The Still Prayer of Devotion

Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~3000 words. D/s. Bootlicking.
Sam drew in one deep, steadying breath. He never doubted Dean’s control, only his own.

Sam slumped in a creaking lime green chair in their room’s tiny kitchenette. The tedious tick of the wall clock, five minutes fast, thundered in the hush. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the table and blew a chunk of hair out of his eyes.

Next to the closed laptop, his cell phone stared back at him with blank indifference.

Three endless minutes later came the sound of a key in the old lock. He fought the urge to bolt upright or smooth down the front of the crisp white shirt he still wore from the day’s round posing as a trustworthy detective. Keeping his pose deliberately casual, gaze glued to the door, he scrubbed his palms dry on his slacks. The corner of one nail hitched on a tiny tear near the inseam, yanking a startled hiss out of him when the cuticle snagged.

Dean pushed the door open and strolled on in. He elbowed it shut before flicking the chain, the deadbolt and the little knob on the door handle. His posture was utterly relaxed until he turned and caught sight of Sam. Tension snapped to life in the rigid line of his shoulders.

Taking in the laptop, the cell and the papers tidily tucked away on the countertop, Dean said, “Thought you were busy.”

Sam shrugged carelessly. It took more effort than it should’ve to leave off picking the hole in his pants wider. “Where were you?”

“Nowhere special.” Dean’s hands hovered uncertainly at his sides. Then, in one decisive, jerky movement, he unzipped his jacket and tossed it over the television.

Behind the table, out of sight, Sam flattened his fidgeting hands to his thighs. The air grew thicker between them with each heartbeat he counted. Once he’d slowed it to less than a gallop, he laced his fingers together.

Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other, gradually shuffling the few inches about to fully face Sam. He waited impatiently, as always; the twitch of his fingers, the involuntary quirk of his eyebrows gave him away. Clear, crisp orders worked best for him, like he didn’t trust his own innate, perfectly-honed talent of knowing exactly what was expected of him.

Sam said, “Dean,” and all that tension singing through his brother snapped to a razor-sharp point. The anticipation in his own gut coiled tighter. He thought he knew precisely what he was doing here, how Dean would react to every prompt, but his whole life, Dean has never stopped surprising him.

Sam drew in one deep, steadying breath. He never doubted Dean’s control, only his own. “Come here.”

A handful of heavy seconds ticked by before Dean moved, crossing over to kneel on linoleum made a dull, dirty brown by countless passers-through. He settled back on his heels, hands loose on his thighs, shoulders straight. Expectant green eyes turned upwards to fix on Sam’s face.

“Spread your knees.”

Dean did, instantly. An electric jolt ratcheted up Sam’s spine, lighting up every nerve he had. Unconsciously, his breathing had drawn even with Dean’s.

Sam pushed the table out of his way, slinging his arm idly along the edge as he let his own legs fall wide. The blatant invitation sparked bright in Dean’s gaze, illuminated all the ways and means for Sam to strip away the defences Dean had never wanted to build.

“Sam,” Dean began, abruptly silenced as Sam pressed the sole of one heavy boot right over the taut crotch of his jeans.

“Brand new,” Sam told him, when Dean looked down at the shining black leather between his legs. A touch extra pressure sped the easy rise and fall of his chest. “I thought you’d appreciate the chance to be the only one to touch them, since they’re mine now, too.”

A different kind of hesitancy kept Dean’s hands from curving over the stiff leather. He looked up, seeking permission already granted before sliding his fingers along the side, behind Sam’s ankle and up under the cuff of his slacks. He caressed the edge where leather ended and skin began, midway up Sam’s calf.

A sharp grunt echoed off the empty walls as Sam flexed his foot forward, Dean’s touch instantly turning to a tight clutch. Almost imperceptibly, Dean rocked into it, lips parting softly.

Forcing his hands steady, Sam unzipped his slacks and reached for his cock. “Start there,” he said, nodding at his foot cradled in Dean’s lap. Hand still inside his pants, where Dean couldn’t see, he rubbed his thumb over the head and revelled in the naked want on Dean’s face. “Do a good job.”

Dean shuffled back, both hands on Sam’s foot, one curled under the sole, the other beneath the heel, laying it on the floor instead of just letting it drop out of his lap. The bob of his throat caught Sam’s attention as his hands slid up, pushing Sam’s slacks out of the way. He ran his hands back down the full length and wet his lips.

Pulling his cock out to stroke lazily in full view, Sam said, “You have to earn it.”

Dean bent low, his mouth pressed to the very first grommet. He breathed, “Okay,” against it and placed a mirror kiss to the other side.

The only time Dean went slowly was when Sam forced the issue. Life had taught Dean to take what he could, when he could, as fast as he could. Kneeling at Sam’s feet, mouthing painfully slow kisses down the laces of an officer’s dress boot, he forgot that need in favour of a better, stronger one.

Dean’s tongue slid out, traced over the dips of leather near Sam’s ankle. With a quiet noise, trusting what he wanted so badly wouldn’t be snatched away before he had a real chance to earn it, Dean dropped onto his forearms, tongue dragging flat and wide over the toe.

Sam had long since given up on tugging at his cock, instead gripping firmly at the base to keep from ending all of this before either of them were ready. The sight Dean made only counted as half the reason why.

Dean moved on to licking at the stitching above the sole, his head down but eyes upturned. He saw the precome slicking Sam’s cock and moaned loudly for it, the muffled vibrations warm against Sam’s leg.

“Not yet,” Sam warned, smearing the wetness away.

The greedy set to Dean’s mouth put a stop to the teasing foreplay. He gripped Sam’s foot in both hands once more, licked from toe to heel over and over again until the leather glistened as wet as his lips. Up over the ankle, then, the sides and down. Before his spit had fully dried he was back where he started, cheek nuzzled against the laces as his tongue traced every stitch.

The warmth of Dean’s mouth seeped slowly through the boot’s thickness. He lingered longer near the grommets the second time around, tilting his head to between show how his tongue slipped over them, wiggled between the laces to wet each and every inch.

When he tried to lift Sam’s foot to get at the sole, Sam said, “Stop.”

Dean jerked, startled. He pulled away slowly, still lost in his task, eyes drug-heavy and mouth slack. His lips were red, swollen, his own spit smeared messily over his cheek in a shiny wet slick.

“Take off your shirt for me.”

The sound of a seam ripping under the pressure of Dean’s clumsy tugging shot a shiver straight through Sam. Dean’s gaze slipped down to where Sam still loosely held his cock, and while he watched, Sam started jerking off again in slow, measured strokes.

“Kneel here,” Sam instructed, flicking a quick glance at the space between his legs. “Hands on my knees.”

Without looking up, slurring a little, Dean said, “Yessir,” and rose almost gingerly, like he wasn’t sure his limbs would work right. He put himself exactly where Sam wanted, body barely an inch from being wedged tight between Sam’s thighs but nowhere did Dean touch him except where he’d allowed.

“Don’t move.”

Dean jerked his gaze from Sam’s hand gliding smoothly over his cock long enough for their eyes to meet and show that he understood.

Sam fanned his fingers over the head of his cock. The thin yellow light overhead glinted off the taut shine of his skin. “Is this what you want?” At Dean’s hasty nod, Sam shook his head. “Tell me.”

“I do,” Dean rasped thickly. “Sammy.” He swayed forward, hot red mouth offered up for a kiss if only Sam would take it.

It takes effort to keep his voice steady, but Sam says, “What did I say?”

Immediately, Dean’s head bowed and he went utterly, perfectly still. The fine trembling that had started up in his arms vanished without a trace.

A heavy drop of precome gathered at Sam’s slit. Dean never disobeyed on purpose even though he’d seen how quickly it could tip Sam over the edge. He’d learned long before Sam had how much sweeter hard-won obedience was, how real missteps meant the real need to make it right.

“Good,” Sam breathed. “You can watch.”

A long moment passed before Dean looked up. When he finally did, he licked away the thin trickle of bright red blood his teeth had drawn from his lip.

Sam sank deeper in the chair, his legs bumping Dean’s sides, Dean fighting so hard not to sway into Sam’s warmth again. He cupped his balls in one hand, lifted them free as he stroked himself. “More?” he asked.

Shakily, Dean nodded.

Sam bit the inside of his cheek. The wet sound of his cock slipping wetly through his fingers brought a groan up from deep in his belly. “Faster?”

“Please.” Dean’s fingertips dug hard into Sam’s flesh. “Sam, please.”

Sam forced his eyes to stay open, focused, as he marked Dean’s skin with his come. It arced beautifully beneath his collarbone, trickled down over his chest to catch on his nipple, quivering, and dripping down onto his belly.

Dean stared down at himself, visibly shaking. Aftershocks ricocheted fiercely through Sam with every one of Dean’s indrawn breaths, every flicker of his lowered gaze.

“Back up,” Sam said, after he was sure his voice was strong enough not to waver.

Dean made a pained noise but shuffled backwards on his knees. His hand made an abortive twitch toward the come slipping down his stomach.

Sam stripped his hand along his dick one last time before tucking himself away. He stood, slacks barely clinging to his hips, and cupped that hand over Dean’s flushed cheek.

Dean’s nostrils glared white and his lips parted. The velvet-soft heat of his tongue swept quickly along the inside of his bottom lip, as much of a suggestion as he’d dare.

“Further. Back on your elbows.”

Stretching his legs out, Dean followed the guiding pressure of Sam’s hand on his face until his back settled flush to the floor. He lay there waiting, completely trusting, vulnerable. Sweat prickled along Sam’s hairline.

“Open your jeans.”

Fast and fumbling, Dean tore open his fly. He didn’t reach for his cock before Sam said, “Pull it out.”

Dean’s cock was thick, dark and leaking heavily at the slit. Sticky, stringy precome trailed between his shorts and the head. He let go as soon as it was in full view, tucking the elastic under his balls to lay it all out like an offering.

“So gorgeous,” Sam heard himself say. “I could watch you for hours.”

Dean shuddered in response, hands fisting tight at his sides as his dick jerked. A fresh white smear stained his belly.

Using the edge of the table to brace himself, Sam lived up to his words and looked his fill at his brother willingly spread out at his feet, hard and desperately wanting. While he watched, a deep blood flush crept up Dean’s chest, turning the drying steaks of Sam’s come an even more vivid white.

“Do you know how much I love that you let me do this?” Sam wet his lips, scrubbed them dry with a hand that tasted of his own dick. Gently, he rested the clean rubber sole of his boot against the delicate flesh of Dean’s cock. Dean made a noise high in his throat that was sweet as raw sugar and sounded so much like please. “That you want me to?”

Dean held himself very still, mouth falling open on short, sharp breaths. Sam was careful–teasing–with just a hint of pressure, his own chest tightening. It was incredible to see the strength of Dean’s will when he was like this. His muscles tensed, thrown into sharp relief, the need thrumming just under his skin. Wanting, waiting, all for Sam.

Sam’s voice was a rough, wrecked whisper when he let Dean off the leash.

Dean’s hips rolled, his stomach bunching tight, flexing, fluttering. He rose up off the floor, grinded against the harsh sole. Sam tried to ease back but his name ripped from Dean’s lips pulled him up short.

Sam rocked his weight forward instead, letting a fraction of it bear down on Dean, on Dean’s cock, and Dean came with an abortive howl. Over so fast but it seemed to last forever, and Sam couldn’t do anything but watch as Dean writhed, pinned-butterfly beautiful on the floor.

When Dean quieted, the noises slipping past his lips barely more than whimpers, all Sam wanted to do was drop to his knees and kiss away whatever breath was left in Dean’s lungs. But he waited, pulse throbbing under his skin, until Dean’s dazed eyes finally focused at the sound of Sam calling his name.

“Sammy.” Dean struggled up to his elbows. “Sammy, let me- Let me.”

Sam released him and Dean somehow caught his foot before it touched down. Much more clumsily, Dean shuffled forward, supporting Sam’s weight enough for Sam to keep his balance. He stopped when his face was directly beneath Sam’s boot, and then he liftted his head slowly, tongue sliding out to meticulously clean the sole with long, exaggerated licks.

By the time he finished, Sam’s legs were ready to slip right out from underneath him. Dean twisted onto his side, set Sam’s foot down carefully and tounged one last kiss onto the leather before laying his cheek against it, eyes closed, breaths slowing.

Sam went to his knees then. He framed Dean’s face with his hands and pulled him into the kiss Sam had been dying to take since he first walked in the door. Dean moaned so prettily for it, his lips so soft and overwarm, his mouth tasting strongly of their mixed come. It went on and on, longer than Sam had planned because even when Dean’s efforts turned tired and sloppy, he didn’t want to let go.

“C’mon,” Sam said, more to give Dean something to focus on than anything else. “Stay awake just a little longer for me.”

Dean nodded, clutching at Sam’s forearms as he’s hauled to his feet. He swayed and Sam let him press as close as he wanted this time, enjoying the solid weight at his side.

Dean was nothing but pliant as Sam nudged him towards the bed, but he stripped off the rest of his clothes without prompting, tucking his own boots neatly beside the bed out of Sam’s way like he hardly ever did. After Sam tugged the covers away, Dean settled down on his back, arms by his sides, so careful now not to rub the mess off his chest in case Sam wanted him to wear it through the night.

“I’m going to clean up,” Sam told him. “Will you wait until I get back?”

Dean breathed out a simple, “Yes.”

In the bathroom, the door left ajar the few inches Sam needed to keep an eye on Dean, Sam took the time to build back up his own strength. He always forgot how much it costs each time they do this. It’s almost like being drunk, but instead of the fuzzy edges everything is clear and sharp, a broken ridge of glass. Sometimes he thought Dean could live day in and day out in that moment (sometimes he’s sure Dean did), and the only thing holding them back is him.

Sam gathered up the damp washcloth he’d used along with his towel. Dean watched quietly as he came back to clean the come from his chest, the saliva from his face, tilting his head automatically so Sam didn’t have to reach far.

When Dean spoke, Sam startled, sure that he’d already given in to exhaustion despite himself. Sam really knew better.

“What do you want for breakfast?” Dean murmured, throat bobbing beneath Sam’s hand as he ran the towel over it.

Balling the facecloth into the towel Sam dumped them both on the floor. His shirt followed, then he sat on the bed to begin unlacing his boots. Dean’s eyes tracked the slide of the black laces through his fingers and Dean made a noise, moving to get up again.

He eased back down when Sam splayed a hand in the centre of his chest. “Waffles,” Sam said, setting his boots one after the other beside the nightstand. “Waffles for brunch.”

Sam went to flick off the light in favour of the lamp and Dean rolled onto his side, edging closer to the centre of the bed. His broad back was scarred and perfect in the warm glow, resting flush against Sam’s chest and as he fit them together from shoulder to hip to toe.

Dean went completely lax beneath the arm Sam wrapped around his waist. His breathing was steady, calm. Sam could feel his heartbeat slow as he drifted off.

It was a long time before Sam let sleep take him away from this.


One Response to “The Still Prayer of Devotion”

  1. emily Says:

    WOW working my up through these stories and man are they super awesome and hawt. brings out my inner kinks

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