Fanfic - SPN: Nothing Left - Side Two - Run-Fuck
Title: Nothing Left [Evil!Sammy Universe]
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
Side Two: Run-Fuck
[069.Numb]
When he blinked his eyes open after being asleep for what felt like too long, he smelled come and filth and smoke for a moment before his head cleared. Then he was running from it, forcing it to fade into the distance as he reminded himself that dreams - his dreams - didn't mean anything, didn't predict anything, didn't have anything to do with anything, and he could barely remember it anyway, right? Nothing left of it and- … His breath stopped, stomach threatening to erupt, but he slammed his eyes shut again and shoved it all away.
He startled, hyper-alert, when he heard his brother huff, and he leapt out of bed, tripping over the shirt-free body bending itself into crunches on the floor.
"Whoa, Dean. What's your problem?"
Dean's fear left in a rush as he looked down at his brother, who seemed mildly annoyed but not one bit suspicious. "… No." Out of habit, his eyebrows tipped in and he mirrored Sam's attitude right back. "Were you trying to get trampled or, ya know, stabbed, doing crunches right next to my bed like that?"
"Ya know, I just got confused and thought you'd be sensible enough to get out on the other side. Sometimes I forget who I'm dealing with." He went back to his exercises.
Despite the ease of their morning exchange, Dean continued to watch his brother like there was nothing else he was supposed to be doing.
After a few more reps, Sam halted, glaring at him. "What are you looking at?"
"Nothing. Just- … Nothing." Dean tried to look away as his brother slowly went back into his crunches, but it was hard for him to think when Sam was right there. His eyes kept wandering back, kept taking in the way Sam's muscles bent and flexed, trying to remember exactly where the power resided, what the rush felt like when those knuckles pressed shudders out of- … No. It wasn't Sam. It wasn't anyone. It was a dream, a fucked up dream that didn't make any sense and didn't apply to anything. He swept his hand down his face and rubbed his bottom lip.
"Dean, seriously, you've been standing there for five minutes at least. What's wrong?"
Not going to ask. Not going to ask. Not going to- … "Did you go for a walk last night?"
"No, I crashed before you did. Why?"
Dean remembered that now. They'd gone to the bar up the road, both letting themselves get a little tipsy but not drunk, knowing that the end of the hunt should be easy enough today, but also knowing that it was still work. Then they'd wandered back and stayed up even later, making fun of bad mystery-suspense flicks on the no-name Channel 19. Sam had grumbled at him as he tried to get to sleep with the soundtrack of his brother's laughter and all the horridly cheesy fright music. Then he'd kept watching alone until- … well, until he wasn't watching anymore, so … they'd been together all night.
He shook his head, laughing at himself though his stomach remained unsettled.
"Dean?"
"Nevermind."
"Okay …" Now Sam was watching him warily.
He held his brother's eyes, serious. "I'm fine. Just … too much TV before bed. That's all."
"Wouldn't have expected to hear that from you."
"Yeah well …" He was still the object of scrutiny, but Dean ignored his brother, walking over to his duffle and pulling on socks and sweats.
Sam went back to his crunches, quick breaths splitting his phrases. "Not that I mind watching you fall over yourself … like a broke-legged ballerina … but if possible … try not to kill yourself … or me … stumbling around … the next time you dream that you're a sleuth … on the trail of a mobster … or whatever."
Dean paused for a moment, muscles tensing, but he spun things into lighter territory as he pushed out a laugh and bent to tie his shoes. "Oh come on, Sammy. You know you'd rather be hunting mobsters than monsters any day."
Sam stopped mid-motion and looked up at him, serious but with a smile. "You're right, Dean. Mobsters are definitely more my style … spats and all."
He could've noted the intensity of Sam's eyes, could've let the tone of Sam's voice make him double blink, make him wonder odd little things, but … he just let his face scrunch, head quirked to one side as Sam went back to exercising. "… What the hell are spats?"
Sam just rolled his eyes and refused to even try to explain.
"Whatever." Dean shrugged and headed to the door. "I'm going for a run."
Between crunches, Sam called over his shoulder. "Grab some coffee and food while you're out!"
Dean was noncommittal. "Maybe. If I feel like it."
Sam snickered, mumbling something under his breath.
"You got something to say, college boy?"
"Nah. Take your run, but don't take all day. That banishment ritual is going to take a while to set up and we need to do it exactly at sunset."
"I'm just going for a jog around town, Sam. I'm not running to Miami."
Sam stopped his crunches, blustering as he turned to Dean. "Then shut up and go! You're making me lose my count here."
Dean lifted an eyebrow in a 'yeah right' expression, but he swiveled on his heel and headed out the door, hitting a jog in the parking lot. As he pushed his body to a strong but sustainable pace, he was deeply relieved to see that nothing - not around the motel and not around anywhere else in town - looked like the settings from his dream. Maybe he just needed to hit mute before bed next time. He ran harder, drowning himself in sweat and shoving the dream out of his mind like his lungs were shoving out air.
After an hour, he jogged himself up to the closest lunch counter, a diner next to the exit ramp they'd taken off the freeway. He nearly bounced as he caught his breath, speaking rapidly to the waitress standing across the Formica from him. "Two hot coffees, four fried eggs, three orders of bacon, and two orders of toast. … Thanks."
The waitress brought him a mug and poured him coffee while he waited, slipping into a seat despite his restlessness as he wrapped a hand around the cup and drank the coffee black.
"Toast?"
His eyes had shifted from the cup in his hand to the morning newspapers on the counter and he felt a little lost as he blinked back up at her. "Uh … yeah … two orders."
"No, I mean do you want some while you wait?"
"Oh … yeah. That'd be great. Thanks."
She wandered away, returning with crispy bread, butter, and jam, and he slathered the toast with both as he ate and flipped through the local papers still strewn around from the morning crowd. He wasn't looking for anything in particular, of course, because dreams didn't leave newsworthy evidence, of course, but when he found nothing about apartment fires in town, it seemed like his breathing calmed more anyway. Checking the obits just for good measure, he pursed his lips. Nothing seemed especially interesting or unusual, however, so he folded up the last of the papers and drank the last of his coffee, offering the waitress a brilliant smile as she bustled about.
"You done with these?" A copper-toned, female basketball player reached for the papers he'd dismissed as she slid into the seat next to him, breathing hard like she'd just run in here herself, her wavy hair pulled up in a high ponytail that brushed the back of her Nets jersey.
There was a time when he'd- … Goddamn. He chuckled a little to himself as he looked her over and eventually shrugged. "Yeah. Go ahead."
"Lucky me, then, huh? Right place at the right time to get just what I needed." The intensity in her eyes pressed against something in him but not quite uncomfortably, more like a gentle nudge, encouraging and familiar. "How about you? What do you need?"
He shook his head, laughing a little as he turned back to his empty coffee mug, unsure of what her attention meant, but knowing it was a bit overwhelming somehow, less like flirtation and more like a hug he wasn't expecting. "Uhh … nothing. Just … waiting for food." It wasn't like she knew him, but maybe- … He glanced her way again only to see her eyes continuing to hold him, almost preciously, and he had to disengage, his tone edging towards harsh as he recalled seeing that same look on Sam after Dad- … "What's it to you?"
She got closer, if that was possible, swiveling in her seat so one of her knees pressed itself warmly against the side of his thigh. "It's a dangerous thing, needing nothing. It's never really true, but if you say it enough times, people start to believe you - maybe you even start to believe it yourself - and people start taking what they need from you, even if whatever they offer isn't what you need."
"Listen …" He hesitated for a moment before pushing her leg out of the way, eyes returning to hers. "I don't know what your deal is, but I don't need advice from someone I don't even know."
Tilting her head, she listened, but seemed to shrug a little as she spoke. "Maybe … but I doubt that a guy like you really knows that many people he would talk to about something like this." She indicated his exposed wrist with her chin and he glanced at it, resisting the urge to yank his sleeve up or look away from her.
He laughed a little, not nervous but pulling from his bag of charm anyway with a smirk. "It's not what you think." Or … probably not. The marks were only a few days old, his body painted with several multicolored slip-and-slam bruises from Sam's somewhat ungentle attempts to keep them both positioned well enough to fuck even while wet. "I slipped in the shower."
"I'm sure that's what happened." She nodded as her voice softened even more.
"Look, I know you mean well, but you don't know what you're talking about." A bite slid into his voice, strengthened by a mounting tension in his lower back as her presence revived stress that he thought he'd run out of his system half an hour ago. "So why don't you just go enjoy the morning news somewhere else?"
"I will, in a minute, but you should know that I do know what I'm talking about- …"
"Oh 'cause you're some social worker or shrink or something, right?"
"No … because I really understand and I'm sure he's very particular about who you talk to, but he won't mind me, I promise." Her smile slowly widened and her eyes seemed to reach into him until he had to blink and shake his head, disconnecting again.
"I don't need a counselor, okay? There's nothing going on."
"I didn't say there was, but- …" She sighed as her eyes slid away and she went into her pocket for her wallet. "Remember … needs change - his, yours, the world's - and sometimes change isn't a bad thing - hell, sometimes it's necessary - but it's often a hard transition, especially in isolation."
His lip tilted downward as he shrugged, not knowing quite what she was talking about, because … she couldn't know anything about his situation and yet … maybe- … No, it wouldn't make any sense. "I don't know what you mean."
She huffed out a gentle laugh, tipping an eyebrow up as she flipped a business card onto the counter in front of him, a complex star in the corner catching his eye:
M. WILKINS
(800)-129-2007
"Note the name and the number. Memorize them. Use them when you have to." She picked up her papers, but Dean grabbed for her, her eyes seeming to flash a bizarre blue as the room spun for a moment before she yanked her arm back.
"Who- … What are you?"
"The friend." Then her face lit with a bright, sincere smile and she swept out the door, cool damp air blowing in her wake as the entrance chime clanged behind her.
He almost wanted to go after her, but part of him felt compelled to stay or perhaps just stay away as he watched her shape pass the last diner window and he swallowed to hush his raw stomach. Hearing the waitress set a bag of food near him, he turned back to count out the cash she was due, his mind distant as he watched her pour his refill into a travel cup and twist both coffees into a cardboard carrier. It was all just motion, a pattern he kept following even though he wasn't sure that it fit anymore. He really didn't know how to do anything else, how to deal with anything else, so he just kept going.
Smile. Thank. Pay. Smile again. Gather it up - the card too. Walk out the door. Turn the corner. And follow the road home to Sam.
He paused for a moment outside the door to their motel room, his hands ready to be empty again, and he tried not to think about what he'd dreamed and what he'd heard from Sam in bits and pieces over recent months. Last night was just a night, his dream was just a dream, the time at the diner was just about breakfast, and Sam was just Sam, just good, just … Sam. Yet, when the door opened and Sam was yanking him in, snatching and setting aside the food and the drinks, Dean felt winded.
The door slammed shut almost before he'd made his way through it. Then Sam was kissing him, shoving a hand down the front of his pants as his mouth slid down to suck the sweat from the side of his throat. Dean gasped, struggling halfheartedly to get out from under his brother even as his hips canted into the rub of that hand. "Sam, I'm … nasty. Just … lemme grab a shower first."
Sam's voice was rough and wet, like steam gusting over his ears and neck. "No way. You're fucking hot when you've been working out."
Good for me. Bad for you.
"Sam, come on, just- … Ohhh!" He groaned as the pull and slide of Sam's hand became more urgent. He could feel his cock give up on pretending it didn't want this, beginning to fill in earnest, thick.
"What? Just … make you come like this? Just … slide down and suck you off? Just … turn you around and fuck you against this door? Just what, Dean?"
I want the main course, not this shaky little appetizer.
Dean moaned low, the back of his head connecting with the door as his hips ground up into Sam's hand and his mind fought to whir in a fashion that he could understand.
"Mmm. Tough choice, isn't it? That's okay. I've got it covered." Sam sank to his knees, yanking down Dean's sweats and briefs before swallowing Dean's cock whole.
"Fuck!" Dean's yell was primal, his arms slamming back against the wood with a thud before his fingers swept up into the mess of Sam's hair, working hard not to tug or otherwise suggest force enough to make Sam hold his already bruised wrists down until the squeeze pushed water into his eyes.
Dean's hips moved of their own volition as Sam's mouth pumped up and down on his dick and he could only snatch at breaths as Sam's tongue curled against the underside of his shaft, catching just a little on the head of his cock every time Sam pulled back. He wanted to last longer, to close his eyes and enjoy the ride for hours, but Sam's lips bound him up in a wet inferno with a full-cock massage that made his breath run like it was being chased. When Sam's hands gripped his hips tight enough to make them hurt, keeping them right where he wanted them, Dean flew over the edge, come shuddering its way out of his body and down his brother's throat as he flushed at the thought of Sam's fingers leaving claiming bruises, drinking down his pain.
He had barely caught his breath before Sam was back up to standing, Dean's cock meeting cool air and then wood as his brother turned him around and pressed him against the door. Those bruising fingers were at his hips again, holding his ass as Sam bent and spat twice on his hole, making him shudder from some mix of aftershock and anticipation. Sam was breathing into his hair again in only moments, though, and the clap of spit hitting a palm was loud in his ears before he heard it squeak against flesh and Sam's cock pressed in roughly, making his breath stop.
Am I not hurting you enough?
"Mmmm. … Yeah."
Sam growled the word in Dean's ear and the ache from below spun its way up his back, but god if it didn't seem like he could come again right then, from the sound as much as the feel of things, his brother taking the time to make every inch deeper feel like another mile in a marathon. God it was wrong, wrong but somehow right. Shivers seemed to take over his system as Sam's fingers curled and squeezed at the front of his thigh and over his hip bone, firm in their direction and inflexible when he wanted to move forward or back. The fuck was under Sam's control and the thought made the roll of warm sweat down Dean's spine feel like a waterfall, soaking his shirt. He didn't even have room in his mind for protest when Sam's thrusts sped up and bent his pushed-and-pulled body deeper into the door as if the grain of the wood could stain its way onto his skin if they only fucked hard enough. It meant that he made more noise than he wanted to when Sam rammed home with a yell, fucking him up onto tiptoes, face mashed to the door, as he came.
Breathe. Just … breathe.
It seemed to be a long time before Sam actually pulled back and let Dean's body start to relax after the strain and intensity. Then he was sighing and dragging his cock out, something thick splatting and running down Dean's inner thigh. "You should do some cool down stretches."
No one cares. No one's coming. You just have to suck it up and- …
Dean swallowed, restraining laughter that would've been halfway bitter, and set his forehead against a door that just wasn't cool enough. He contemplated pulling up his pants, but he wasn't sure if he really wanted to plaster spilled come to his skin and … actually … the shower he'd mentioned earlier sounded like a really good idea. He turned to look at his brother, but Sam was already midway to the bathroom, waving a hand in his general direction.
"I'm gonna grab a shower. Be out in a bit."
The door shut and Dean stared at it for a long time before stifling a grimace and pulling up his dirty briefs, his yanked-down sweatpants, though neither really hid his body much at all nor the extent of its recent use. Slowly, an ache began to spread from his chest outward as he stood not far from where he'd entered the room, but he willed anesthesia to materialize in his system and make him numb enough to move again, freer of emotions that he didn't understand. Then, he went to the room's small table and reached for a coffee, trying not to think about the squish of come as he sat, dazed, and blinked at his suddenly unappetizing breakfast.
His stomach flinched, but he couldn't - wouldn't let himself - feel it anymore.
One - Two - Three
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
Side Two: Run-Fuck
[069.Numb]
When he blinked his eyes open after being asleep for what felt like too long, he smelled come and filth and smoke for a moment before his head cleared. Then he was running from it, forcing it to fade into the distance as he reminded himself that dreams - his dreams - didn't mean anything, didn't predict anything, didn't have anything to do with anything, and he could barely remember it anyway, right? Nothing left of it and- … His breath stopped, stomach threatening to erupt, but he slammed his eyes shut again and shoved it all away.
He startled, hyper-alert, when he heard his brother huff, and he leapt out of bed, tripping over the shirt-free body bending itself into crunches on the floor.
"Whoa, Dean. What's your problem?"
Dean's fear left in a rush as he looked down at his brother, who seemed mildly annoyed but not one bit suspicious. "… No." Out of habit, his eyebrows tipped in and he mirrored Sam's attitude right back. "Were you trying to get trampled or, ya know, stabbed, doing crunches right next to my bed like that?"
"Ya know, I just got confused and thought you'd be sensible enough to get out on the other side. Sometimes I forget who I'm dealing with." He went back to his exercises.
Despite the ease of their morning exchange, Dean continued to watch his brother like there was nothing else he was supposed to be doing.
After a few more reps, Sam halted, glaring at him. "What are you looking at?"
"Nothing. Just- … Nothing." Dean tried to look away as his brother slowly went back into his crunches, but it was hard for him to think when Sam was right there. His eyes kept wandering back, kept taking in the way Sam's muscles bent and flexed, trying to remember exactly where the power resided, what the rush felt like when those knuckles pressed shudders out of- … No. It wasn't Sam. It wasn't anyone. It was a dream, a fucked up dream that didn't make any sense and didn't apply to anything. He swept his hand down his face and rubbed his bottom lip.
"Dean, seriously, you've been standing there for five minutes at least. What's wrong?"
Not going to ask. Not going to ask. Not going to- … "Did you go for a walk last night?"
"No, I crashed before you did. Why?"
Dean remembered that now. They'd gone to the bar up the road, both letting themselves get a little tipsy but not drunk, knowing that the end of the hunt should be easy enough today, but also knowing that it was still work. Then they'd wandered back and stayed up even later, making fun of bad mystery-suspense flicks on the no-name Channel 19. Sam had grumbled at him as he tried to get to sleep with the soundtrack of his brother's laughter and all the horridly cheesy fright music. Then he'd kept watching alone until- … well, until he wasn't watching anymore, so … they'd been together all night.
He shook his head, laughing at himself though his stomach remained unsettled.
"Dean?"
"Nevermind."
"Okay …" Now Sam was watching him warily.
He held his brother's eyes, serious. "I'm fine. Just … too much TV before bed. That's all."
"Wouldn't have expected to hear that from you."
"Yeah well …" He was still the object of scrutiny, but Dean ignored his brother, walking over to his duffle and pulling on socks and sweats.
Sam went back to his crunches, quick breaths splitting his phrases. "Not that I mind watching you fall over yourself … like a broke-legged ballerina … but if possible … try not to kill yourself … or me … stumbling around … the next time you dream that you're a sleuth … on the trail of a mobster … or whatever."
Dean paused for a moment, muscles tensing, but he spun things into lighter territory as he pushed out a laugh and bent to tie his shoes. "Oh come on, Sammy. You know you'd rather be hunting mobsters than monsters any day."
Sam stopped mid-motion and looked up at him, serious but with a smile. "You're right, Dean. Mobsters are definitely more my style … spats and all."
He could've noted the intensity of Sam's eyes, could've let the tone of Sam's voice make him double blink, make him wonder odd little things, but … he just let his face scrunch, head quirked to one side as Sam went back to exercising. "… What the hell are spats?"
Sam just rolled his eyes and refused to even try to explain.
"Whatever." Dean shrugged and headed to the door. "I'm going for a run."
Between crunches, Sam called over his shoulder. "Grab some coffee and food while you're out!"
Dean was noncommittal. "Maybe. If I feel like it."
Sam snickered, mumbling something under his breath.
"You got something to say, college boy?"
"Nah. Take your run, but don't take all day. That banishment ritual is going to take a while to set up and we need to do it exactly at sunset."
"I'm just going for a jog around town, Sam. I'm not running to Miami."
Sam stopped his crunches, blustering as he turned to Dean. "Then shut up and go! You're making me lose my count here."
Dean lifted an eyebrow in a 'yeah right' expression, but he swiveled on his heel and headed out the door, hitting a jog in the parking lot. As he pushed his body to a strong but sustainable pace, he was deeply relieved to see that nothing - not around the motel and not around anywhere else in town - looked like the settings from his dream. Maybe he just needed to hit mute before bed next time. He ran harder, drowning himself in sweat and shoving the dream out of his mind like his lungs were shoving out air.
After an hour, he jogged himself up to the closest lunch counter, a diner next to the exit ramp they'd taken off the freeway. He nearly bounced as he caught his breath, speaking rapidly to the waitress standing across the Formica from him. "Two hot coffees, four fried eggs, three orders of bacon, and two orders of toast. … Thanks."
The waitress brought him a mug and poured him coffee while he waited, slipping into a seat despite his restlessness as he wrapped a hand around the cup and drank the coffee black.
"Toast?"
His eyes had shifted from the cup in his hand to the morning newspapers on the counter and he felt a little lost as he blinked back up at her. "Uh … yeah … two orders."
"No, I mean do you want some while you wait?"
"Oh … yeah. That'd be great. Thanks."
She wandered away, returning with crispy bread, butter, and jam, and he slathered the toast with both as he ate and flipped through the local papers still strewn around from the morning crowd. He wasn't looking for anything in particular, of course, because dreams didn't leave newsworthy evidence, of course, but when he found nothing about apartment fires in town, it seemed like his breathing calmed more anyway. Checking the obits just for good measure, he pursed his lips. Nothing seemed especially interesting or unusual, however, so he folded up the last of the papers and drank the last of his coffee, offering the waitress a brilliant smile as she bustled about.
"You done with these?" A copper-toned, female basketball player reached for the papers he'd dismissed as she slid into the seat next to him, breathing hard like she'd just run in here herself, her wavy hair pulled up in a high ponytail that brushed the back of her Nets jersey.
There was a time when he'd- … Goddamn. He chuckled a little to himself as he looked her over and eventually shrugged. "Yeah. Go ahead."
"Lucky me, then, huh? Right place at the right time to get just what I needed." The intensity in her eyes pressed against something in him but not quite uncomfortably, more like a gentle nudge, encouraging and familiar. "How about you? What do you need?"
He shook his head, laughing a little as he turned back to his empty coffee mug, unsure of what her attention meant, but knowing it was a bit overwhelming somehow, less like flirtation and more like a hug he wasn't expecting. "Uhh … nothing. Just … waiting for food." It wasn't like she knew him, but maybe- … He glanced her way again only to see her eyes continuing to hold him, almost preciously, and he had to disengage, his tone edging towards harsh as he recalled seeing that same look on Sam after Dad- … "What's it to you?"
She got closer, if that was possible, swiveling in her seat so one of her knees pressed itself warmly against the side of his thigh. "It's a dangerous thing, needing nothing. It's never really true, but if you say it enough times, people start to believe you - maybe you even start to believe it yourself - and people start taking what they need from you, even if whatever they offer isn't what you need."
"Listen …" He hesitated for a moment before pushing her leg out of the way, eyes returning to hers. "I don't know what your deal is, but I don't need advice from someone I don't even know."
Tilting her head, she listened, but seemed to shrug a little as she spoke. "Maybe … but I doubt that a guy like you really knows that many people he would talk to about something like this." She indicated his exposed wrist with her chin and he glanced at it, resisting the urge to yank his sleeve up or look away from her.
He laughed a little, not nervous but pulling from his bag of charm anyway with a smirk. "It's not what you think." Or … probably not. The marks were only a few days old, his body painted with several multicolored slip-and-slam bruises from Sam's somewhat ungentle attempts to keep them both positioned well enough to fuck even while wet. "I slipped in the shower."
"I'm sure that's what happened." She nodded as her voice softened even more.
"Look, I know you mean well, but you don't know what you're talking about." A bite slid into his voice, strengthened by a mounting tension in his lower back as her presence revived stress that he thought he'd run out of his system half an hour ago. "So why don't you just go enjoy the morning news somewhere else?"
"I will, in a minute, but you should know that I do know what I'm talking about- …"
"Oh 'cause you're some social worker or shrink or something, right?"
"No … because I really understand and I'm sure he's very particular about who you talk to, but he won't mind me, I promise." Her smile slowly widened and her eyes seemed to reach into him until he had to blink and shake his head, disconnecting again.
"I don't need a counselor, okay? There's nothing going on."
"I didn't say there was, but- …" She sighed as her eyes slid away and she went into her pocket for her wallet. "Remember … needs change - his, yours, the world's - and sometimes change isn't a bad thing - hell, sometimes it's necessary - but it's often a hard transition, especially in isolation."
His lip tilted downward as he shrugged, not knowing quite what she was talking about, because … she couldn't know anything about his situation and yet … maybe- … No, it wouldn't make any sense. "I don't know what you mean."
She huffed out a gentle laugh, tipping an eyebrow up as she flipped a business card onto the counter in front of him, a complex star in the corner catching his eye:
M. WILKINS
(800)-129-2007
"Note the name and the number. Memorize them. Use them when you have to." She picked up her papers, but Dean grabbed for her, her eyes seeming to flash a bizarre blue as the room spun for a moment before she yanked her arm back.
"Who- … What are you?"
"The friend." Then her face lit with a bright, sincere smile and she swept out the door, cool damp air blowing in her wake as the entrance chime clanged behind her.
He almost wanted to go after her, but part of him felt compelled to stay or perhaps just stay away as he watched her shape pass the last diner window and he swallowed to hush his raw stomach. Hearing the waitress set a bag of food near him, he turned back to count out the cash she was due, his mind distant as he watched her pour his refill into a travel cup and twist both coffees into a cardboard carrier. It was all just motion, a pattern he kept following even though he wasn't sure that it fit anymore. He really didn't know how to do anything else, how to deal with anything else, so he just kept going.
Smile. Thank. Pay. Smile again. Gather it up - the card too. Walk out the door. Turn the corner. And follow the road home to Sam.
He paused for a moment outside the door to their motel room, his hands ready to be empty again, and he tried not to think about what he'd dreamed and what he'd heard from Sam in bits and pieces over recent months. Last night was just a night, his dream was just a dream, the time at the diner was just about breakfast, and Sam was just Sam, just good, just … Sam. Yet, when the door opened and Sam was yanking him in, snatching and setting aside the food and the drinks, Dean felt winded.
The door slammed shut almost before he'd made his way through it. Then Sam was kissing him, shoving a hand down the front of his pants as his mouth slid down to suck the sweat from the side of his throat. Dean gasped, struggling halfheartedly to get out from under his brother even as his hips canted into the rub of that hand. "Sam, I'm … nasty. Just … lemme grab a shower first."
Sam's voice was rough and wet, like steam gusting over his ears and neck. "No way. You're fucking hot when you've been working out."
Good for me. Bad for you.
"Sam, come on, just- … Ohhh!" He groaned as the pull and slide of Sam's hand became more urgent. He could feel his cock give up on pretending it didn't want this, beginning to fill in earnest, thick.
"What? Just … make you come like this? Just … slide down and suck you off? Just … turn you around and fuck you against this door? Just what, Dean?"
I want the main course, not this shaky little appetizer.
Dean moaned low, the back of his head connecting with the door as his hips ground up into Sam's hand and his mind fought to whir in a fashion that he could understand.
"Mmm. Tough choice, isn't it? That's okay. I've got it covered." Sam sank to his knees, yanking down Dean's sweats and briefs before swallowing Dean's cock whole.
"Fuck!" Dean's yell was primal, his arms slamming back against the wood with a thud before his fingers swept up into the mess of Sam's hair, working hard not to tug or otherwise suggest force enough to make Sam hold his already bruised wrists down until the squeeze pushed water into his eyes.
Dean's hips moved of their own volition as Sam's mouth pumped up and down on his dick and he could only snatch at breaths as Sam's tongue curled against the underside of his shaft, catching just a little on the head of his cock every time Sam pulled back. He wanted to last longer, to close his eyes and enjoy the ride for hours, but Sam's lips bound him up in a wet inferno with a full-cock massage that made his breath run like it was being chased. When Sam's hands gripped his hips tight enough to make them hurt, keeping them right where he wanted them, Dean flew over the edge, come shuddering its way out of his body and down his brother's throat as he flushed at the thought of Sam's fingers leaving claiming bruises, drinking down his pain.
He had barely caught his breath before Sam was back up to standing, Dean's cock meeting cool air and then wood as his brother turned him around and pressed him against the door. Those bruising fingers were at his hips again, holding his ass as Sam bent and spat twice on his hole, making him shudder from some mix of aftershock and anticipation. Sam was breathing into his hair again in only moments, though, and the clap of spit hitting a palm was loud in his ears before he heard it squeak against flesh and Sam's cock pressed in roughly, making his breath stop.
Am I not hurting you enough?
"Mmmm. … Yeah."
Sam growled the word in Dean's ear and the ache from below spun its way up his back, but god if it didn't seem like he could come again right then, from the sound as much as the feel of things, his brother taking the time to make every inch deeper feel like another mile in a marathon. God it was wrong, wrong but somehow right. Shivers seemed to take over his system as Sam's fingers curled and squeezed at the front of his thigh and over his hip bone, firm in their direction and inflexible when he wanted to move forward or back. The fuck was under Sam's control and the thought made the roll of warm sweat down Dean's spine feel like a waterfall, soaking his shirt. He didn't even have room in his mind for protest when Sam's thrusts sped up and bent his pushed-and-pulled body deeper into the door as if the grain of the wood could stain its way onto his skin if they only fucked hard enough. It meant that he made more noise than he wanted to when Sam rammed home with a yell, fucking him up onto tiptoes, face mashed to the door, as he came.
Breathe. Just … breathe.
It seemed to be a long time before Sam actually pulled back and let Dean's body start to relax after the strain and intensity. Then he was sighing and dragging his cock out, something thick splatting and running down Dean's inner thigh. "You should do some cool down stretches."
No one cares. No one's coming. You just have to suck it up and- …
Dean swallowed, restraining laughter that would've been halfway bitter, and set his forehead against a door that just wasn't cool enough. He contemplated pulling up his pants, but he wasn't sure if he really wanted to plaster spilled come to his skin and … actually … the shower he'd mentioned earlier sounded like a really good idea. He turned to look at his brother, but Sam was already midway to the bathroom, waving a hand in his general direction.
"I'm gonna grab a shower. Be out in a bit."
The door shut and Dean stared at it for a long time before stifling a grimace and pulling up his dirty briefs, his yanked-down sweatpants, though neither really hid his body much at all nor the extent of its recent use. Slowly, an ache began to spread from his chest outward as he stood not far from where he'd entered the room, but he willed anesthesia to materialize in his system and make him numb enough to move again, freer of emotions that he didn't understand. Then, he went to the room's small table and reached for a coffee, trying not to think about the squish of come as he sat, dazed, and blinked at his suddenly unappetizing breakfast.
His stomach flinched, but he couldn't - wouldn't let himself - feel it anymore.
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