffed full of cock or that he wants to fuck him or whatever -- but he's always been bad at asking for things he really, really wants. Like this. Sam never knew Dean would even like something like this, being made to wear a butt plug all day while they go about their normal lives. He'd suggested it almost as a joke, but then he'd caught Dean's reaction, the slight guilty look in his eyes, and he'd known that this was something he really actually wanted, something he'd never ask for. Something he won't let himself ask for.
Dean's spent most of his life doing, one way or another, what he thinks Sam needs. Even, usually, what he thinks he wants. It's only right for Sam to reciprocate, sometimes -- even though it might be too little too late, in some ways.
Sam's going to make it enough, somehow.
"You," Dean says again, "I just want you." He swallows hard, and Sam waits, like he's got all the time and patience in the world. "I want you -- to do whatever you want. To take whatever you want."
He runs a hand over Dean's side. "You'll let me do whatever I want, huh? Fuck you hard, hit you, make you wait and wait before I let you come? You want that, Dean?"
"Do what you want," he says, still not quite submissive, still with that edge of Dean. But wanting it, wanting it all the same. It makes Sam's stomach twist, honestly, with how much Dean trusts him.
"I'll make you feel so good," Sam tells him. He reaches around him, wraps his hand around his cock and squeezes. "You've been waiting all day for this, haven't you? Every time you moved, you could feel it, every time you sat down it pushed so deep into you, didn't it? Did you like it? Were you hard?"
Dean takes a deep breath, like he's trying to steady himself. It doesn't work, because he's still shaking, a little tremor of tenseness, an inability to let go and relax into it. Sam will get him there, in the end, he'll have Dean just relaxing into the feeling, trusting Sam, trusting everything to Sam and letting himself go. It'll take time, though, and he has to be patient. Give Dean what he wants, what he needs.
"Dean," he says, gently. "Tell me."
"Yes. I -- All day. I was hard all day. Sir." Dean sounds jerky, unsettled, desperate.
Sam takes a deep breath of his own and steps away from Dean, leaving him just kneeling there on the bed. He can't really take his eyes off the plug, now, pushing so deep into Dean. He's going to be so slick inside with all the lube Sam used to put it in there, he's going to be so hot, and so ready, and -- Sam squeezes himself through his pants, once, because he's so hard it almost hurts, now, and if he keeps thinking like this he's not going to be as patient, as thorough as he'd like. He moves another step away from the bed, so he can get the whole picture. He looks Dean over as he starts to undress, pulling his shirt up over his head quickly, so he doesn't have to take his eyes off Dean for long.
"You look so good," he tells him. "So hot. Just waiting for me. Stay still. Don't look at me. Just wait, like that."
Dean nods. Sam wonders if it's because he can't really speak, already gone somewhere beyond words. That's hot, too, that's surprisingly hot, twisting something tighter in the pit of his stomach. He toes his shoes off, kicks his pants and boxers off, and then goes to sit on the bed in front of Dean.
"You want to suck me off?" he asks, casually as he can, leaning back into the pillows. Dean moans, not looking up at him, just looking at his cock. He nods again. "Say it."
"Yes, sir," Dean says, almost whispers, and Sam cups his cheek and makes him look up.
"Louder."
"I want to suck your cock, sir," Dean says, and it's kind of defiant, which makes Sam think maybe he should punish Dean somehow, make him wait -- but it's hot, too, it's so fucking hot, and Sam just wants to fuck his mouth, push in deep. He knows Dean will take it -- knows Dean likes to, and wonders why he's never bothered to push these boundaries before.
"Okay," he says, ignoring the idiot tenderness that's creeping in. "Move closer. Open your mouth."
Dean does as he's told right away and Sam smiles, gets comfortable, shifting the pillows around. Then he wraps his hand around his cock, strokes himself once or twice, rubs his thumb over the tip, spreading pre-come.
"How much do you want it, Dean? You want to taste me? You want me to fill your mouth up with it?"
Dean moans. "Sam -- sir... Let me... I want it so much."
Sam gets one hand in Dean's hair, guides him closer again, tugs a little just because he can. He rubs the tip of his cock over Dean's lips, spreading the little slick of pre-come there. Dean just looks up at him, his eyes wide, his mouth opening just a little more, and it's so fucking hot. Sam's never seen Dean quite like this -- he likes sex a lot, he makes no secret about that, but he's never seen him let go and let someone else be in charge.
He thinks, maybe, that's what Dean needs now and then, that he's put his finger on it here and now, but he can't say that. Instead he just pushes into Dean's mouth a little, making a soft noise when Dean's teeth scrape, just a little, over the tip of his cock. "Suck," he says, and Dean's eyes dip closed for a second, and he starts to suck eagerly, running his tongue over the head and sucking hard and making a little noise like it's the best thing ever. The kind of noise he makes when he's just bitten into a really good apple pie, or something, and that's kind of not what Sam wants to think about right now, with Dean's teeth so close against his cock, but at least Dean seems like he's getting what he really wants, and that's what Sam wants this to be about.
Well, that and seeing his big brother take orders from him for once, but that's mostly just a perk.
"You want more?" he asks Dean, but he doesn't wait for any kind of response before he's sliding in deeper, pulling Dean's head down more. Dean moans around him, and -- Christ, that feels good, the little vibrations of it, and Dean sucking harder again, bobbing his head a little. Sam's hand clenches in his hair, pulls at the short strands. He wishes Dean's hair was just a bit longer, so he could really hold on -- but it doesn't matter, this is good, this is really fucking good. "You like this, huh? You love having my cock inside you. I bet you want me to fuck you, don't you? You've been waiting for it all day. Were you thinking about it when we were in the library? Hoping I'd say, okay, Dean, let's do it?"
It's kind of effortless, talking like that, which is a good thing because this is actually blowing Sam's mind quite a bit. He can't quite think straight -- Dean's mouth is hot and wet and so perfect, so good, and he really loves doing this so he's doing his best to make it good. Doing his best to be good, and shit, that's so hot too.
Sam is definitely going to do this to him more often -- make him wait all day, or whatever it takes to make him so desperate that he'll take Sam's orders, do stuff like this. He's going to do this as often as he can.
"I bet you're clenching around the plug," he says, desperately, breathlessly, "bet you wish it was bigger, deeper, bet you wish I'd just pull it out and fuck you stupid -- "
Dean moans again, and Jesus Christ.
"You want me to come in your mouth?" he asks. He was planning to last, in the vague half-formed plan he had before -- but he didn't think about this, didn't think about how -- "Do you want me to come now? Want to swallow it? Or do you want it on your face?"
Dean moans deeper, and shit -- that's good, that's -- Sam takes a couple of deep breaths.
"Was that a yes, Dean? You want it on your face?"
Another moan, and Dean's sucking harder, taking Sam in as deep as he can, and Sam has to try not to come just like that. He rocks deep into Dean's mouth for a moment, trying to drag it out. He hopes Dean isn't going to remember this afterwards and tease him about how fast he came, because this is too good, and he's lasted for-fucking-ever all things considered.
He pulls Dean back by his hair, pulls his head back so he can see his face, keeps gripping his hair tightly and pulls all the way out of his mouth, and lets himself come. He can't keep his eyes open, and it's so good he doesn't know how to -- He opens his eyes as soon as he can, still panting, still rocking his hips up, and looks, and --
"Fuck, Dean," he says, and Dean just looks up at him, his face covered in come, his mouth still open -- licking some off his lip to taste it, and Sam feels like he might come all over again.
He kind of hopes the rest of it isn't quite this good, because if he comes as hard as that more than once in a night, he's not going to want to move for the next three days. He's not sure he wants to move now. Except Dean is hard, he can see, and panting, and wanting so much and -- okay, yeah, he's got to do something about that, he's going to. He's going to make Dean feel so damn good, he's going to make Dean think it'll never end, he's going to make him love it so much.
"Dean," he says again, and pulls him up, kisses him hard, and he's been waiting for that all day, too, the way Dean opens to him, the way they fit and kiss each other just right.
---
"This is lame," Sam says. His cheeks are flushed though, he knows that, and he knows it shows when he hesitates before sitting down, the little pause before he settles his weight. He knows Dean is watching.
"Why d'you say that?" Dean asks, raising an eyebrow. He picks up the menu, trying to act like he's more interested in that than in Sam, but Sam can see the way he's glancing over the top of the menu, not wanting to miss a moment of today. Sam knows how he feels. He was the same way, when he did this to Dean, probably just as distracted by Dean as Dean was by the plug inside him. He squirms a little, gasping a little when the plug nudges that bit deeper into him. He takes a deep breath, feeling hot, suffocated by want. He tries not to show it.
"You're not one-upping me. It totally doesn't count if you just do the same thing as I did to you," he says. "And I always last longer than you without begging anyway."
"I didn't beg," Dean says, a little sharply.
"You did," Sam says, and shifts again, pauses before he tries to imitate Dean's voice. "Oh, Sammy, please, sir, I want -- "
"Shut up," Dean says, huffing softly. He leans back in his seat and puts the menu down. "It doesn't matter, anyway."
"What doesn't?"
"I'm not doing the same as you. Not exactly."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You'll see," Dean says, and the look on his face makes Sam's stomach twist and knot, because that's the look he's got when he's thought of something really good, and he's planning on exploiting it for all he's worth. The kind of look he got when he put Nair in Sam's shampoo, or itching powder in his boxers. When he's got a plan and he knows it's a good one.
"Dean -- "
"Hi," Dean says, to the waitress, grinning up at her. "I'll have -- "
Sam realises, after, that he doesn't remember what Dean ordered. More than that, he doesn't remember what he ordered -- or what the waitress looked like, or what colour the seats were. He doesn't remember anything but the feeling, the urgency he had to deny. The whole time he was just thinking about Dean, and about the plug inside him, and the way if he rocked his weight just a little it'd press into his prostate, and how he did that by accident halfway through his drink -- whatever it was -- and nearly inhaled the damn stuff.
He remembers Dean, too, the way he was watching him, the hot focus in his eyes, and the way he didn't touch Sam, not once, not even by accident. The way he looked sometimes, when he was so obviously thinking about however he was planning to one-up Sam. The calculating sort of look.
He clenches his fists. He knows Dean will drag it out the whole day, just like he did. He has to focus, though -- they've got a job, for god's sake, and he needs to go in and talk to little old ladies, perfectly calm, perfectly nice, like butter won't melt in his mouth, with the plug so deep inside him, pushing up against his prostate every time he settles back in a chair.
And this is something Dean wants, something else he can give Dean -- under the trying to one-up each other, that's what it is, if all was said and done and they were telling the truth. He's doing something for Dean and part of the heat and spark is just that, just the knowledge that he's doing this for Dean, that Dean loves it.
He takes a deep breath.
Dean, beside him, driving, smirks. Then he reaches into his pocket for something.
---
"Dean, please," Sam says. Dean presses him back against the wall, kissing him, and he can hardly breathe. He curls his fingers in Dean's shirt, kisses back every time, but it's so much. Anybody could see them, if they walk past the alleyway, but he kind of doesn't care, moving against Dean, rubbing against him, urgent. "Come on. Please."
"Had that thing vibrating inside you all day," Dean says, pulling back a little. There's barely an inch between their bodies, but it's too much. Sam pushes against Dean's hold, tries to pull him closer. Needs him closer, needs touch, heat, Dean. Dean doesn't budge, the asshole, even know he must know -- he just grins. "How are you feelin', Sparky?"
"Shut up and let me come already," Sam says, biting his lip. He's so hard it hurts, and it never lets up, this steady buzz deep inside him, snug up against his prostate. He'd thought it'd be maddening enough wearing an ordinary butt plug all day, but this -- this is so much worse. And Dean's been taking advantage of it for all he's worth, constantly turning the vibrations on. Even when Sam was talking to sweet old ladies about the job. He has no idea how he's managed to concentrate on anything at all.
"Hey, Sammy, remember who's in charge today."
"Didn't agree to take orders, just to wear this damn thing."
Dean shrugs. "Well, I could always leave you longer. If you don't want to show any respect to the guy who gets to say whether you come or not."
"Jerk," Sam says, squirming a little, because it's too much, way too much.
"Bitch," Dean says, because he's predictable, and then he's pressing up against Sam again, close and real, solid. Sam can feel the hardness of his cock against his hip. "Come on, Sammy. Play along, huh? It won't kill you. And it's what I want. Just... do what I want."
Sam hesitates and then nods, because he has to, because that's what this is all about. It isn't just doing what Dean wants when he gets to call the shots -- it's this, too, letting Dean take control, letting Dean have him. Because he is Dean's, as much as Dean is his. "As long as you're not an ass about it."
"Says the guy who made me beg and plead for hours."
"You liked that."
"And you'd like it too." Dean rolls his eyes and presses in closer. He kisses Sam again, and it's easy to relax into it. Dean takes control of this one, kissing him deep and wet, hands just moving over his chest, not even pushing up under his shirt. He rubs over his nipples, through his shirt, pinches them lightly. But he's focusing on the kiss, like he's planning on blowing Sam's mind with kisses alone -- and Sam has to admit, he could do it. Dean's had a lot of practice at kissing, after all.
"Dean," he says, when Dean pulls back a bit. "Please."
"You want me to touch you?" Dean asks. "Take the edge off?"
"Yes," Sam says, biting his lip. "Yes. Now."
"Say please, Sammy. What did I say about respect?"
"Goddamnit, Dean, please. Now." Sam lets his head loll back against the wall, tries to catch Dean's eyes, plead with more than words. "Please."
"Anyone could see," Dean says, but he doesn't seem to care. He undoes Sam's belt, unbuttons his jeans, slipping a hand inside to cup Sam's cock through his boxers. "You've been leaking, huh? All damn day. You want me so bad. You don't even care if someone catches us, you just want to come."
"You've been driving me crazy," Sam says, rocking into the touch, panting softly.
"I should've got you a cock ring, too. Kept you hard all day."
"Didn't need to," he says, breathlessly, and groans when Dean squeezes his cock. Dean grins, pushes Sam's pants down a little so he can get to him easier. Peels his boxers down too, and then wraps a hand around his cock, and bare skin to bare skin -- fuck, that's more intense, and Sam nearly comes just like that. He is pretty good at driving Dean crazy, but at this rate he's going to have to admit that Dean's just as good at turning the tables. He takes a deep breath, sinks his teeth into his lip until he tastes blood, to try and keep some semblance of control.
As long as he doesn't have to admit it aloud, it's fine.
Dean knows, though, the asshole. He knows just exactly what he's doing to Sam. He grins. "Hard all day, huh? I bet you were. Now you know how it feels. Maybe I shouldn't let you come. Maybe I should just do this -- " he squeezes Sam's cock again, strokes once and then stops, just holding, pressure and contact without movement -- "and then stop, and just leave you hanging, and then do it again and again, until -- "
"Dean, please," Sam says, hastily, rocking his hips. Dean looks too much like he thinks that's an awesome idea. "Please, just let me -- you said you'd let me -- "
"I didn't say I would. I suggested it."
"You're... oh, fuck. You're pure evil." He's pretty sure he doesn't sound impressive, though. He's pretty sure he sounds like a wreck, like someone who really needs to come and doesn't have that much control. The damn butt plug is still vibrating inside him, after all -- and then Dean makes it worse, pulls Sam away from the wall a bit and gets a hand behind him, presses against the base of the plug so it presses in deeper, just right, too much -- "Dean, please. Please. Goddamnit, please -- "
The words just keep on rolling out, just as sincere as the way he was ordering Dean around. Just as real.
Dean pulls back a little and just looks at him. Sam doesn't really mind being looked at, normally. He's not self-conscious, anyway. But the way Dean's looking at him now -- it's like a physical touch, just one more thing to overload him -- and the way the damn thing is vibrating inside him -- and Dean's hand around his cock --
"Please," he says again, closing his eyes tightly, arching into Dean's body. The tip of his cock rubs against Dean's jeans, and the rough touch of the denim is almost too much.
"Don't come," Dean says, his voice gritty, like he can't stand much more of this either. "Not yet. Want to -- just hold on, Sam."
Less an order than a plea, that, but Sam doesn't call him on it. Can't call him on it.
"Want me to touch you?" he asks, biting his lip, trying to ignore the way the pleasure is knotting tight in him, drawing together, almost too much. Dean is in charge, after all. Kind of.
"No," Dean says, pressing in closer again. Their foreheads knock together, noses bump, and then he kisses Sam deeply, wetly, pushing his tongue into his mouth. He's pressed so close that Sam's cock is rubbing up against denim again, and it's too much -- it's just too goddamn much, in a day that has been too goddamn much in itself. Sam grabs at Dean again, holds on tight, arches away from the wall and into his body, coming so goddamn hard that he thinks his knees are going to give, that maybe he might actually pass out, and Dean is going to mock him forever, but --
"Dean," he whispers, shakily, and Dean kisses him again, sweeter, slower.
"Jesus, Sam," he says, biting at his lip, sucking, nuzzling against him. He's touching him all over -- hands up under Sam's shirt now, resting against his stomach like he just needs to touch him. "We need to get out of here. Go to a motel. We're going to get caught like this."
But he doesn't move, and Sam wonders for a second -- but then Dean's kissing him again, and there are more important things to wonder about, like whether he can stand up right, and he suspects the answer to that question is no.
"Are you going to turn it off?" he asks, when coherent speech is just about possible, and Dean grins again, pulls back a little.
"Of course not, Sammy," he says. "You've gotta wear it all day, like I wore mine. That's fair, isn't it?"
And it manifestly isn't, because Dean didn't have to have something sat up against his prostate vibrating all goddamn day, but Dean looks -- he looks kind of happy, pleased, and Sam likes seeing that look there -- even if this time it's at his own expense. So for some reason, he says nothing.
And anyway, Dean's the one who got covered in come, mostly. He can feel kind of smug about that.
Part One | Part Two