Tears and fears and feeling proud
to say "I love you" right out loud;
dreams and schemes and circus crowds:
I've looked at life that way.
Clouds had been gathering in the sky all evening, and now the first tears of rain were starting to drizzle down the panes as Dean peered out of the window, and the sound of the shower from the other room made it sound like it was already a heavy downpour. Dean couldn't help recalling Sam's comment that sometimes he felt like he was drowning in the evil of the world. Maybe that's why Sam had the 'cleanliness is next to godliness' kick. Maybe he was trying to wash it all off.
But now old friends are acting strange.
They shake their heads; they say I've changed.
Well, something's lost, but something's gained
in living, every day.
Dean glanced back at the closed door of the bathroom. He wasn't sure about what he was gaining, but every day he felt like he was losing any sense of clarity he used to think he had. More and more the lines blurred between what was real and what wasn't, what was right and wrong and, after Burkitsville and now this, even what did and didn't constitute a monster. Dean had suggested – hoped – that the nut job who'd been killing these kids might turn out to be possessed by a demon but Sam didn't seem to think so, and somehow that depressed Dean more than any monster they'd fought so far. Demons and monsters he got. People are crazy.
And Sam was still fixed on checking out the little girl's connection to all this, and where she was getting her insights. They planned to start by approaching the mother at the book shop the next morning . . . and Dean hoped to God that Talia Acker would turn out to be just a standard issue spooky little psychic, 'cause Dean didn't think he could take it if some little kid went Linda Blair on their asses on top of everything else.
Dean closed the blinds and double checked the salt lines as he turned from the window. He slid his duffel closer to the head of his bed where the holy water would be in easy reach and placed his gun on the nightstand, then he opened and booted up his laptop and checked Sam's tracking program. Gemma didn't seem to have popped up anywhere new since they'd last checked. He wondered again how she could appear to just wink in and out of existence like that.
He sighed and stood up, did a few stretching exercises then turned up the thermostat on the heater and stripped off all of his clothes. After he'd dumped them in the laundry bag he put on a clean pair of shorts, then he turned off the radio and picked up the TV remote instead. He started channel surfing for something cheerful, anything that didn't involve demons or serial murderers. The first three channels were showing various incarnations of CSI. The next two were Jesus TV and infomercials. High speed cop chase. Salad spinner. Rude judges. Preacher. Exercise bike. Crying contestant. Autopsy. Preacher. Preacher. Cops. Bike. Cleavage. Hang on.
Jennifer Love-Hewitt and her equally hot shop assistant were discussing hauntings and house renovations over affogato and biscotti. Dean debated for a few moments and decided he could watch a show that made the supernatural look about as scary as The Waltons. He glanced down at his duffel bag. He was pretty sure he still had that popcorn in there somewhere. As he was burrowing for it his hand fell on the baby oil, just as the sound of the shower shut off, and Dean wondered if just maybe he wasn't the only one who could use some cheering up.
.
Sam had already changed into his night joggers when he emerged from the bathroom, and he was just putting his discarded clothes in the laundry bag when he noticed Dean was lounging on the couch in just his shorts. At one time Sam wouldn't have thought much about that; it wasn't unusual for Dean to wander around practically nude – Sam kind of envied Dean that easy relationship with his physicality – but after last night he found the sight of Dean with next to nothing on . . . unsettling. But then, on the other hand, the room was quite warm and Dean was engaged in the reassuringly familiar acts of watching TV and stuffing his face, so maybe he was just – Sam was startled by a sudden high pitched shriek and Dean chuckled.
"Ah, you gotta love this girl," he said as he tossed a couple of corn puffs into his mouth. "She's had the gift since she was in diapers but she still screams every time she sees a spook."
Sam frowned and moved round to stare at the television. "You're watching a ghost story?" he asked incredulously.
Dean grinned. "Trust me. This is Disney for grown ups. The most frightening thing in the show is J. Love-Hewitt's eye-lashes." He glanced up and his gaze ran over Sam's torso with completely undisguised appreciation, then he picked up a mug from the coffee table and held it out to Sam.
"Here. I made you some hot chocolate."
Sam hesitated. He had a feeling that, once again, he was walking into Dean's carefully prepared parlor.
"Relax, Sammy. We're just going to watch the show," Dean assured him. "Sit down and put your feet up. Have some popcorn."
Dean held out the bag and Sam warily helped himself to its contents and accepted the mug of chocolate.
"Sam," he insisted as he took a seat beside Dean.
"Uh-huh. If you say so, Sammy," Dean replied, grinning through chewed corn puffs. He leaned back and slapped his thighs and Sam realized the invitation to put his feet up had been literal. Then he noticed the baby oil sitting on the coffee table next to the laptop and his eyes widened and his respiration rate started to pick up.
"Popcorn and chocolate comes with optional foot rub," Dean explained, a little too casually. Sam felt that required elaboration.
"Is 'just a foot rub' anything like 'just a back rub'?" he asked.
"It has levels," Dean acknowledged. When Sam continued to hesitate he added "which we will progress to only when and if you feel ready for them."
Sam still struggled with a bunch of mixed feelings . . . and the beginnings of an erection that was threatening to get ahead of itself. "I thought you wanted to watch the show," he procrastinated.
Dean grinned. "I can multi-task." He gave his knees another encouraging pat. "Come on, Sam. You know I won't do anything you don't want me to."
Again, that wasn't exactly what Sam was worried about, but he didn't want to look like he didn't trust Dean so he warily lifted his feet across Dean's legs. He started slightly when Dean wrapped a hand around each of his feet but, for the moment, Dean just held his hands there and did nothing else. Even so, just the warmth of Dean's palms radiating through Sam's socks was enough to rouse expectant stirrings low in Sam's belly. As he settled back against the cushions, Sam relieved Dean of the popcorn bag. He didn't really want to eat, but the bag served to hide the premature bulge in his joggers. Sipping at his hot chocolate, he tried to distract himself by concentrating on the show.
The foot rub began very low key. For a while Dean did nothing but hug Sam's feet, and then it evolved into a kind of cuddle with squeezing and toe rubbing that was firm enough not to tickle but gentle enough to be . . . well, nice . . . and kind of relaxing . . . in a way . . . but surprisingly erotic and not exactly helping to take Sam's mind off of his twitching dick. Still, he couldn't deny that he was experiencing a sort of general all-over feel good factor. It was . . . nice . . . and he really wasn't disappointed that after about an episode and a half of what turned out to be a Ghost Whisperer marathon Dean still hadn't attempted to progress any further.
Sam was just . . . a little frustrated . . . with the show. Because it was silly and implausible and predictable. By the time Melinda Gordon had crossed over her second "earthbound spirit" Sam had already absorbed the formula: each angry vengeful spirit turned out to be a poor misguided soul and after forty minutes of mayhem Melinda would clear up all the misunderstandings in the last five minutes and the confused ghost could "see the light" – an over used metaphor that aggravated Sam almost as much as Melinda's continual reference to her ability as a gift . . . He reached for the popcorn and threw a handful at the screen.
"Overkill, Sam," Dean admonished. "That was a two, three corn resolution at most."
Sam gave Dean a withering look that he tried to pretend wasn't an excuse to stare at the arch of Dean's bare shoulders. "This show is rubbish, Dean. You know that, don't you?"
"It's entertaining rubbish," Dean insisted.
"It's trite, formulaic and derivative."
"Isn't everything?"
"The lore's all wrong."
"It's a TV show, Sam. It's got great characters, it always ends happy and J.L.H. is hot. That's good enough for me."
Sam frowned. He may have scowled a little. He wondered if he was legitimately entitled to feel slightly aggrieved that Dean was ogling some woman on TV at the same time as doing semi-sexual things to Sam's feet.
Dean gave him a sideways glance. "Not as hot as you," he assured Sam, pursing his lips into a plump kiss. Sam may have been leaning toward him a little when Dean suddenly straightened up and pointed at the screen. "Ghost!" he exclaimed.
Sam turned his attention back to the TV and studied the little old lady in the antique store. There was no way of telling . . . until another customer walked right through her. Dean held up his hand and Sam grudgingly paid him the high five.
"That's three one to me, Sam," Dean noted, grinning
"You have the advantage: you've seen the show before," Sam complained, but he was kind of fascinated with the crinkles round the corners of Dean's eyes. There was something about Dean's smile when he was relaxed that could make the world seem like a warmer, friendlier place.
"Yeah, yeah. You just don't want to acknowledge my superior detective skills," Dean retorted and he reached for the popcorn. The tiniest of squeaks escaped from Sam as the movement of Dean's fingers feeling around in the bag communicated into Sam's lap. Dean scooped out a handful of corn and Sam watched him chew and then swallow. Then he started sucking the butter off of his fingers and his eyes twizzled sideways to peer at Sam.
"So, you're bored, then?" he asked.
"No! Not . . . I mean . . . this is nice . . . this is . . ."
"Are you, maybe, dropping a hint that you're ready for the next level?"
Sam felt his cheeks warming and he started to babble. "You can finish your show, Dean. I didn't – I wasn't . . ."
Sam stuttered into silence as Dean directed a steady, knowing gaze at him. There was a trace of a curve to his lips as he wiped his hands on his shorts and reached for the remote, and the television was silenced with a decisive "Pfft". He leaned forward to where his laptop was set up on the coffee table and after he pushed a few keys a familiar track began to play. Sam recognized the song from the previous evening and it occurred to him that he might never be able to hear any of the tracks on that playlist again without getting a hard on. Not that Sam really needed the encouragement; his dick had long been tenting his joggers under cover of the popcorn bag. But there was something else. He realized as he listened to the first few bars that it wasn't just the arousal that was coming back with the song but also a sense memory of the calming, nurturing atmosphere that had surrounded it. Sam found the canter of his heart was steadying, and the tension that had crept back into his muscles eased again. He relaxed and settled back into the cushions.
Dean took Sam's foot in his hand and supported its weight in his hand while he carefully rotated it at the ankle, first one way then the other, then he cupped the ball of Sam's foot in his palm and gently but firmly stretched it backwards, tightening and releasing the tendons. He grasped the toes and flexed those as well. Sam twitched a little when he started flexing each toe individually, but Dean's grasp was sure, the pressure firm – minimum tickle.
"Did you know," Dean asked, "that, according to reflexology, the macrocosm of the whole body is reflected in the microcosm of the feet?"
Sam's eyes narrowed. That sounded suspiciously like something else Dean had picked up from one of his ex-girlfriends.
"I'm not saying I'm an expert on the subject; I couldn't tell you which parts of the foot correlate with which organs or anything like that." Dean started pressing the heel of his hand into Sam's sole, working in firm circles starting at the base and moving slowly up toward the toes. "Although there is just one spot that seems to . . ." He left the sentence hanging as he reached about half way up, just beneath the ball of the foot, and Sam felt - or imagined he felt - a specific referred response . . . ah, about half way up his body. He raised his eyebrows and lifted his head from the cushions. Dean raised his head a little, too, and gazed steadily at Sam through his eye-lashes. There was a hint of a twinkle in the green that communicated he knew exactly what that was doing to Sam. He didn't linger there, though. He moved up and started working his thumbs into the flesh beneath Sam's toes. That wasn't exactly unpleasurable either, and by the time Dean started on the other foot Sam's dick was twitching in eager anticipation of Dean reaching the same place on the other side.
"Mmmm – mmph!" he gasped when Dean's hand found the spot, and "oh, shut up," as Dean's lips curled into a knowing smirk.
Dean moved back to Sam's heel and started moving upward again, this time with his knuckles, working deeper into the flesh. That did . . . strange things to Sam. The sensation in his foot was . . . not quite ticklish, not quite painful, all the way pleasurable and . . . and it was sending weird sympathetic thrills all over and through his body, up the flesh of his back, his shoulders, over his chest, quivering in the muscles of his abdomen, his thighs . . . and when Dean found that spot again and wiggled his knuckle into it
"Nnnnn – nnnuuhhh nnnuuuuuuu!"
his erection tightened and leapt in his pants. He could feel it in his balls, behind his balls, and somewhere deeper . . .
It was sensational, almost except not unbearable, and his foot was making jerky, involuntary, equivocal attempts to escape from Dean's hand. Dean let up with the knuckles and ran a soothing palm over Sam's foot instead, massaging and flexing until Sam calmed down again. Then his hands moved across to the other foot.
"MMmm!" Sam's leg gave an anticipatory jerk and Dean glanced up.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Haven't touched you yet."
"I know."
Sam was panting slightly and Dean studied him carefully. "You want me to stop, Sam?" he asked.
"No," Sam assured him. He dropped his foot back onto Dean's knee, rested his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes as Dean began working his knuckles up Sam's instep, provoking tiny gasps and gruntles of pleasure from Sam all the way until his back muscles tightened, his foot arched, his dick leapt and shuddered, and he groaned out loud. And, was that an echo?
Sam opened his eyes. Dean's eyes were tight shut, his lips pursed. Sam's gaze slid down the length of Dean's body and riveted on the place where his dick bulged the front of his shorts and made a damp dark patch in the material. A sudden gust of air escaped Sam's parted lips and when Dean opened his eyes they fixed wide and dark on Sam's.
"Guh," Sam gasped softly.
Dean smiled and wrapped his fingers loosely around the bottom of Sam's joggers. Slowly, suggestively, he slid them up Sam's calves until the top of Sam's socks were exposed. His fingers traced the flesh above one sock and the tips tucked under the hem and began to inch it down, slowly hooked the edge over Sam's heel. As he eased it backwards, his fingers trailed over the exposed flesh, circled and brushed Sam's ankle, stroked his heel and instep. Sam tried to reason with his madly throbbing dick: it's just a sock; it's just a friggin' sock! But as Dean pinched the top of the material and drew the remainder of the garment from Sam's bare toes it left his foot feeling absurdly, ridiculously, erotically naked.
Dean leaned forward and Sam followed his hand as it reached out and picked up the baby oil, flipped the top and dribbled a pool into his palm. Sam swallowed. His gaze tracked between Dean's eyes – dark and intent with concentration, long eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks – and the slow, sensuous roll of Dean's hands as he worked the oil between his palms. The slightly squelchy sound they made sent a low, quivering shudder through Sam's chest, lower back and groin. As Dean leaned back again Sam's foot gave a nervous, involuntary hop and Dean placed a half soothing, half restraining hand at the bottom of his shin.
His hands were slow at first as they stroked over the top and bottom of Sam's foot, warm and slick. The slide of flesh against flesh drew a deep rumbling sound from Sam's throat. The eyelashes lifted and as Sam stared into the dark mud-green pools it drove his breath from him in a hot moist rush. He dropped back against the cushions once more and gazed unseeingly at the ceiling through half shut eyelids as Dean began to work his thumbs in slow wiggling circles up Sam's instep. Inch by inch Sam's eyes shut tighter, his body began to writhe and hump until, by the time Dean reached that spot in the middle of his foot, Sam was bouncing feverishly up and down on the sofa. Dean's fingertips traced up the sole of Sam's foot, from heel to toes, and Sam was just about handling that – even if he was gasping and groaning and kind of caterpillaring up the couch – but when Dean turned his hand and dragged the edge of his fingernails back down the already over-sensitized flesh, Sam just snapped. He sat up, straddled Dean's thighs and pinned him to the back of the couch.
"Whoa! Easy tiger!" Dean gasped.
Sam checked himself as he heard the anxious note in Dean's voice. "No – I – just . . ." he struggled to articulate but there wasn't a coherent thought in his head. "Just . . . fuck's sake, Dean!"
Dean's eyes were wide as he searched Sam's face. "So was that a 'yes' or a 'no' on the fingernails?" The casual quip was belied by the tremor in his voice, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. His grip was tight around Sam's arms.
Sam tried to grin reassuringly. "Definite maybe."
Dean's grip relaxed but he was still panting a little. "So, what happened to the 'no jumping' rule, Sam?"
Sam nodded an apology. "Got carried away. Sorry." He started to climb off Dean's lap but Dean placed a restraining hand on his leg.
"No, you can stay," he said. "Just warn me next time you're gonna do something sudden and unexpected." He ran a warm hand over Sam's chest. "This position has some advantages."
Specifically Dean liked that, from this position, everything was in easy reach . . . and there was a lot to reach. He watched his own hands, almost transfixed, as they ran over Sam's chest, and as they followed the smooth contours of the muscles the rapid pump of his heart began to even out. He was somewhere between nervous and really turned on. Sam was still an unpredictable quantity – and there was a lot of quantity – and Dean still wasn't sure if he found that exciting or unnerving; maybe it wasn't an either/or thing.
"Fuck, Sam. Your body . . ." he breathed. "You're a magnificent animal, you know that?"
Sam's eyebrows wrinkled.
"That's a compliment," Dean added, 'cause Sam didn't look like he was sure.
"Yeah, I know," Sam assured him, quietly. "You, too."
"Pff," Dean scoffed. In a universe Sam wasn't in, maybe. He circled a nipple with his finger, dragged across the rosy surface and rolled the nub under his thumb. He heard Sam's breath catch as the flesh began to pucker under his touch.
"You're beautiful," Sam said quietly.
Dean's heart hit his chest with a thump. Was he serious? He looked up and searched Sam's face for a moment but then he could feel himself starting to blush and he quickly buried his face in Sam's pecs. His fingers ran over Sam's nipples, gently and smoothly at first then more firmly, until the flesh began to tighten under his touch and Sam gasped and let out a soft cry. Dean moved across and planted his mouth over the pebbling flesh and sucked until it peaked under his tongue, and Sam grunted then gasped as Dean dragged a rasping lick across the surface then softened his tongue into a soothing massage. He was making tiny crooning noises that did things to Dean's insides, had Fido sitting up and wagging his tail, but Dean ignored the excited barking and moved over to the other nipple, and as his tongue snaked and circled the tightening peak of flesh he was adding his own responsive harmony of grunts and hums to Sam's. And Sam's hands were wandering over Dean's back and shoulders; they closed around his head, fingers weaving into his hair, flexing, fingernails lightly scraping his scalp sending goosey shivers everywhere. The next moment, without thinking, Dean had sunk his teeth into Sam's pec – not hard, but enough to make Sam gasp and buck under Dean's lips.
"Sorry, Sam," he muttered, lightly rubbing Sam's chest where he'd just bitten it.
"'S O.K," Sam assured him breathily. "Don't stop," he whispered.
So he gently pushed against Sam's chest until he was leaning backwards slightly then he planted his lips against Sam's breastbone and let his head taxi slowly backwards and forwards down over Sam's firm abs and – resisting the urge to bite this time – but he was sucking and tasting the sweat-salty flesh, and drinking in its scent – testosterone and motel soap – and his fingernails were tracing a path either side of his head and Sam was kinda stretching and writhing underneath him. His hands skated down to Sam's hips, kneaded down the outside of Sam's thighs, and he felt the muscles ripple under his fingers.
"Mmmmmmmmmmm," he moaned against Sam's belly, and felt Sam's abs flutter under his lips.
He sat back and let his hands slowly travel the route back up Sam's thighs, feeling them flexing and straining all the way and Sam let out this cry, this trembling eager groan and – dammit. Dean sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, gave himself a quick firm squeeze to quell the mad twitching. His fingers ghosted back over Sam's hips and rested at the waistband of Sam's joggers. He glanced up and his throat tightened as he found Sam staring back down at him, dark-eyed and expectant.
"You sure you're ready for this, Sam?" he asked, a little hoarsely, and as much to give himself a moment as to check on Sam.
"Fuck, yeah," Sam gasped.
Sam knelt up and Dean eased the joggers over his hips and down to his thighs . . .
And then Dean was right there, eye level with the freaking tower of babel . . . and not like he'd ever seen any guy's tackle from that close before, let alone like that . . . and so . . . and Sam was just . . . and maybe there was a moment when the thought of running away screaming crossed his mind, but then he just lay there, gazing at it, all proud and taut and quivering, the velvet flesh of the shaft and the dark, smooth, glistening dome . . . and it wasn't even a conscious act when he reached out and brushed his fingers ever so lightly from the tip to the base but when it leapt under his fingers Dean's heart leapt with it, and Sam bucked against his hand and
"Fuck! Dean fuck Dean Dean Dean . . . !"
sent an aching thrill through every sinew of Dean's body. His hips were bucking almost unconsciously against Sam's thighs as he wrapped his hand around Sam's shaft and felt the hot, hard slide of it under his fingers.
"GUH! UH! Oh, God! Dean!"
Sam's cry forced an answering gasp from Dean, and suddenly Dean couldn't believe what he was thinking . . . what he was considering . . . and he wasn't sure 'cause – as already noted – Sam was unpredictable and well, it was a hell of a step – more than last night in some ways 'cause touching a man – touching, holding Sam – well, it didn't feel as weird as Dean had thought it would. Not that different from holding his own really except . . . yeah, well, a bit bigger. Little bit. And the angle was different. And not like he didn't know what to do because (as a gay friend pointed out once) masturbation's practice, so he'd had a damn good idea what Sam would like. But what was weird was feeling Sam, hard and throbbing, in his hand and knowing exactly what that meant; listening to Sam climb the octaves from baritone to soprano and not having to guess or imagine what he was feeling, because he knew. That was weird, and kind of wonderful.
Dean looked up at Sam's face, watched his half closed eyelids fluttering as Dean's hand worked up and down the quivering shaft, his lips trembling with inarticulate gasps and moans, and then Dean's focus dropped back to the behemoth in front of him and he swallowed. His hand paused mid sweep.
"Sam . . ." he croaked.
"Oh Jesus! Dean! Don't stop!"
He cleared his throat. "No. Listen, Sam. Sam!"
"What?!"
He placed one steadying hand on Sam's chest and gave him a squeeze with the other to bring him back down to Earth.
"I want to try something . . . if you'd like me to . . ."
Sam's eyes slowly focused and he stared at Dean, giving him his full attention now.
"What?" Completely different tone this time.
"Um . . ." Dean hesitated. He knew, from experience, what it would feel like for Sam, and he wanted to give him that – so bad – but, yeah, no practice this time. "I was just wondering . . ." He ran his finger tip lightly over the leaking dome "what it would taste like."
Sam's eyes widened, almost to cartoon dimensions, and his focus centred in on Dean's mouth, and then his whole body shuddered from tip to toe.
"Guuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhrrrrr rrrrrrrrrrrr!" he gasped.
Which Dean took as a 'yes' but "yeah, but, Sam, I've got to be able to trust you 'cause I'm not Linda Freaking Lovelace. I've never done this before and you've gotta promise me you'll let me do the driving."
"O.K," Sam agreed, nodding vigorously. His body was still trembling. "O.K."
"No, but really, Sam – "
"I know," Sam insisted. "I promise, Dean. Please. I promise. Please."
"O.K. Sam, O.K." Jeez. Much more of that and Dean was gonna lose it right then and there. As he slid down lower on the couch and drew Sam toward him his heart was thumping so low in his chest it felt like he'd swallowed it, but he was going to do this. He was going to taste every fucking inch of Sam. He steadied Sam's hip with one hand and dragged his tongue soft and slow up Sam's shaft, from the base to the tip.
"Oh, GOD! GOD! Dean!" Sam's body bucked and shuddered, his hips thrust forward and he jabbed Dean smartly on the nose.
"OW!" Dean thrust his hand against Sam's hip and pushed him away. "There, see, that's what I was worried about!" he growled.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry!" Sam gasped. "Won't happen again. Won't. I promise," and he braced his arms against the wall over Dean's head.
"Uh-huh," Dean grunted, not entirely reassured. "Better not." Nevertheless he drew Sam's shaft toward him once more and rested his tongue against the drum tight flesh of the dome.
Sam whimpered. His body shivered and his hips trembled in Dean's grasp but they stayed still. Dean dipped his tongue into the puckering slit, drawing fresh whimpers from Sam as he tasted the leaking dew drops. Vaguely salty. Not unpleasant. He curled his tongue around the dome and the shaft leapt in Dean's hand. Sam's thigh muscles tightened and quivered and the whimpers upgraded to something approaching sobs but there was no more unrestrained thrusting. Dean felt encouraged to take a little into his mouth. He sucked in the tip and ran his tongue over the surface, tasting the slightly metallic tang of the flesh.
"O – OoooOH! Dean! Jesus! Dean! Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Dean!"
He would never tire of hearing Sam say his name like that. Didn't think the other guy deserved any of the credit, though.
Dean took a deep breath, opened his mouth wider and let it slide down the shaft a little way, then suckled his way back up, dragging his lips over the dome and massaging it with his tongue and . . . was something wrong? Sam had gone real quiet . . . ?
"G-GGAAAAAAAHHHHH!"
O.K.
Dean allowed his mouth to taxi down the shaft, sweeping his tongue backwards and forwards across the flesh as he moved, suckling and feeling the silk slide of it over the rock firm rod beneath, feeling the shudder against his palm and feeling the sympathetic ache in his own balls as he listened to Sam's sharp, snuffling cries. "Mmmmmmm," he moaned as he dragged his lips back up and sucked against the shaft. Sam let out a deep feral growl that made Dean's insides shiver. He dropped one hand to Dean's head and buried his fingers in Dean's hair, gripping just a little tighter than Dean found comfortable. "Sam," he growled warningly, and the grip loosened. And he drew Sam down and swallowed him into his mouth once more, sliding up and down as far as he could and snaking his tongue up and over and around and Sam sounded like he was actually weeping now and Dean wasn't sure how much more of that he could take, let alone Sam. He drew his mouth away, gripped the base and squeezed and after a moment Sam eased down a bit, but when Dean looked up at Sam's pleasure-shattered face his insides just melted into a gooey slop.
"Sam, can I trust you?" he asked, almost whispering.
Sam frowned. "Yeah," he gasped, still panting. "Yeah, Dean. What . . . ?"
"You'll let me drive?"
"Yeah."
"O.K."
Dean slid a little further down the couch, clasped his hand round Sam's hip, opened his mouth and guided Sam into it. Slowly he began rocking Sam's body backwards and forwards, in and out of his mouth.
"Oh God!" Sam breathed "Oh my God! Fuck! Dean! Dean! God! Fucking God! Deeeeeeeeeean!"
Dean's body shivered between Sam's thighs. He didn't know exactly why, but the feel of Sam's shaft sliding in and out, over his tongue, as he took it into his mouth, a little deeper each time: seriously fucking hot! He wanted more of it, more of Sam. He closed his eyes and he moved, breathed, moaned with the smooth rock and slide of it. He wanted to take Sam into himself, deeper, as deep as he could. With each thrust his own hips rocked up, humming with strange craving. And the sound of Sam, frankly fucking sobbing now: almost enough to send Dean over the edge. And Dean could feel the tension in Sam's body under his fingers, in the crunch of Sam's abs, in the shudder of his thighs, in the way his feet lifted off the couch and flexed in the air. He was close, Dean could tell. And Dean wasn't far behind him. He was groaning almost as much as Sam was. Fuck it. His hand moved down, cradled Sam's balls, fondled them. Sam gasped, shuddered. Dean felt the leap against his tongue and Sam tried to pull away but Dean clung to him.
Hell, no! Let me have it, Sam. Want you. Wanna drink you!
There was a spasm, then another and something hit the back of Dean's throat and he swallowed, swallowed around Sam and Sam was shaking himself to pieces and possibly pulling Dean's hair out. Fuck it. Dean didn't care. He was gasping and groaning and so close to coming and then Sam pulled away. No! But then he slithered down Dean's body, snagged the hem of his shorts and pulled and Dean got with the program lifted his hips and OH GOD YES! And Sam practically buried Dean in his throat fucking fucking Dean with his mouth hot and wet and sloppy but good so good and JEEEEESUS JESUS FUCKING CHRIST SAM! OH GOD SAM! YES OH YES SAM SAM SAM SAM OH SAM OH GOD SAM SAM . . . I –
What? What's that banging? Was someone next door hammering on the wall? "Oh, screw you, Buddy!" Dean yelled.
And then Sam had his hand over Dean's mouth but, silver lining, he had his arms round Dean and he was laughing. "Shush, Dean, he might call the manager."
"Whaddaya mean 'shush'?" Dean panted. "You shush. How come I get banged at? You're the noisy one."
"Oh really?"
Sam stopped Dean's mouth again but he did it with his lips this time, so bonus. And he tasted of Dean, and that was weirdly hot, too. And for a while there were lips and tongues, a little wild and wet at first but gradually slowing to soft and slow and nice. No weird transcendental shit this time and Dean was mostly relieved about that. Not disappointed. Well, maybe 60/40.
Eventually they came up for air. Sam kinda collapsed onto Dean's chest and Dean just laid there, glassy eyed, fingers tangled in Sam's hair. Presently Sam lifted his head and gazed at Dean with a sloppy, sleepy grin on his face and for a while they were just kind of staring into each other, and it started to get a little weird so Dean cleared his throat. "Have you done that before?" he asked, for want of something better to say, and then wished he hadn't because maybe he didn't want to know – but Sam was grinning and shaking his head. "Have you?"
"No! Well, not to a guy, anyway." That might have been the wrong thing to say.
The grins and the laughter filtered away. Sam gave his ear a scratch then gazed down at himself, and Dean got a sinking feeling in his stomach. He realized he was kind of counting down, feeling the post-orgasmic temperature drop and waiting for the moment when Sam noticed he was starting to feel chilly and sweaty-damp and sticky. Sam started pulling up his joggers and Dean pretty much knew he was gonna make a break for the bathroom any moment, and he realized he was clinging on to him too tightly and that was only going to make it happen sooner. Sam leaned back and started pushing himself up onto his feet.
"I should take a shower."
Yup. "Sure. O.K." Dean checked his watch. "Getting late, I guess," he acknowledged.
Sam nodded. He stood up and stumbled off to the bathroom . . . looking kinda silly with the legs of his joggers still rucked up and wearing just one sock, and that was kind of half hanging off now . . . but it could have been worse. Naked with one sock would have been sillier. And Dean didn't look too cool either, sitting on the sofa naked with his shorts round his ankles. He sighed and hitched them back up. He felt an odd kind of nostalgic longing for that part of the evening when they'd just watched TV together, and Dean got to cuddle Sam's feet for maybe an hour, hour and a half.
Not that Dean didn't enjoy the sex part; he loved the sex part: that blessed space of time when he got to forget everything and the only thought in his head was Sam: how Sam felt, how he sounded, the smell of Sam, the taste of him . . . but Dean knew it was a finite space, fragile and fleeting; from the moment it started it was already on the way to over . . . and then Sam would be on the starter blocks for the bathroom sprint. Inevitable maybe, with the intimacy issues and all that, and maybe it would get better . . . unless Sam just wasn't a sit around and cuddle afterward kind of guy anyway . . . and maybe that just wasn't what he wanted from Dean. Sam had been pretty clear about not wanting things to get more "complicated". Like it mattered. How much more complicated could their lives get?
On the other hand, maybe Dean could understand if Sam needed to keep something in his life simple and casual.
Dean could do that, he guessed. He shook his head and let out a mirthless chuckle. Friends with benefits.
He leaned across to the coffee table and shut down the media player. He was about to shut down the laptop but he checked Sam's tracker program one more time first. She'd been in Red Lodge, Montana since he last looked. Who knew where she was now? And round and round and round she goes and where she stops nobody knows.
Dean stood up and took another peek through the blinds. Checked the salt lines again . . . Honestly, there was probably a point where it crossed from precaution into obsessive compulsive disorder.
He picked up his guitar from the corner, sat on the bed with it and started strumming idle chords.
"You hold the pieces of the broken soul.
Look for the part that'll make you whole . . ."
he crooned softly, then paused. Wow. Where did that come from?
Dean was still playing quietly when the bathroom door opened and Sam came out. He pottered around the room for a bit, making final checks, switching off lights etc, before he got into bed. His own bed. Of course. He watched Dean playing for a few moments then closed his eyes. Funny how that immediately made Sam look younger and softer, more fragile somehow. Dean kind of fastened on those rare moments when he thought he saw something else under Sam's cool, detached exterior . . . but was he just kidding himself? Seeing what he wanted to see? Dean sighed inwardly. He supposed he'd better let the guy get some sleep. He put down the guitar, turned out the nightlight and slipped under his own covers.
"G'night, Sam."
There were a few moments of silence before he heard Sam's voice respond in the darkness. "Night, Dean." He sounded so far away. The few inches between their beds might have been the Grand Canyon as far as Dean was concerned.
He got it, though. Kind of. Sam had been brought up in this weirdass extended family cum commune, so what he valued was his space, his privacy. Dean got that . . . on a kind of practical, rational level . . . even if he could never really get it, because it was different for Dean. Dean'd had a butt-load of being alone when he'd been growing up and he was over it. Now all he wanted was some company.
Without thinking he started pulling his pillow down to his side, but when he caught himself clinging to it he pushed it back up to his head, where it belonged.
