Sam/Dean. NC-17. D/s tones. Enema. Fisting. ~5600 words.
Sam’s pretty sure Dean doesn’t secretly harbour a food fetish, no matter how worked up he gets over a mini cheesesteak.
Sam sets a six-pack of the local light lager on the counter next to Dean’s flask of cheap rye whiskey. He spares the sour middle-aged woman ringing them up a small smile and goes for his wallet. Which he finds out isn’t in his jacket pocket, or any pocket, because Dean fed it to the black dog back in Colorado that’d been trying to take a chunk out of Sam’s thigh.
On a deep sigh, Sam says, “Dean.”
Flipping intently through a magazine on the far side of the counter, Dean says, “Hm?”
“Could you get this?”
Dean grunts softly, his eyebrows coming together as he turns another page.
The woman’s gargoyle-nails tap out a quick rhythm on the plastic case full of scratch n’ win lottery tickets.
Plastering on a tight smile, Sam jerks Dean’s wallet out of his back pocket. He catches a glimpse of the glossy pages his brother’s staring at and rolls his eyes. “Seriously. Like you don’t get enough.”
“No such thing, Sammy,” Dean says, tossing the cashier a casual wink.
She doesn’t look impressed, but she takes the crumpled, smoke-stained twenty Sam hands over and slaps his miniscule change on the plastic.
“Thanks,” Sam says, carefully tugging the brown bag out of her reach. “Have a nice evening.”
Distractedly, Dean scoops up the coins one-handed and tucks them in his jeans pocket. “Don’t mind him,” he says, barely glancing up from the two-page spread he’s got folded over that doesn’t leave a damn thing to the imagination. “He’s got this thing about paper cuts.”
With a merry tinkling of the bell, Sam lets the door swing shut in Dean’s face.
Sam steals the rest of the pillows from the other bed before flopping down next to him, the greasy pizza box open between their hips. “D’you have all the beer?”
Dean jerks his gaze away from the magazine he’d tossed at the foot of the bed. The cover is bright and garish, a woman with a red-painted mouth offering up a set of fairly high-end fake tits. Sam wonders if she tried to write them off as a business expense.
Belatedly, Dean says, “Yeah, sorry,” and slaps a cold one into Sam’s outstretched hand. “What’s with you and the local shit?” He slumps lower on the bed, one foot slipping to the floor as his legs sprawl wide. There’s no mistaking the heavy bulge of his dick.
“Dunno.” Cracking the top on the edge of the scarred nightstand, Sam helps himself to a healthy swig. It’s not so bad, just a little too much on the woody side for his taste. “What’s with you and the porn?”
The two spots of colour high on Dean’s cheeks deepen but his smile stays steady. The lamplight catches on the tiny bit of grease smeared at the corner of his lips. “Paper pussy’s the only kind I’m gettin’ these days.”
Sam takes another longer pull on the bottle. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Dean was playing games, but that’s just not the way they do this. It’s one of the things Sam was so startled to find turned him on. There’s something to be said for Dean being perpetually horny and up-front about it.
“Are you trying to tell me you’d like to go pick up a girl for a threesome?”
After a two-second delay, Dean’s laugh echoes sharp and happy. “Knew you were a kinky son of a bitch.”
Absently picking at the label with one blunt nail, Sam says, “Well, are you?”
“Why, you honestly up for it?”
Sam gives that a moment’s serious thought. The idea’s pretty hot, and it’s not like he’s afraid of the damage some random girl could do (wasn’t even really afraid of that before he found out what the inside of Dean’s mouth tasted like). “Maybe,” he ventures. “Not tonight.”
Dean slaps his knee, says, “Atta boy,” and Sam figures that’s the end of it. He wipes his fingers on his jeans, poking at a bit of cheese stuck between his teeth with his tongue because it’s sorta rude to suck somebody off with food in your mouth.
Unless that’s their thing. Sam’s pretty sure Dean doesn’t secretly harbour a food fetish, no matter how worked up he gets over a mini cheesesteak.
But Dean’s gaze has wandered back to the magazine, with occasional, uninterested glances at the television. His breaths are quick and shallow, a dark flush creeping out from under the worn collar of his tee. When Sam nudges the pizza box aside and slides a hand up between Dean’s legs to get his attention, he nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam says, forcing out the laugh caught behind the lump in his throat. “You want a girl that bad?”
“Nah.” Dean tilts his hips into the press of Sam’s cupped hand, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He looks everywhere but the magazine and Sam.
“So.” Slowly, Sam traces up the length of Dean’s fly, just hard enough to follow the curve of his dick to the head. Dean’s eyes threaten to close as he rubs tiny, deliberate circles around the ridge, and that combined is almost enough to make Sam forget what the hell he was going to say. “What’s with the magazine?”
Dean’s hips jerk and his eyes squeeze shut. Both of Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out that his brother’s maybe oversexed and responsive as fuck (which is hot as fuck), but Jesus.
Sam’s nail scrapes hard over denim. “Dean?”
“Page fourteen,” Dean blurts, smoothly rolling off the bed and grabbing the empty ice bucket on his way. He scrubs a hand over his hair all the way down to the back of his neck. “I wanna do that. Gonna get some ice,” he says, and bolts.
Blankly, Sam echoes, “Ice?” and the television helpfully answers that tomorrow’s low is going to be fifty-two.
Clambering up to his knees, Sam makes a grab for the magazine. “Fourteen, fourteen,” he mutters, absently rising to pace a rapid circuit from the foot of the bed to the dresser as he flips through page after page of pierced nipples and shaved cunts. He hits the end of the magazine, staring at it dumbly before quickly flipping back.
It’s actually page fourteen and fifteen. One giant closeup.
Then he figures out what the hell he’s looking at and hits the bed like a sack of potatoes.
“Okay,” he says, just to make sure his voice doesn’t squeak. “Right. Sure, Dean. Sure.” Casting a wary glance at the door, Sam scrubs first one palm and then the other dry on his jeans, careful to not drop the magazine. It’ll be at least ten, fifteen minutes before Dean wanders back, sheepish grin warring with that hopeful, eager light in his eyes.
The laptop boots up with a hiccupping whirr. Crossing his fingers, Sam starts poking around for unsecured wireless. It only takes him about a minute to find what he’s looking for. Hunkering down, one hand pressed to the insistent throb of his dick, he starts reading.
It ends up being more like twenty minutes before the knob clicks and Dean eels his way inside. He takes one look at the laptop and the abandoned magazine and his shoulders slump.
Before Dean can slap on some bravado, Sam asks, “You sure?”
The half-empty ice bucket thunks on the smaller table near the door. “Wouldn’t have mentioned it if I wasn’t.”
Carefully, since one hard thought might be enough to have Sam cream himself at this point, he stands, starts backing Dean up against the locked door. “So you’ve thought about it. A lot.”
Dean goes easy, one hand coming up to curl solid and warm on Sam’s waist like a habit. “Enough. Got some chafing there, Sammy?”
Sam lifts his arms, bracketing Dean as he flattens his hands on bubbled paint. He shakes his head once, letting a tiny smile quirk the corner of his mouth.
Dean swallows, flashing the sharp white edges of his teeth before they catch briefly on the softness of his lower lip. “Too kinky for you?”
Fingers hooked in Dean’s empty beltloops, Sam jerks him away from the door and shoves him right back up against it, face-first. He fumbles the zip the first time, wrenches it hard enough to hear the catch and grind of metal teeth the second. Dean sucks in a breath that’s half-laugh, half-moan when Sam grabs him by the pockets and yanks his jeans straight down to his ankles in one go.
Sam’s got a couple things he might want to say, mostly about Dean’s methods of communication, but now that he’s on his knees and Dean’s shuffling back, boots inching further and further apart, it doesn’t seem all that important.
Brushing a light, brief kiss to the dip of Dean’s spine, Sam says, “Both hands.”
On a rough noise, Dean reaches back, long fingers dark against the pale skin of his ass, and spreads himself wide. Sam has to swallow twice to get his heart back where it belongs, eyes fixed on the pink flush of Dean’s hole. Dean doesn’t have much in the way of shame or interest in playing hard to get, but Sam’s not sure he’s ever seen his brother go this easily without at least a couple minutes heavy screwing around.
“How long have you been thinking about it?” Sam slides his hands up the insides of Dean’s thighs again, framing Dean’s sac with his palms and his thumbs stretched out, barely brushing the tight rim. It feels dirty as fuck to just sit there and watch it twitch.
“Few days, maybe,” Dean says, low and too steady. There’s precome already smearing the head of his cock and Sam hasn’t even really touched him yet. “Sam, c’mon.”
“What?” Gently, Sam thumbs dry at Dean’s hole, leans in close enough to let his breath tease. “This?”
Dean’s fist thumps against the door. “Yes, fuck, that.”
Sam swallows again, mouth suddenly Sahara-dry. “You clean?”
Above him, Dean freezes. A sound sort of like a laugh leads into, “Why’d you think I took that shower?”
The image of Dean locked away in the bathroom actually preparing for this pulls a low sound out of Sam’s gut. He breathes slow and deep, air saturated with the warmth of Dean’s skin filling his lungs. “What’d you use? And don’t move your hand,” he adds, dropping a quick kiss to tightly-clenched muscle.
“What d’ya mean, what’d I use?” Dean twists to glance down, meets Sam’s gaze. “I- Jesus Christ, Sam, just my fingers, what else was I supposed to do?”
Sam lets out a hot, gusty breath that makes Dean’s skin prickle into gooseflesh. “C’mon,” he says, standing up to grip the collar of Dean’s shirt. “Bathroom.”
Warily, Dean says, “What for?”
“To do this right,” Sam says, tugging Dean steadily across the room by whatever grip he can get and keep on the shambles of Dean’s clothes. Halfway through wrestling Dean out of his shirt, Sam stops to kiss him again, this one hard clash of teeth and tongue that knocks Dean back a step. When Sam breaks free, Dean’s lips are as flushed red as his cheeks.
“Shoulda confiscated the laptop,” Dean mutters, shrugging the rest of the way out of his button-down.
I’ll make it good Sam wants to say. But the truth is, the hot lump sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach isn’t so sure. Dean might’ve just looked at that magazine and thought hey, hot without thinking about why.
Sam’s thought about why quite a bit in the last half hour.
“Take off your boots.” Sam grabs the hem of Dean’s tee to haul it off. Dean stumbles again and tosses him a look that might’ve been irritated except for the grin that won’t wipe clean. “In the tub.”
“Not that I got a problem with marathoning it or- Christ, Sam, what the hell?”
Following Dean’s gaze, Sam shrugs. “Short notice.”
Cautiously, Dean wanders over to poke the thin hose draped over the edge of the rust-pocked tub. “Short notice for what? Perfecting your siphoning technique for the national gas shortage?”
A tiny sparking thrill lights at the base of Sam’s spine. He clears his throat and gestures vaguely at the tub before pushing the ratty curtain aside. The smallest of their holy water jugs sits empty beneath the leaky faucet, hose jabbed into a hole cut on one side and sealed as tightly as Sam could manage. “It’s the pre-game show?” he ventures.
Dean’s mouth works soundlessly as a dark flush creeps steadily up his chest. The fluttering heat in Sam’s stomach flares. “Are you serious?”
“As you are.”
Another few seconds of loaded silence, then, “That’s… pretty kinky.”
Relief surges druglike through Sam’s veins. “Boots,” he repeats, busying himself with searching through the sparse stack of towels for the least threadbare one. By the time he turns around to spread it over the tub’s chipped enamel, his hands have stopped shaking.
Dean steps into the tub, hesitating before Sam says, “On your knees, facing away from the tap.”
“Just what kinda sites did you hit for info, Sammy?”
Sam smoothes his hand up Dean’s spine, wetting his lips at the rippling shiver that follows in his wake. “Good ones,” Sam answers, his smile strong in his voice. He splays his hand wide between the sharp lines of Dean’s shoulder blades. “Chest down.”
“Ass up, legs wide? Coulda just told me to assume the position,” Dean says, joke falling short on a hitching breath as Sam pushes.
Settling down on his own knees, Sam lets his fingers drift back down Dean’s side, dip just under the curve of his ass and up between the cheeks. “I guess that means you don’t need me to talk you through this.”
There’s a half-second delay that says this has gone pretty far beyond what Dean had in mind. But he says, “You want to talk dirty, be my guest.”
Releasing a slow breath, Sam gets some slick on his fingers and goes right back to where he left off, one fingertip at Dean’s hole with only a touch of pressure. With his mouth trailing wet almost-kisses up to the red-hot shell of Dean’s ear, Sam says, “You’re really gonna let me do this, huh. Clean you out before putting my whole fist up inside you.”
Dean exhales loudly at the harder press of Sam’s finger, twisting as if to glance up and thinking better of it. “Yeah, guess so.”
“You know what that’s going to feel like?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean’s teeth scrape his lip. Leaning closer, Sam slips his free hand down Dean’s chest, feels him tense in anticipation of it wrapped firmly around his cock. Sam stops just before the dark hair low on Dean’s belly fans out in neatly-trimmed lines, spreading his fingers wide.
“Right there,” Sam says, the stubble on Dean’s cheek rough against his mouth. Two fingers sink easily into slippery heat, but it’s the push of his hand against flat stomach muscles that earns him an eager twitch of Dean’s cock. “That’s where I’m gonna be.”
“Not if you don’t fuckin’ get on with it, you won’t.”
Any other time, that’d be enough to tempt Sam to call the whole thing off. It isn’t the fact that this is probably as willing as Dean’s ever going to be, or that quitting now would make it harder for Dean to ask next time he wants something not so vanilla. It’s not even the selfish ache in his dick to see his brother split wide open and vulnerable.
The wet noise of his fingers pulling free echoes obscenely loud on the cracked tile. He reaches for the hose and turns the taps on slow, checking the temp a couple times to make sure. Trailing a dripping hand across Dean’s ass, hoping like hell his voice doesn’t crack like he’s just hit puberty for round two, Sam asks, “You ready?”
“Go for it.”
Water trickles clear and clean from the free end of the hose as Sam experimentally lifts the jug. It takes him a couple tries to force words past the thick lump in his throat. “Tell me if it’s too fast.”
When the water flows warm across Dean’s ass, following the same path of Sam’s hand, Dean jerks. Heat prickles under Sam’s skin, spreading out from the twisting coil low in his belly. One small shift has the flow spilling straight over Dean’s hole, washing away the slick.
Sam inches closer until his knees bang against the side of the tub. He plugs the end of the hose with his thumb, awkwardly smearing lube around it one-handed, obsessively checking for all the nicks he’d already smoothed away. “Dean,” he says, two parts warning, one part request.
“Tell me how it feels,” Sam cuts in. The black rubber is stark and cruel-looking against Dean’s flushed skin. “I want to know.”
Less harsh, Dean says, “Okay,” and drops his head down, forehead cushioned on a loose fist. “Just- Quit making me wait.”
Watching Dean open up around that slim bit of hose, hearing the way his breath skips a beat, sends a throbbing rush straight to Sam’s cock. He palms the cheek of Dean’s ass, meant it to be soothing but ends up being all about pulling him open, seeing the clutch of tight muscle force the hose out just to slide it back in deeper.
“God.” Scrubbing his mouth dry on the back of his wrist, Sam snatches up the jug again. “God, Dean, you gotta ease up.”
Dean shakes his head, grunts, “Don’t warn me. Just do it.”
That’s not a good idea and Sam knows it, knows he’s lying to himself when he thinks okay, but only because Dean wants it, because it’s that he wants it. Wants to hear the shock, see it in the startled flex-shift of muscle.
Sam rubs the edge of his thumb around the stretch of Dean’s hole, holding off as long as he can. It’s only a few seconds before impatience shows in the set of Dean’s shoulders. Before he turns, Sam shifts the jug higher, eyes darting between the water level and Dean’s flushed face.
It’s only the span of a heartbeat but feels like a molasses-thick eternity before Dean breathes out, “Christ.”
“Fucked up, Sammy,” Dean says, shifting restlessly. He eases forward a few more inches on his elbows, stretching his back into a long, sinuous line. Sam nearly drops the whole works. “This is real fucked up.”
Sam breathes his agreement, not sure he could actually form words. The water’s draining faster than it really should. He tries to gauge how much Dean can take and bites off a groan as he fidgets again, muttering curses.
Hoping it isn’t, Sam asks, “Too much?”
“Wha- fuck.” A fresher, darker flush explodes on the back of Dean’s neck. “Jesus Christ.”
“You said not to warn you.” Sam tugs the hose the rest of the way free and lets it drop, getting both hands back on Dean’s ass to pull him open, take a nice, long look at his hole gone red and desperately tight. One gentle stroke of his fingertips has Dean hissing in warning.
Sucking in a harsh answering breath, Sam says, “You can hold it,” and leaves two fingers pressed firmly to Dean’s hole. His other hand slides down, and he’s squirming as much as Dean is, cock a heavy throbbing weight, when his fingers skim over the slight rise of Dean’s stomach, press lightly against it.
Dean says, “Don’t.”
“You can hold it,” Sam repeats, pressing harder, spitting a single reverent curse over Dean’s sharp gasp. “You can, do it for me.”
Sam flattens his hand to Dean’s sweat-damp skin, rolling the heel against the liquid fullness. A warm trickle of water over his other fingers accompanies another sharp noise and half-hearted attempt to squirm away from the pressure.
Shakily, Dean asks, “You getting off on this?”
Darting a quick glance up, Sam says, “Fuck, yes,” unable to stop himself from rolling his hand a little harder or the greedy noise it yanks out of his throat. “Stand up.”
Dean’s breaths turn quick and shallow, panic-edged, as he shuffles one foot under himself. “Can’t,” he pants. “What for?”
“You’re not letting go in there.” Sam hooks a hand under Dean’s armpit and steps to the side, clearing the way to the toilet. “C’mon.”
Fingers scrabbling at the smooth tile, Dean tries to jerk out of Sam’s grasp, breath hissing glass-sharp between his teeth. “Don’t need an audience.”
And maybe Sam should feel bad about the high-pitched, shocky noise bouncing of the walls when he slaps his hand flat to Dean’s belly. Maybe he would, if it weren’t for the haze filling up his head.
With one hand fisted at the base of Dean’s spine, Sam forces him closer, palm pressing harder against him bit by bit. Sam feels more than hears the groan building up low in his throat. The sweat slicking Dean’s neck tingles against his lips as he pulls Dean out of the tub, turns to back him up one unsteady step after another.
“But you’ve got one.”
“This is seriously fucked up,” Dean says, his voice already ragged like morning-after. He resists the weight of Sam’s hand on his shoulder, his eyes gone almost totally black when they focus on Sam’s face. “Sam, this isn’t-”
The rest Sam forces him to bite back, first with his tongue stilling Dean’s, then his knuckles digging into soft, vulnerable flesh. “You asked for it,” Sam says, putting more weight on both his hands, not worried that it’s only a half-truth, not quite comfortable that the sound Dean makes is more like pain but it sings as sweet as sin in his ears.
“I put it in you, you push it out. That’s it.” Under Sam’s insistent hands, Dean’s knees buckle slowly, his hands grabbing for support in pure reflex. “Just finish this for me.”
Dean grates out, “Should make you promise,” which is more like surrender than he probably thinks it is, and stares resolutely at the dirty grout on the floor.
Dean’s hair is almost too short for it but Sam finds enough to fist, jerking Dean’s head back up and pulling him forward until his chin rests on Sam’s belly, right above the open buckle of his belt. “Don’t look away.”
The moment stretches long enough for Sam to think he’s fucked it all up, then Dean curses low and quiet like he’d look away if only Sam let him. But he doesn’t break the hold Sam’s got on him, doesn’t even try, not once. Water streams out of his body, emptying out in one continuous rush, background noise. The heat pouring off him sears Sam’s skin.
It’s finally Sam manhandling him back to the side of the tub that makes him look away, holding him, pinned back to chest, to clean him off with one of the tattered washcloths.
When Sam rinses the cloth for the last time, Dean’s head is still bowed. The lube’s where Sam left it, balanced on the very edge near the faucet. He snatches it up, flicks open the top and aim’s a kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth, tasting the salt of his skin.
At the first touch of Sam’s fingers pushing back between his legs, Dean’s shoulders hunch. “Sam,” he says, voice cracked and raw. On one slow push, his spine arches.
Sam closes his eyes, narrowing his focus down to how easily Dean takes the slow, steady thrust of two fingers right to the first knuckle, the pliant weight of his brother in his arms. Drug-heady warmth swims up through him like a current.
Dean stumbles crossing the threshold. Another thrill spikes into Sam’s gut, pleasure sharp and real as a strong-fingered hand squeezing tight around his dick. He steers Dean towards the bed, caught up in the sloppy half-kisses they’re sharing and the breakneck rush screaming through his head. They’re really going to do it. Dean’s going to let him.
“Up on your knees,” he says, crushed-gravel rough. “Like in the bathroom.”
Slow as honey, Dean crawls up the bed, tucks his arms beneath his forehead. With anybody else, it’d be a show, deliberate and a little cheap. Somehow, Dean just makes it honest.
“You wanna see,” he says, not really a question no matter the hint of uncertainty in his voice.
Sam kneels, still in his jeans because he can’t risk the temptation. Soft, scarred skin is familiar under his hands but somehow new, different. Like it’s the first time he’s really touched Dean when he already has every ridge and dip and stretch memorised. He should be grateful Dean trusts him this much but all he feels is power-drunk and not nearly wary enough of it.
Lube squelches between his fingers, glistens all the way up to his wrist. Before the taste of it mars Dean’s skin, he bends down, tongues one sweet kiss to pinkened flesh. Dean’s almost too clean. The lack of salt-sweat heaviness in Sam’s mouth makes him want to stop right here, rim Dean until he’s slicked and senseless.
Dean takes both of his forefingers with barely a sound, saving a whimper-hiss of breath for when he pulls them apart, opening Dean up to his tongue. Lube smears Sam’s chin, wet, cool. The heat inside Dean burns his lips, leaves them tingling and alive when he draws back to see how wide Dean’ll willingly spread for him.
“Harder if you want,” Dean says. His body is tense, anticipating. Pleading. Sam gives him three, pulls against the tight flesh of his hole and his back bows again, a hitching moan spilled out onto the sheets.
A flash of blood-rich, pink inner flesh drags a lower, deeper sound out of Sam. “More?” he asks, giving up the sight to feel Dean clench around the knot of his fingers. Dean’s body clings to them, greedy and not yet loose enough for the flirt of a fourth. But Dean takes it anyway, jerking and cursing at the slightest twitch of Sam’s hand between shallow, panting breaths.
Sam pushes up to the wide set of his knuckles, pausing there, waiting with a breath held on the teetering edge. Teeth sinking into his lip, he eases off, listens to the rustle of Dean wiping sweat from his face onto the sheets. Again and again, fucking slowly up to his knuckles and back, Sam waits for Dean to say yes, go, do it, but all he gets are noises lodged like smouldering coals in the base of his brain.
“Dean,” he says, smoothing a hand up the too-sharp curve of Dean’s spine, “tell me you’re ready. Fuck, tell me, I want-”
“You want,” Dean cuts him off, like he’s going to finish the sentence, but says, “Please, please, c’mon.” His hands are curled into claws, sunk deep in the pillows. The long stretch of his arms tremble. “Asked for it, didn’t I.”
“Yeah,” Sam breathes. “Yeah, you did,” and he squeezes his thumb in tight to his fingers, watches slack-jawed and so hungry for it his whole body aches, throbs in time to the beat of all his blood pounding south. The world spins around him, and he can only imagine how it tilts for Dean.
At the base of his thumb, Dean’s body seizes up, stopping him short. Dean’s saying, “C’mon, please, c’mon,” rocking back into it, taking bit by tiny bit. A hand on his ass barely even slows him down and Sam thinks about pulling away, going slower, but it’s like Dean’s the one inside him driving him on, owning him.
When Dean’s body finally gives, opening up to let Sam’s hand sink in to his wrist, his rough curse is weaker than a whisper and completely drowned out by the thick, bone-deep groan drawn so damn slow out of Dean’s throat. For a long minute, Sam can’t even move, frozen with a hand buried in his brother’s guts and eyes glued to the fitful twitch of his red-swollen hole.
Reverently, barely aware he’s doing it and powerless to stop once he is, Sam’s free hand runs up and down Dean’s thighs, trails across his lower back and his ass, over and over. He eases another fraction of an inch deeper, pressing from the outside against Dean’s stomach, desperate to curl his hand into a fist to feel it.
Another fraction, and another, almost his whole wrist and Dean says, flimsy as slashed ribbons, “Wait, god, wait.”
Bending forward to press a kiss to the centre of Dean’s back gains Sam another grudging millimetre. He says, “Dean,” like a prayer and starts to spread his fingers, drowning in the impossible heat pressed so snugly around them.
“Wait,” Dean hisses. “Not yet, not yet, let me.”
“Let you?” Sam croaks out, his own arm starting to shake. “Fuck, okay, okay, just-” He fumbles the bottle the first time, nearly drops it a second after he flicks at the cap with his thumbnail. He slicks lube about a third of the way up his forearm, so much it drips to the sheets, pools at his wrist to drip slowly down to Dean’s balls hanging heavy between his legs. “Okay?”
Dean’s answer is one hand slapping against the headboard, skidding wildly from the sweat on his palm until he reaches the edge to grip. Between sharp gasps, he spits, “Now. Now, now, now,” fucking himself back onto Sam’s arm. He can’t mean what Sam thinks, just can’t, but he says, “Sam,” like he knows exactly what’s going through Sam’s head.
Painfully slowly, afraid to feel Dean break from the inside even while he craves it, while the shift of muscle to accommodate him makes him need it, Sam curls his fingers one by one into a fist. Dean stills instantly, head tossed back, eyes screwed shut. His mouth is open on a scream that’s silent until Sam rotates his wrist, pushing against the walls of Dean’s body, and even then it barely ekes out, high and breathless.
Sam gropes for Dean’s cock, finds it hot and slick enough that for a second, he thinks Dean’s already gotten off, but Dean’s still hard, rutting hesitantly into Sam’s grip.
Fucking asking permission.
Words slurred against the soft, vulnerable spot above Dean’s kidney, Sam says, “Tell me.” Dean gasps out a garbled answer, jerking from the scrape of Sam’s teeth. “Tell me.”
“Aches,” Dean blurts. “Too deep, fuck, it aches. Feel it everywhere.”
Biting viciously hard at the inside of his lip, Sam asks, “Too much?”
Dean shakes his head on another broken moan. “Not enough, almost. I, Sam-”
It is too much. Sam knows that. Even split wide open and nearly incoherent, Dean knows it, too. So that doesn’t explain why Sam braces his hand between the sharp jut of Dean’s shoulder blades, why he puts all his weight behind his shoulder and shoves, buries his arm inside Dean up to the shiny line of slick. Or why this shattered, cracked-glass noise breaks on the pillows when Sam starts reclaiming his hand, the widest part lodged against Dean’s abused hole when his brother comes in thick, jerking waves all over the sex-stained sheets.
Dean goes limp the moment Sam’s hand is free, barely caught in time from cracking his head on the bed. “Christ,” Sam says, tugging him backwards, “Dean, roll over, Jesus Christ, I have to-”
Dean goes bonelessly willing onto his back, his eyes glazed and heavy, dark. His fingers are slippery with his own come as he cups his balls, reaches beneath to lift them out of the way, guide Sam’s eye to the prize.
Sam doesn’t even have to slick himself up, just rips at his jeans, lines up and sinks right in. It’s like nothing else, hot and slippery and so fucking loose, soft flesh clutching at him with each of Dean’s ragged breaths. He edges his fingers back down Dean’s thigh, barely imagines what it’s going to feel like before he forces his fingers in next to his cock and Dean’s legs just fall open wider, yielding.
White-hot pleasure slams like a sucker punch. He feels Dean tense up, deliberately try to drag it out. The highway traffic rushing by only a few dozen feet away is drowned out by his heaving breaths synching up with Dean’s.
He eases himself down, tucking his arms under Dean’s shoulders, his forehead against the beat of Dean’s pulse. Dean’s skin tastes of sweat and sex again, rich and perfect. Sam licks it from his skin, then from his lips. Dean’s kisses are languid, heavy and drugged as the banked light in his eyes.
Sam almost asks if Dean got what he wanted, just to hear him say it, but doesn’t really have to. What he is going to ask, just as soon as he can, is that next time Dean wants something, maybe he could be a little less of an ass about it.