Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~300 words. In response to the blindfold_spn request for Sam/Dean in Playthings, episode 2.11.
One minute, he’s promising a wasted Sam, Yeah, sure, no problem and the next-
In the morning, Dean’s not sure what happened.
One minute, he’s promising a wasted Sam, Yeah, sure, no problem, I’ll put a bullet in your brain if you’re evil, Sammy, and the next Sam’s jeans are somewhere around his ankles and Dean’s cock is up his ass.
And Sam moans for it, making enough noise to wake the whole damn place up. Big hands fisted in the sheets, facedown in the pillows–Sam is a fucking pillow-biter. There are damp patches all over the zillion-threadcount material and tiny dents in his lips from when he’d arch up, bite down hard on those instead.
Any second, Dean figures ol’ Sherman will politely tap-tap and ask if the gentlemen could please consider not driving away the few guests that remained.
Coming punches every last scrap of air out of Dean’s lungs. His hands skid through the sweat slicked down Sam’s back, slide right under Sam’s rucked-up shirt to grip his shoulders. Sam’s skin is fever-hot against his forehead as he chokes down breath through the tight, squeezing pressure built up in his chest.
Sam sinks to the mattress beneath him, sprawled out in a sweaty heap asking Dean to slip a couple fingers up inside him, to feel all that slick heat and making noises there aren’t even words for as he gets off fucking himself down on Dean’s hand.
But yeah, in the morning, when Sam rolls out of the bed they’d passed out in, dried come staining the insides of his thighs, Dean tells himself he doesn’t know why the hell it happened.