A/N: OI! If you haven't read Just This Once, do it now. It's short, and hot, and this is the sequel.
Now, then: Sorry this took so long, guys. I honestly didn't mean to keep you waiting. Life gets in the way, you know? But I hope this more than makes up for it.
Massive props to my beta, who barely made it through without combusting. ^_~ Love ya, Whim!
Sam's languid smile means something. Dean can tell, but he can't be fucked to figure out what it is. He's reeling, albeit silently - he moves around the room like he's in a state of fog – but he's hiding it pretty well, he'd have to say, since Sammy's still smiling and not asking what's wrong. As he steps around on autopilot Dean's asking himself, over and over, the million-dollar question: what in the name of Jesus tap-dancing Christ just happened?
He forces himself to slide atop the other bed, still clean; to lounge against the headboard, grab the remote and tune the TV to something, anything. He pats the surface beside him, smiles as Sammy moves toward him, even as his mind is going steadily blanker. Somewhere along the line he'll understand, right? He'll figure out how it happened that at some point this evening, he became carnally acquainted with his baby brother, he didn't feel uncomfortable while it was happening - and what's more, he still doesn't.
In fact, he's thinking of reneging on just this once already, his cock still half-hard and simmering in his jeans. He's thinking more along the lines of again and again, feeling the rush and burn of Sam's body for as long as he's allowed.
Sam, still gloriously nude - and there was something in which Dean never imagined he'd rejoice - snuggles up to Dean's side, murmuring wordlessly, pushing back sweaty bangs. Despite the slight stickiness to his brother's skin, Dean smiles and wraps an arm around him. He stares down the line of Sam's face as Sam burrows a cheekbone into his pectoral, and he's hit with nostalgia, his thoughts swirling briefly back to when they were just boys. Then in a sudden whirl, time on fast-forward, Dean is propelled through various memories until he's thinking back to earlier that night.
There are, no doubt, hundreds of bars in Grand Rapids, but he had to pick the few that had absolutely nothing - perhaps even less than that - to offer. He started with a pool hall, hoping to hustle, but the games he saw were all held by regulars not interested in a drunken wager. The one comely girl in the place was dating the bar back and not remotely taken by Dean's preliminary advances. The next place he found, a slightly classy lounge, contained greasy, desperate men and slightly classy ladies who looked at Dean's lack of ostentatious jewelry and paid him no more mind. The third place, which he swore would be the last, was a roadhouse not too unlike the Harvelles'. He had a burger and a Jack on the rocks, and watched displaced, gap-toothed country girls stagger across the floor for awhile before he decided he would be better off with a shower and some early-late-night television.
So he high-tailed it back to the room, and found... well. That image is etched upon his mind for all eternity. Sammy, his little Sammy grown so tall and lean-muscled, hunched over on the bed with porn on the laptop behind him, naked and staring at Dean with enormous, frightened eyes. When Dean saw that, his mouth and cock made an agreement that his brain wasn't privy to and the words slipped out unbidden: "Don't stop on my account."
And Sam didn't. Was that the miracle? Or was it the moment when their lips met? Was it when Dean discovered the toy plunged deep inside him? When Dean tasted him? Or, perhaps, was it when Sam came so hard he screamed it out, painting it across Dean's face?
Dean's shaken from his reverie by Sam's long fingers popping the button on his jeans, Sam's voice a sultry buzz in his ear as he says, "I can't believe I've been ignoring you." He drags Dean's zipper down and an echoing shiver chases down Dean's spine. His cock twitches at the ghostly touch, the kiss of cool air through his briefs. Sam's still talking, punctuating his words with tiny kisses down Dean's chest. "What kind of brother would I be if I didn't share the love?"
Dean manages a smirk and a shaky, "Mine," before Sam's pulling the waistband of his briefs down to snap below his balls, grasping his hot length firmly, almost studiously (my college boy) watching it swell. Dean can feel Sam's eyes on his length like a laser, that smoldering gaze sending spirals of reciprocal warmth pounding through his body. He can smell Sam, tousled and sex-sweaty hair mere inches from his nose, lingering shampoo and the musk of his brother tangled together on every breath.
At some unsung signal Sam's long, strong fingers begin to move, his wrist twisting, thumb sliding over the head on the apex of every upstroke, and Dean's head is falling back against the pillow, his mouth falling open, his hips rising to meet the friction. Sam doesn't lift his head from Dean's chest, his breath skating across exposed skin, like he's listening for every aberration he strokes into Dean's heartbeat.
Dean is almost blindingly hard by the time Sam laughs, low in his throat, vibrating through his chest. "There he his," he says, and before Dean can form a snarky reply, Sam's shifting forward, the absence of his warmth on Dean's chest drawing a hiss that morphs into a moan when heated breath caresses his cock. Dean bucks up, catches his brother's lip with the weeping tip, gasps on an inhale, holds it. Sam opens that glorious mouth and swallows him down, all at once, and Dean's breath leaves him in a raw groan.
Sam's mouth, Jesus fuck, how is he even real? He's done this before, Dean thinks hazily, his hips moving in abortive jerks, seeking the depths of that wet warmth. Sam hollows his cheeks, chases down Dean's length with his tongue and back up with the lightest graze of teeth and Dean cries out softly, arching into the mattress, a hand moving to tangle in Sam's damp hair and pull. Sam moans around his cock and Dean yanks harder, forcing Sam down as his hips snap up, fucking his brother's face and Sam is taking every inch without gagging.
On the end of a particularly deep thrust, the head of Dean's cock slides into Sam's throat and Sam, bless him, Sam swallows around it. Dean can't help the convulsive shudder that digs his shoulders deeper into the mattress. A series of keening whimpers falls from his lips; they fit with the way Sam's sinful mouth is chasing flashes of sweet fire from the base of his cock to the tip, flicking out his tongue to suckle and lap at beads of precome as they appear. Dean has no idea when he's ever had a blowjob this good, stops wondering if it's even a possibility when Sam wraps his fingers around the base of Dean's cock and squeezes, hard, jacking those inches up as his mouth swoops down. Sam's hands are calloused and strong from a lifetime of hunting. The pressure and sensation of those hands is ripping Dean apart at the seams, re-forming him into something tense with impending release, gasping and grasping and so very undone.
Dean feels his toes curling, the familiar ratcheting spikes of pleasure that precede orgasm, and he's stammering, "Sammy - I'm - I'm gonna -"
Sam pulls off with a wet pop - Dean can't help his whine of protest - and licks his lips like a satisfied cat, settling back on his haunches to reveal miles of naturally tanned skin. As gone as Dean is, his breathing stuttering in and out, he's sure as hell enjoying the view.
"So," Sam says, more wonder on his face than smirk, but the smirk is there, and somehow it spells both impending doom and the best orgasm of Dean's life, yet to come. Fine brown eyebrows are lost in darker bangs as he asks, "What are we gonna do with you?"
Dean's mouth gapes open, his cock swelling obscenely, precome dribbling down its length. Sam's far too at home in this environment, naked with Dean still fully clothed and at his mercy – as innocent as he looks, as the vibes are he's exuding, Dean isn't sure he likes allowing his brother this much control. The bedroom is his element; up til half an hour ago he'd relegated Sam to monk status, celibate as a child, but of course that had to be because Sam's his brother, for god's sake, he never thought about – but then perhaps that was his own failing, not Sam's. As he is swiftly learning, Sam is willing, able, and quite capable – and he has a freak streak a mile long.
However, Dean is staunchly the older brother, and very much interested in regaining the upper hand. He decides to take back the night, as it were, and sits up, dragging his shirt over his head fluidly, wriggling his jeans and briefs a little lower down his hips. He fixes Sam with a gaze he knows is dark, reaches out to lightly caress one pebbled nipple and says, natural heat behind his words, "What do you want to do with me?"
Shock, open and unfeigned; Sam's jaw drops, his pupils blow, and for a moment he's speechless. Score one for Dean, who indulges himself with an inward smirk. Sam picks up the pieces, makes a show of licking his lips but Dean's seen. He knows. For all his bluster, Sam is ridiculously turned on by even seeing Dean like this, and what's more he doesn't think he deserves to see, let alone touch him. Any bravado is just a front.
It so often is, and Dean knows that better than most.
He brings a hand up to Sam's face, cupping Sam's jaw and running a thumb over his bottom lip. "What do you want, Sammy?" he asks, trying to convey both tenderness and impatience. Sam gapes for a moment longer then snaps to, his smirk returning – with much less innocence involved – around Dean's thumb as Sam sucks it into his mouth. He shoves the digit back out with a wet pulse of his tongue and practically purrs against it, "You're still overdressed."
If that didn't just shoot straight to Dean's cock -
Thinking of cold fingers around him in order to prevent an untimely end to the festivities, Dean moves to get out of his jeans, trying for smooth but ending up just eager, like a goddamn teenager about to get some. He's scrambling, no two ways, and when one foot gets stuck he growls at it. He can see Sam's trying not to laugh. "Fuck you," he sniffs, still fumbling, and Sam gives an indulgent little chuckle.
"Actually, I was hoping to fuck you."
That's a shock, a sudden snap right through his core and Dean's legs go numb, tangle in his jeans and he falls forward on to the bed, looking up at Sam looming over him, so calm. He's beatific, a savior with a halo of dirty hair. Fingertips stroke Dean's face as he turns, motion following motion. "If you're cool with that," Sam continues, and in the silence following, Dean's jeans crumple on the floor.
He's frozen, staring at Sam with what he hopes is a copacetic expression on his face because his brain has vacated the premises. He's done – well, there's not a lot he hasn't done, but that right there? That's it. The final frontier. And he can't – he hasn't – and Sam's not exactly small, either –
Full stop. Sammy wants it. If there's one thing Dean will always, always do, it's give Sammy what he wants.
Dean budges up on one elbow and gives his brother what he thinks is a reassuring smile, but Sam doesn't fall for it. "It's okay," the kid says, heavily, and Dean can't believe his ears. Sam starts to say something else like, we don't have to do anything you don't want to do, but Dean is reaching up, placing his finger on Sam's dry lips. He stares into those hazel eyes like they'll give him the secrets of immortality and says, "I trust you." Sam serves him the bitchface that reads you're just saying that, aren't you and Dean meets it with one of his own, the do you really think I'd bullshit you at a time like this. Sam reads it, and lets out a little sigh, starts to say, "Well, I still -"
Then lightning strikes; his eyes light up, eyebrows shoot toward his hairline and he's grinning, full on fucking grinning at Dean. "I have an idea," he says, and stands up. He's reaching for his clothes, still there in a pile between the beds, and Dean is feeling utterly lost and hating it. "What?" No answer. Sam's fucking humming happily to himself as he dresses. "What?!"
Sam turns to him, face all mock sympathy. "Just be patient, Dean," he says, and grabs the car keys.
"What? Where are you going?"
"Nowhere," Sam says over his shoulder. "I have to get something out of the trunk."
As he opens the door Dean yelps, "You keep sex toys in the trunk of my car?!"
Sam turns, a shit-eating grin just enveloping his face. "Safest place I know," he snarks, and lets the door fall closed.
Dean, naked as the day he was born and sprawled ungainly on the bed, realizes he's got no comeback to that, and just as well. He looks ridiculous.
By the time Sam's keycard is sliding into the door, Dean's cold and no longer very aroused. "Took you long enough," he grouses, pulling the stiff comforter around his lower body. Sam tosses the bundled jacket he's holding on to the other bed, narrowly missing the wet spot, and sends this wide-mouthed grin Dean's way as he wrestles back out of his clothes. Then he's naked again, and Dean's attention is drawn up the taut lines of that body, his cock regaining interest and twitching as it fills. Sam's standing there like a living illustration of some youthful god, looking at Dean like Dean is Christmas dinner, and that sends a little flare down Dean's spine that pools as wondrous heat between his hips. He bites his lower lip unconsciously, picking at the blanket on his lap.
Sam sidles up to the bed he's sitting on. "Dean," he says in a singsong tone, leaning forward and placing his hands on Dean's knees. "Hey," he says, nosing at Dean's nose, pressing a light kiss to his lips. Then another, fiercer; he catches Dean's lips open and his tongue licks in, and Dean is surging up to deepen the kiss and rake short furrows up Sam's shoulder blades. Sam chuckles darkly into Dean's mouth, fingertips ghosting Dean's now thoroughly interested erection and Dean thrusts into his brother's hand, moans into his mouth, drags a hand through that ridiculous hair and forgets all about mysterious bundles brought inside.
Sam kisses with passion but there's something restrained about it, and Dean isn't having any of that. He surges up against Sam's chest, knocking into skin-on-skin, sliding against his brother in the rhythm of Sam's hand up and down his heated length. A full-body twitch starts there, at the base, but by the time it works its way up through Dean's hands Dean is fucking Sam's mouth with his tongue, rough and wet and slick, showing Sam what he wants done to him in no uncertain terms. Sam's starting to lose his calm, collected air, moaning into Dean's mouth and gripping his cock just this side of too tight. The dry slide is distracting, but it's Sam's hand and Dean's pretty sure he never thought any of this would be this mindlessly hot.
Then the comforter is yanked roughly away and Dean barely has time to register colder air against sensitive skin before Sam's shoving him on his back on the mattress, jerking up his legs and throwing them over his shoulders one by one. He huffs his smirk into Dean's inner thigh, and the warm puff of air there is a pleasant shock. Dean thinks he knows what's coming, and he lays back, tries to relax.
He still jumps and curses loudly when Sam's tongue circles his tender entrance with the lightest of teasing licks. "Fuckin' hell, Sam, you -" and something sweet crackles up Dean's skin and he's clutching the sheets, grasping frantically for something to hold as Sam's sinful tongue traces the pucker of muscle and then dips inside, shallow thrusts painting Dean's insides, opening him up. He feels sweat break on the surface of his skin but it's peripheral; he's so focused on Sam's unholy ministrations that there could be anything else and he'd never know, it's all just Sam and his hands and his face, all grown up and buried between Dean's thighs.
That tongue, god, that should be illegal. Dean's muscles are dancing finely, all his nerves aflame, and he can't even tell what's coming out of his mouth, he just knows it's some continuous litany of Sam and oh, fuck and just like that fucking hell don't stop. He's being split open by the second most glorious muscle in his brother's body and almost, almost doesn't notice when a slicked fingertip joins that tongue and begins to slowly work its way inside.
Almost. Then it burns, just a little, but enough for reality to slap back in, cold air and pain and Dean draws a sharp breath, the sound hanging in the air. He tries not to tense – it's just like you're doing it yourself, he thinks, but it's not, it's better, and he's trying to relax but he can still feel the pulse of that muscle strangling Sam's finger. He's tense, too tense.
He gets a nip of teeth on his butt cheek for it. "Dean," Sam says reprovingly, his breath heated and damp against Dean's skin. Dean breathes, slowly. He can feel himself opening, relenting, slowly but surely, and when he thinks he's ready he rubs his heel along Sam's back, not sure if he could speak in any voice but something breathy, not manly at all.
Oh, and Sam's tongue is back, and god, that's good. Dean arches, his eyes rolling til he can't see. This time when Sam moves his finger, Dean's ready for it. He lets go of the sheets he hadn't realized he was grasping and draws his fingertips slowly up the length of his cock, which twitches up from half-hard and strains toward his belly. As his ass relaxes around Sam's finger, the burn fades and he's left with the pleasing sensation of being filled. Sam strokes his insides softly, and Dean answers those strokes against his cock, and the mirrored ghostly friction is downright maddening.
"More," he gasps, and Sam laughs, the beginnings of stubble on his jawline catching Dean's skin as Sam nuzzles his inner thigh. He adds a second finger, moving slowly, but Dean anticipates the burn and focuses on his erection, toying with himself with studious intent until his insides stretch and all he feels from Sam is fantastic. His fist tightens around his cock, his hips twitch, fucking forward then back on to Sam's fingers, and with an inarticulate noise Sam shoves the fingers in deep and crooks them, stroking something deep inside Dean that has him crying out despite himself, bucking between his own hand and Sam's. "Again," he manages, and he can feel Sam's smirk.
"Knew you'd like that," the little devil says, drawing his fingers across the spot, feather-light. Dean writhes, pressing back, angling for more than what Sam's giving him, another bare touch like light on a windowsill, organza silk over skin. But Sam just chuckles, and Dean curses him through clenched teeth, he's shaking finely and working his hips but Sam just brushes the spot again, no harder than before, it's maddening and miraculous and Dean isn't sure he'll survive.
His eyes are begging Sam's and he knows they look the same, flushed with a sheen of sweat all over, eyes blown wide, pupils just barely limned in dark color. Dean's thinking he's never seen something so beautiful, and he hazily wonders what Sam is thinking, but then there's another feather touch to his goddamned prostate and he settles for moaning instead, mind turning over blank after blank as his hips work frantically, searching for more.
"Gonna wring you dry," Sam says, then. Fucking dirty mouth, Dean wonders with his two remaining brain cells, but then he can't think anymore because Sam's fingers, fuck, his fingers press in and begin a steady grind against that spot, wringing Dean out til he's flushed and shaking, full-body tingle turning his brain to mush. He won't beg, Dean Winchester does not beg, but oh, god, he wants. He wants more of that tortuous press than he wants air to breathe, and he knows that Sam knows it. He wants to say what he's feeling, knows that he can't, and he knows that Sam knows that, too.
"Sammy," he gasps, and Sam smiles, all teeth and dimples and he's just so damn beautiful. "I've got you, Dean," he says, and slips in another finger, scoops around inside and opens Dean up, sliding across that spot, precise and merciless, smooth and sure. Dean's coming apart beneath him, hand falling away from his cock to clench furtively at empty air. His hips piston, finding friction and demanding more, and Sam gives, and gives, until Dean can't even hear what's pouring from his throat for the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears.
Sam pulls back, then, and when he withdraws those blessed fingers Dean is so ready to be filled again, he doesn't even care what with, he's so far gone he's even considering fingering himself, just to go that much further. He's intent on how strung out he's feeling, reaching for his own ass and hissing, flushing, turning his face to the mattress as his finger breaches his own entrance and it's good but not quite good enough - and so misses what Sam draws out of that forgotten bundled jacket until it's inches from his face.
Dean stares at the rubber monstrosity, eyes wide and suddenly dry. "What," he croaks, "the fuck is that?" He'd scramble away but he's still peripherally focused on the finger he's working around, just inside himself. If he could just find... he shifts, tries for a better angle. "You could just -"
"This's the idea I had," Sam interrupts with a shrug, rolling his wrist lazily. "Thought we might play a bit. Got more control with this thing than my dick, anyhow." Dean can see his point, but then again he can't unsee the eight inches of shiny black, either, his vision narrowed to a pinpoint and fixed upon the toy. It's like... some kind of black rubber pea-pod. The tip of the first bulbous protrusion sports a raised spiral, and rows of nubs sprout from each of the following beads, which gradually increase in size toward the base. It's massive, and just looks evil. It probably vibrates, too.
"If you'd rather -" Sam starts, but Dean shakes his head stubbornly. "Just do it," he rasps, he knows he's being brusque but now that the initial shock is fading he's missing being filled. He just can't get the right angle with his own finger. He pulls it out from behind himself, wipes it on the sheets as Sam crawls forward. The toy is placed on the pillows and then one calloused fingertip circles Dean's tender entrance. Dean rolls his eyes back and moans. "You want more?" Sam asks teasingly, and Dean jerks his hips, trying to catch that finger back inside. "Enough foreplay, Sammy, my dick'll fall off, waiting too long - ah!"
Sam jabs two fingers in ruthlessly, stroking every inch of him except that spot. "Fucking - tease -" Dean manages, and Sam just huffs, adding another finger and making a tripod inside him, opening him up even more than before. He's almost loose around three fingers, and even though he wants to feel more, feel it all, he's more than a little uneasy.
The toy is a black promise in the corner of Dean's eye.
He hears the click of a lube-bottle lid and feels himself clench involuntarily around Sam's fingers, knows he's tensing but he can't help it, damnit, look at that thing –
"Dean." Sam's tone makes him meet those hazel eyes, and there's no mistaking the concern in them, even through the electricity that shoots between the brothers when their gazes lock. Dean breathes, steadily, makes a conscious effort to relax, and soon Sam gives him a little smile and withdraws his fingers. Dean hears him slathering that toy with lube and can't watch, can't look at the thing or he'll tense again.
A low buzz fills the air and Dean laughs. Of course it vibrates. And this is good, he tells himself, then it probes his entrance, humming along the sensitive skin and Dean gasps, he can't help it, the tiny tremors rocketing up his nerves. He can feel it against his prostate before it even nudges inside, can feel it along the underside, the tip of his cock, forcing a spurt of precome to dribble down the length. Overcome, Dean forces his gaze back to Sam's, realizes belatedly that he's waiting for some kind of signal, gives a terse nod.
The bulbous head of the toy penetrates slowly. Sam is in perfect control, and Dean shudders to feel every nub on the black rubber surface as it slides in. It's slightly cold but the vibrations make it feel alive, inching its way inside him. The sensation builds and he twitches, violently, tensing, his muscles sucking that first knob inside. Sam stops, studying Dean's face, even as Dean is studying the way the vibrations spiral, echoing up from below. A slow build and suddenly his nerves are screaming, his entire body alight. Sam is moving again, another knobby length of the toy sliding inside, and the vibrations deepen, spread up his spine through his lungs, up, and out on every ragged exhale. He's strung out, his every atom focused on how full he feels, how much fuller he'll be in a minute, and the way the vibrations sing throughout his body. Not to mention, those little rubber nubs that dot the toy do very interesting things to the silky flesh within him, sliding and catching on nerves he didn't even know he had. Sam stops at the base of the second knob, giving Dean time to adjust, but he also takes that time to shift his weight, which shifts the toy, and it presses right up next to that sweetest of spots and Dean's cock dances up to his belly again, burping precome into his happy trail. Dean takes himself to hand almost unconsciously, head lolling against the mattress, hips riding the wave of vibrations – but Sam's watching, and the instant Dean touches himself, Sam moves the toy.
In-out, in-out, tiny movements and after just a few Dean is swearing, pulling on himself, digging his heels into the bed to shove up, forward, anything, god, just get it in there. Sam is laughing but Dean doesn't care, just –
Another knob slides in, this time with a deft flick of Sam's wrist and those little rubber nubs catch Dean's prostate, just a searing kiss but Dean is flying. If he were listening to himself he'd blush but as it is –
"Oh, fuck, Sammy, fucking get it in me, shit -" Sam pulls it out and fairly slams it in, several knobs at once, grating on Dean's insides and singing along that sweet bundle of nerves. Dean howls, bucking, his cock hard as steel in his own hand. Sam snaps the toy out and back in a few times, but Dean's feet lose purchase on the bed and he's just a wriggling mess, then, hand moving furiously over his cock, trying to reach – he's –
Sam plucks that hand off, neat as you please. "No, Dean."
Dean swears.
Sam pulls the toy out in one, sleek swoop and Dean swears louder at its loss, a bit more of a whine to his voice. But then Sam says, "On your knees," and Dean's never moved so fast, not even when his life was in danger.
He presents his ass to his brother with none of the shame he knows he should have, and practically sighs when he feels that black monstrosity nudging his entrance again. Sam's chuckling. "Should have known you'd like this, maybe I would have gotten myself caught sooner."
Any scathing reply Dean might have made is lost in the ragged groan torn from him when Sam thrusts all eight inches of that toy straight up inside him. Then, oh, like it couldn't get better, Sam moves it, in and out, playing his prostate like a bow on the strings of a violin and Dean can't help himself, he fucks back on it, slamming himself back toward Sammy with a series of grunts and curses. Sam's laughing but it's an aroused, incredulous sound, and Dean knows his brother is maybe minutes from replacing that toy with his own length, but he needs a little persuasion to make that happen sometime like, now. So Dean looks back over his shoulder, knows his eyes are completely blown, and says in the most fucked-out rasp: "I need your cock in me, Sammy."
He can see the oh, fuck written all over Sam's face as those hazel eyes blow wide, the rhythm of the toy faltering, Sam's giant hand grasping his hip tight enough to bruise. Dean forces himself back, taking the whole toy in, then back further, up on his knees, leaning to wrap his arms around Sam's neck and draw his brother in for a filthy, sideways kiss.
Sam kisses like he's drowning, and Dean's all right with that. It's mostly tongue and teeth, Sam's not focused on anything anymore except, perhaps, Dean's nipple, which one of his hands walks up Dean's chest to caress, and pinch. Dean gasps into Sam's mouth and gets a tongue down his throat for his trouble, so he sucks it in as far as it'll go and plays it with his own, like it's Sammy's cock instead. Sam's dark moan echoes in Dean's mouth, and he can feel it where Sam's broad chest presses against his back.
The angle has pushed that toy so far in so many places that Dean can't tell where it ends and he begins, and everything sings with the frisson of minute vibrations. They're a part of him now, prickling tender and hot on every surface of his body, and deep within. He palms his cock and he can feel the tiniest movements dancing there, like Magic Fingers sewn beneath his skin.
Sam's other hand finds Dean's cock as well, and Dean knows he can feel it, too.
With a half-rough shove Sam sends Dean face-first into the bunched-up sheets, two enormous hands hauling his ass into the air. The toy is removed with a twist that leaves Dean gasping, trying to find air but inhaling blankets instead and so he has to turn his head, fighting for breath, and the gasps take on a sudden, high pitch when Sam's thumb brushes roughly across his perineum.
"You ready for me?" Sam never sounds like that, voice deep, wrecked, and Dean can only whimper in reply, but it's all right. Sam understands him, has always done, even when they feel like nothing can be communicated between them – they understand one another, always.
Sam braces himself, one hand on Dean's hip, the other on his shoulder, and slides in with one long, strong push that loses Dean any air from his lungs, and his sanity as well.
The sheer size of him, and the heat – Dean flounders beneath it, lost, his hips driving back unconsciously to seek as much of Sam as he can find. Sam doesn't move, evidently he's trying to wait for Dean's body to adjust, but Dean is already fucked open from that beast of a toy and he just wants more, anything, everything Sam can give him. He's crying for it, little whimpers and encouraging sighs, and when he twists his hips on a push back there's a strangled noise from Sam, he's pulling out –
– with a snap back in he punches the life out of Dean, who throws his head back and screams.
They move in wild tandem, hips slamming together with sharp smacks as Sam sets a brutal pace and Dean just takes it, takes it all and gives it back and wants more, loves that Sammy knows just what to give him. Both of Sam's hands are on Dean's hips, now, pulling him back harder, harder, punctuated moans and little cries in counter-time to Dean's own noises and the slap of skin on skin. Dean can feel his brother deep in the heart of him, knocking against his very core. He clenches every muscle he's got down there and revels in Sam's incredulous groan, the way those fingers tighten in the flesh of his hips. "Yeah, Sammy, yeah," he's panting, using every ounce of strength in his thighs and arms to push back further, harder, impaling himself on every inch of his baby brother. The one who was always younger, smaller, who's now a giant that doesn't need Dean anymore, but Dean needs him, all of him. "Fucking hell, Sam, so good..."
"Yeah, Dean," Sam grunts, "fucking take it, love the way you want my cock, want me so deep inside you," and one of his hands works its way around and down, grasping Dean's leaking cock and fisting it fiercely, twisting his wrist so sharply Dean has an out-of-body thought for one instant where he's afraid Sam will hurt himself. Then Sam's rough thumb swirls almost painfully across the bundle of nerves beneath the head, his powerful hips snap forward, dragging the head of his own cock across Dean's prostate like a searing brand. "Come for me," he says and Dean flies, comes so hard his vision blacks out, his ears are ringing with cries he knows are his, shrieks and Sam's name over, and over, as pulse after pulse of fluid leaves his body, until he's strung out and shaking. But Sam hasn't stopped pounding into him, even as his hand leaves off Dean and returns to his hip. He's moaning sotto voce, interspersed with swears, and Dean redoubles his efforts, slamming back to meet Sam's thrusts and spiraling deeper into his own orgasmic haze. "Come on, Sammy," he chants, "come on, give it to me, Sam, give it –!"
Sam comes like a thunderbolt, so deep inside Dean and gloriously undone, his voice cracking on cries of wonder and absolute rapture. He drapes himself over Dean's back as he shakes, and Dean can feel every shot of come painting him up inside. He clenches a few times around Sam, milking his brother's orgasm until he gets a smack on the side for it, a shaky 'mmph' and he can hear Sam's fucked-out smile in the breath he exhales.
"Holy shit, Dean." Sam's breathless. He moves to pull out and sort of falls to the side, and Dean, chuckling, falls the other way, so they're facing one another, hands trailing over chests, gazes locked. "That was -"
"Yeah," and Dean knows his smile conveys just what, exactly, that was. Amazing, sure, just what they needed – but not just a quick fuck. Not anymore, and he's not sure if it ever was.
Sam laughs a little, pushing bangs re-soaked in sweat out of his face with the heel of one enormous hand, which he then proceeds to drag down his face with an utterly sated groan. Then he shivers, rocking the bed. Dean, realizing that oh, it's more than a little chilly in here, reaches behind his brother to drag the stiff, motel comforter across them both. Then he snuggles a little closer – hey, he can trust Sammy not to say anything.
"Feeling a little clingy?"
Or not.
"Hmph," Dean breathes into Sam's sweat-sticky skin. "See if I let you put anything in me again."
Sam shifts, and Dean curses when a finger traces his entirely-too-sensitive-for-that-shit entrance. "We'll see about that," Sam drawls, already halfway to sleep, but he lets up, and soon Dean is drowsing in his brother's arms.
His last coherent thought before sleep claims him is that this feels familiar, like the back seat of the Impala, both he and Sammy falling asleep beneath Dad's jacket to the soft strains of All of My Love.
Kinda like home.
FIN