"Look, Sam," Dean says impatiently, "try moving the television, there." Sam glares at him.
"What if I miss, Dean, or even drop it halfway?" Dean pauses for a moment and then shrugs, grins.
"We run. It's not our credit card." Sam glares, sighs. Dean holds the grin. Sam rolls his eyes.
"How is me moving this television going to help anyone. In case we get attacked by something that's allergic to a couple inches of plasma?" Dean surveys the motel television, less than thirteen inches across and mounted to the wall with rusted metal brackets. One of the bolts falls to the floor.
"We'd be in trouble," he says, cocking his head the way he does that makes Sam grit his teeth, "I don't think there's any plasma in this baby."
"Dean," Sam snaps, and Dean sighs. He shrugs off his leather jacket and tosses it onto the bedspread, then grimaces and hangs it carefully over the back of a chair.
"Okay," he says, pacifying, "okay. You want to hone some practical skills, let's hone some practical skills. Move me."
Sam blinks. "What?" Dean thumps his chest once, unbuttoned blue shirt fluttering around his black wifebeater.
"Move me. Moving a full grown man, one as densely muscled as myself, that could be a great advantage." Sam snorts.
"Well dense is right." Dean pursues his lips. Sam sighs. "yeah, alright."He frowns. "What if I hurt you?" Dean snorts.
"Yeah-fucking-right," he says, and smirks. Sam narrows his eyes, then clenches them shut. He pictures Dean sliding sideways and maybe banging his elbow on the dresser. He moves his hand in a short, powerful motion, searching his brain for that pressure that presses behind his eyes and makes his heart beat doubletime. His fingers shake.
"Dude," says Dean, sounding bored, "so about when is this going to happen?" Sam's eyes snap open.
"Alright Dean, it's not so easy—"
"Just sway me a little, I mean give me isomething/i man—"
"If it's so easy why don't iyou/i do it, Dean, I swear to god you're so—"
"Just push me Sammy, Jesus, just—"
"iDon't call me Sammy/i," Sam roars, and feels something ease in his head, a flush run down his body and tingle in his nerve endings. Dean's knees hit the floor with an audible crack, and he hisses in a mix of surprise and pain.
"Woah," Dean says, "that's what I'm talking about." Sam ignores him, searching for that feeling again, because he ican/i feel it, it's just there between the beats of his heart. "Hey," Dean says, and it sounds faded, "hey, try moving that dresser—" Sam gets the sensation of every bone in his body popping and twisting in the best way, and Dean rockets forward and falls face first on the floor, head inches away from the toe of Sam's boot.
"Ow, goddamn it Sammy," Dean groans into the dingy carpet.
"Ssh," Sam says, eyes dreamy, because he's almost found it, it's just— "Shit," he says, blinking harshly, "I lost it."
Dean rolls over and peers up at him, and from this angle Sam can see the fading white line tracing his hairline where an angry poltergeist had tried to scalp him, one of those missions Sam hadn't been around for. He feels a pang of guilt, the customary ache when he realizes Dean was hurt and he wasn't there, and then the familiar resentment at his father for raising them like this. By the time he tamps it all down, Dean is back on his knees, grumbling, and when Sam looks down at him he realizes Dean's head is at the level at his belt, and there's a rush of memories of other times he's had Dean on his knees.
Dean smirks, and Sam takes a step back, clearing his throat. "Aw come on, Sammy," Dean drawls, and his voice has gone low and silky, the way he does with all the pretty girls (and the boys) in bars and diners.
"Don't call me Sammy," he says, but he knows his eyes have gone dark the way they do, and he can feel heat building in his chest and high in his cheeks.
"Sam," Dean murmurs, exactly the way he does when he arches his back, when his eyes are soft and his kisses are forgiving, right before it hits him he's having sex with his little brother and the self loathing floods his features and tenses his muscles, and Sam is lost. Dean's fingers are rushed but gentle on his belt and his zip, and when he pushes the waistband of Sam's boxers down to press a kiss just under Sam's hipbone, it's almost reverent. Sam wants to kiss him.
"Stop," he whispers, meaning to pull Dean up and tongue at the spot behind Dean's ear that makes his legs buckle, and is surprised when Dean stops on a dime, an inch away from his waist, nose still touching Sam's skin. His breath is very warm, and it tickles Sam, makes him shiver. Then he realizes that there's a pulsing pressure in his skull, so light it's just a brush across his brain. He relaxes it, and Dean moves forward to scrape his teeth down Sam's thigh. iStop/i Sam thinks, and Dean freezes with his head halfway tilted up.
"What—" Dean asks, surprised, and Sam reaches and just ipulls/i and Dean's face is suddenly smashed into his crotch. Sam hisses, and jerks once, and Dean laughs against his skin. "Kinky," he murmurs, and tilts his head so his breath whispers across his cock.
"Shut up, Dean," Sam says automatically, and tries to think about what's just happened. He needs to back up, he needs to think about what's going on and practice. This could be iwhy/i, this could be everything. Dean shifts on his knees and Sam can practically see him pulling back into himself, away from Sam. iNo,/i something in him whispers, and he slides his fingers through Dean's short hair, scratching his scalp gently. Dean hums, and twists under his hands like a cat, green eyes half lidded and smoky.
"Dean," he murmurs, and Dean smirks up at him, and he strikes Sam suddenly not as a housecat but a tiger waiting in the grass. iMine,/i Sam's mind says in a brush against the place that holds the thing that makes him different, makes him iwrong/i.
"Mine," he says out loud, and it comes out in a growl. Dean's eyes flash, and he tenses. Sam tilts his head, and feels like something he can't quite put his finger on.
"Punch drunk love," he murmurs, and Dean starts to pull away, distance growing in his eyes. Sam slips his fingers in Dean's mouth, pressing down on his tongue when he tries to wrap it around his fingers. Dean's eyes go mischievous, and he hollows his cheeks around Sam's fingers. Sam feels his cock twitch.
"Stop," he hisses, and puts a touch of will in it. Dean growls, and twists slightly on his knees.
"Lemme go, Sam," he snaps, and Sam turns a sharp edged smile on him.
"Why don't you put something in your mouth to shut you up," Sam says, smirking, and Dean glares daggers at him.
"I don't think I want to, now," Dean grumbles, but his eyes are still dilated and his breath is coming faster. Sam is reminded of the time he held Dean's hands and hips down while he blew him, and the way Dean's eyes rolled back in his head and bucked helplessly even as he fought to free himself. Sam hooks his thumb in the corner of Dean's mouth, and Dean bites at him, more hard than playful, with a sharpness in his eyes. Sam reaches to that soft blank space in his mind, and Dean just manages to catch himself on his forearms as he hits the floor again.
"You don't want to be on your knees?" Sam asks, and there's a twist to his lips, even as his breath comes quicker and shallower. "Maybe you should do something else with your mouth, then," he says, and it's a soft velvet whisper, and doesn't miss the way Dean's hips rub against the floor before he snarls up at him.
Dean pushes up once against Sam's mind and then eases, settles down and hums low in his throat. "Sam," he says again, and it's needy and low and rough. His fingers slip under Sam's pant leg and curl around his ankle. Sam takes a long deep breath and exhales, and the tension flows out of the knots in his shoulders and the pressure in his spine.
"Don't you want to be in charge?" Dean asks, and now he's smirking up at Sam, "Or was that just a bunch of big talk," he says in that low voice again, as he crawls up Sam's body to lick in between his collarbones.
"iStop,/i" Sam whispers, and Dean's tongue freezes just below Sam's jaw.
"Gettin old, Sammy," he tries to say around his tongue, and it sounds more like igethin ol, thammy/i.
"I thought we were practicing," Sam teases, and slides a hand down to cup the bulge in Dean's jeans, "I thought you wanted me to take control," he says again, and Dean hisses and cants into his palm.
"All I see is a lotta big talk," Dean says, "why don't you—"and Sam sends a thudding pulse of heat skittering across the inside of his skull. Dean's palms make a loud smacking noise as he moves quickly to catch himself on the floor again.
"I think what there is, is you with a lot of back-talk," Sam says, "and if you want anything tight around your cock tonight you'll start behaving." Dean moans, hips stuttering, and Sam smirks.
"Sam," he says, and he's almost begging. He tries to sit up, straining against Sam before slumping again. Sam shucks his shirt and his undershirt and tosses them aside, undoes his belt and slides his hand down his chest and curls it around his cock. Dean makes a strangled noise and tries to rise up again, eyes fixed on Sam's hand. Sam takes his hand away and spreads his legs wider, spits in his hand and pumps once, twice. Dean whines low in his throat, and twists on the floor, "C'mon Sammy."
"Mmm," Sam hums, and runs his thumb over the head of his cock, "I guess you'll just have to think of a way to prove it to me," he says, and smirks again. Dean presses up against him one more time and then slumps to the ground.
"You want me to prove that you're in charge?" Dean asks, and when Sam looks down he's smiling that smug smirk he has on when he comes through the door after he's just banged some girl he met playing pool or at the bar, the one that makes Sam's hackles rise and his teeth bare. "That I'm yours, is that what this is, Sammy?"
Before Sam can pull it back there's a flash of anger that whites his vision and Dean barely manages to turn his face to the side before it hits the floor. "You are mine," he snarls, and Dean makes a squeaking noise before Sam realizes he's been grinding Dean's face into the carpet. There's a light pop and a whooshing in his ears and Dean laughs as he's released, the same laugh he gives demons right before he burns them to salt and ash.
"Sammy," he says, and Sam shivers, "iSam/i," he breathes, and drags his tongue over the toe of Sam's boot in a thick broad swipe.
"Hnng," Sam says, and falls back onto the mattress, reaching and pulling at the pressure in his temples and under his ears, and Dean comes flying up from the floor and lands on him. "Too many clothes," Sam says, and slides his tongue into Dean's mouth.
"ngh," Dean says in surprise, and then takes control of their kiss, all teeth and fire, breaking it only to pull off his shirt and kick his pants down, ripping a couple buttons off his shirt as he shrugs it aside. He drags his teeth across Sam's jugular and sucks until he tastes the slightest hint of copper, and their duffel bags fly across the room from where they'd been thrown on a table, the zippers exploding open in a burst of socks and rumpled t-shirts. Dean laughs into his bellybutton.
"Calm it down like Chinatown, Sammy," he whispers, and then wraps his tongue and lips around Sam and swallows him down. Sam arches and hums, and small tube whistles across the room and smacks Dean in the eyebrow. Dean laughs again, slightly garbled, and reaches to trace his fingernails over Sam's balls. Sam hisses, and then clenches his fists in the sheets as Dean slips a finger in and out of him in time with the bobbing of his head.
Sam's not sure when he lost control of this situation but as he reaches down to make a fist around Dean and twist his fingers in the way that makes Dean turn helpless and gasping, he wonders if he ever had any control at all.