--

Dean's dick was pressed against the pile of pillows, his hips tilting up with the mound. Sam could see him trying not to squirm or press down. Sam, meanwhile, scooted around on the mattress and got comfortable.

"You good?" he asked, and Dean nodded jerkily into his folded arms. He was a little twitchy when he got on his stomach, not able to track everything that was going on in the room. Even though Sam knew why and took measures to put him at ease, it still exasperated him.

His hands went to the backs of Dean's thighs, fingers digging in, and Dean slid them open. The muscles bunched under his palms, tense and corded, but he offered himself up like it was no big deal, letting Sam look at him all he wanted. And he wanted. He knew it was just another thing on the long list of things that freaked Dean out about this, about doing this with Sam. He knew it just barely got by without Dean cursing and throwing up a metaphorical red flag. Riding the line, though, is what got them off.

"Jesus Christ," Dean bit, just in time for Sam's thumb to swipe over his hole.

Sam smiled and leaned down, his chin hovering over Dean's ass. He let the implication of it sink in, his breath warming over Dean's skin in soft whuffs, and Dean's realization of what it meant made all of his muscles tighten.

"Did I say you could talk?" Sam laughed, but it wasn't a reprimand. His fingers were still working, the tip of his pointer going in dry and careful to the first knuckle and sliding out with a twist. Dean worked his hips and Sam pulled his hand away, rested it on Dean's lower back.

"Did I say I wanted to fuck a tease?" Dean's thighs pulled closer together, as much of a middle finger as he'd give Sam in bed.

"You love it when I play with your ass," Sam said, with this weird mix of airy-casual and warning. His hand squeezed as much of a fistful of flesh as Dean's tailbone would yield, the skin going white and then mottling when he let go. "Lemme see."

Dean did, begrudgingly, and Sam rewarded him by bringing his hand down back to Dean's cheeks and spreading them. Dean shoved hard against the pillow. Sam couldn't bitch at him for it, not really, not when he'd had Dean hard all day, starting with the promise of head in a rest stop that he'd never actually delivered on. Then later, before dinner, Sam went to wash up; he hadn't even finished wiping the soap residue and water from his hands with one of those scratchy brown paper towels when Dean came barging in and rubbed his dick against the curve of Sam's ass through his jeans.

Dean was all worked up, sweaty and humping the shit out of him in public, and it was the jolt of surprise Sam got when he noticed that made him put a stop to it, instead of playing along. Dean got sulky and pissed off in one, and Sam ended up grabbing his wrist with a still wet hand and wrenching it so Dean wouldn't go for Sam's zipper. And yeah, Dean knew what that meant. He spent the rest of the meal paying extra attention to his loaded hash browns, but the tips of his ears were red, and he couldn't hide the occasional shift to ease the pressure off his cock.

"What's wrong?" Sam had asked, eyebrows peaked in a question over the rim of his icy-cold water glass.

Dean made a face and pointed his fork at him, which somehow didn't look like a ridiculous threat. "You know. Fuckin' cockblock." He went back to his food like that was the end of it, like Sam was a housewife who called Uncle over headaches or her freaking period, and Sam kicked his foot under the table.

"You don't get to come till I say," he said, and Dean's head whipped back up like he couldn't believe Sam said it in public. Sam half couldn't believe it himself, because the waitress was literally on top of them, refilling their basket of cheese toast. Her cheerily vacant smile let him know she hadn't heard him, though. Sam gave a wide smile back and she tucked a lock of dull brown hair behind her ear, charmed.

Dean had looked torn, like he wanted to protest or blow it off with a laugh, but he stopped squirming and started shoveling food into his mouth. When the waitress came with the check, Dean was totally silent and glared at her covertly, at the chalky mints she left with it, at the phone number scrawled with curly flourishes. It was a funny turnaround from their usual diner situation, where Sam shut up and ate his food and Dean grinned until numbers fell out of his pockets.

Now, back in the relative privacy of their shitty motel room, Sam was finally delivering. When they got back, he had made Dean undress and go stomach-down on the bed. His boxers had been tellingly stained, wet with a patch of precome that'd been gathering and spreading for hours. Sam would have felt bad, since he knew what it was like to walk around at full mast all day. Pleasant and comfortable weren't remotely on a list of words he'd use to describe the experience. The absolute lack of hesitation when Dean shucked his clothes, though, the single-mindedness in response to Sam's orders like how he used to be with dad; it all made his pity evaporate.

Sam's own cock was hard, swollen huge and red, veins prominent. Dean gave it a pointed look before he got on the bed, the set of his jaw and the cant of his eyebrows saying I could have that my my mouth right now, man, but Sam just jacked it for him, real slow, and Dean gave up on the notion of instant gratification. Sam didn't get to do this often, Dean was too skittish, but when he did he went all the way. No giving in, no shortcuts, and no cheating; Dean's mouth around his cock counted as all three.

He trailed the blunt edge of his fingernail across Dean's entrance, not hard, but not so soft that Dean could call him a tease, either. The edge, stroking over and over and circling until Dean clenched up, turned into the tip of his finger again. He wriggled it inside with not enough give, stopping at the first knuckle. Everything was okay for now, but Dean was dry, and no way in hell could Sam keep it up like that without some serious discomfort.

"Comfortable?" he asked around a throat strangely dry.

Dean took a moment, his right leg sliding further open as a preemptive answer. Or maybe just giving him some friction against the pillows. "Yeah, fine."

Sam smiled to himself and huffed a laugh when a finger across Dean's balls made him freeze up and swear. "Yeah, okay."

"I'm fine. I wanna come, but I'm fine." He said it as casual fact, not a warning or a pissy demand, because Sam'd hold him off for another day if Dean did that and they both knew it.

Sam didn't answer him. He kept one hand on Dean's flank and used the other to grope around for one of the leftover pillows. Dean was set up with the two from this bed, but there were two more around from the other, and Sam's hips and dick weren't really liking being against the bed at this angle. His fingers finally hit the cushy cotton and he dragged it down and squished it until it tilted his hips up, taking some pressure off his cock, pushed flat against the mattress as it had been.

Dean was exactly how he left him, impatient but not showing it. Sam resettled between his legs, both his hands going to Dean's ass and pulling him apart. He didn't waste any time, leaned forward and lapped over Dean's hole. Dean grunted and shifted, Sam licking him over and over, faster and harder than he'd intended. The room seemed to shrink with the tension in air, and it made him want to see how high he could turn the dial, how close to fever pitch it could get.

He made himself stop for a minute; his bangs had fallen over into his eyes, and he irritatedly shook his head to get them out of the way. Sam's thumbs still held Dean open, the spit inside drying some and cooling already. Dean was trying really hard not to make much noise. Sam liked to rub it in and drag it out when he got desperate and noisy, which pushed Dean's stubborn and competitive buttons. Still, the hitch of his breathing, the way he sounded almost congested, it gave him away.

"You can make noise, you know."

"Oh, can I?" Dean muttered under his breath. "Gee, thanks."

"You fucking want my tongue back in your ass, you make noise."

There was a pause where Dean apparently weighed how badly he wanted to get laid against how badly he wanted to tell Sam to fuck off.

"I'm dead serious," Sam said.

This was the part where, if Dean hadn't been leaking in his shorts all day, he'd turn around and give Sam one seriously unimpressed look. Eyebrows furrowed, mouth screwed up into a clownhouse mockery of a sneer. He might roll over and jerk off like Sam wasn't even there, just to show that Sam wasn't the boss of him. But fortunately for Sam, he'd had years of practice feeling out Dean's particular limits, so this one was a no-brainer. Dean held in a breath, apprehensive, and then let out a loud, but only partly sarcastic, moan. Yeah, Sam talking about sex turned Dean's crank. He'd known it for a long time, though he didn't much use it for anything. He didn't much need to; absentmindedly licking a spoon after dinner turned Dean's crank most the time.

But this was different. Dean was giving it up and Sam was fucking luxuriating in every bit of it. He had this almost giddy desire to smack Dean's ass and say, "Yeah, that's what I thought," which was something Dean would say, but Sam liked to think he had an appreciation for sex outside of bad porn.

Dean must have thought Sam was holding out on him. He made this whimpery noise in the back of his throat, and it jerked Sam to the here-and-now as fast as a hand on his cock would have. Sam fluttered his tongue in a drag from top to bottom, licking at Dean's perineum. It got him to let loose a low moan that was mostly an exhale. He closed his mouth over what he could get to of Dean's balls, slip-sliding his lips over them with sucking noises. He didn't spend long there, licked his way up to Dean's hole and fucked his tongue inside with little pushes. The sound Dean made then, that was when the fingers Sam used to hold him apart dug in so hard he'd have bruises.

"You like that?" he asked, his tongue feeling funny and too large in his mouth. His lips were wet and almost numb with spit smearing back onto them from Dean's body.

"Yeah." His voice sounded strained.

Sam swirled his tongue around the opening, not pushing inside this time, then pulled back to where the skin was smoother. Dean was relaxing, loosening so that Sam could feel it around the tip of his tongue. It was good; it meant Dean was on board and not clinging to the ledge of his control with desperate fingernails. It meant he didn't have to work quite so hard. Even the line of Dean's back wasn't as tense as before; Sam could see miles of skin from his place between Dean's legs, a false perspective, and the knobs of Dean's spine going up in a row.

It only took a few minutes before Dean's occasional grunts and stuttered breaths turned into a near-constant barrage of swearing and shifting all over the pillows. Sam's hand was on Dean's hip, fingers fanned out to get a better grip on him. He squeezed his hand in lieu of speaking to try and get Dean to stop moving around, which didn't really work. He'd stop for ten seconds before he squirmed again, and eventually Sam pulled away and bit the inside of Dean's right thigh. He stifled laughter at the totally fake "Ow!" Dean passed down.

"Fuckin' bitey," Dean complained.

"If you don't knock that shit off you're not getting any."

"No, it's good, just."

"You wanna turn over?" Sam asked, reaching to wipe off his spitty mouth. Maybe Dean'd behave better if he wasn't lying with lots of weight on his cock, a constant reminder. Sam wanted him to stay still and do what Sam goddamn said, but Dean only had so much attention span.

"Yeah."

Sam dropped back and rose up onto his knees, taking his pillow with him. Dean stretched and cracked his back, acting all nonchalant, like Sam had been doing anything other than licking his ass. Dean shifted carefully onto his back, though, scooting closer to the headboard and blinking up at the harsh overhead light. His cock curved up and right, smears of precome visible on the skin of his stomach. Sam grabbed for the pillows to prop Dean up again, and--

"They're all sticky," he said, half amused and half unspeakably turned on, spreading some around between his fingers.

Dean mumbled something and folded one arm across forehead, shielding him from the light. Sam tapped his hip so he'd lift them. The pillows went under again, Dean's lower half jutting upwards, obvious and on display. Dean's stomach was tense, not-quite-six pack in stark relief, as his dick bobbed with the motions of adjusting the pillows. It was redder than it'd been before, looked painful, and Sam smiled.

"You're all wet, Dean," Sam taunted. Dean's lips thinned into a line, probably holding back some smartass remark. Sam used two fingers to gather up some of the wet, light as he could be across the slit. "Open them again."

Dean did. The angle wasn't as good as it'd been before, but this way Dean might stay still and Sam could catch glimpses of his face. Those two fingers went down between his legs, Dean bracing himself for them and trying to make himself relax at the same time, but Sam only dragged them around until the precome was slicked over his hole.

Sam's knees didn't like taking his weight, and they liked the half-assed yoga he was doing even less. His pillow hindered more than helped, and his dick was so full of blood it ached like a bruise. He ignored it, ignored everything but the way Dean's spread legs lined up with Sam's shoulders. The wet sounds of Sam's mouth back on him, the tang of Dean's precome, licked totally up in two or three swipes, the jerky rhythm of Dean's breathing from above.

"You want my cock now?" Sam breathed, nuzzling his lips right up to Dean's hole in a filthy imitation of a kiss. His hands cupped under Dean's ass, taking a good deal of his weight, keeping him tilted up and open.

"Yeah."

"You gonna ask for it?" His tongue flicked out every other kiss or so, not breaching, just drags and flutters. "You gonna beg for my cock?"

"Sammy, c'mon, fuck me."

Flimsy excuse for begging. Sam slowed down even more, and the brush of his lips must have been feather-light, hardly noticeable. Dean's head tossed on the mattress, only once, maybe he was looking away from seeing Sam between his knees. "Ask for it," he repeated, muffled against Dean's skin.

"Gimme your cock," Dean said, deep voice booming in the tiny motel room. It sent a shiver through Sam's whole body, curling his toes. "Fuck." Apparently Dean wasn't unaffected by it either.

He ended it with one last lick before he sat up. His mouth was wet, swollen, probably red, and when Dean turned his head back to look at Sam, he noticed. Sam let him look a minute before wiping off his mouth.

"Hand me the lube," he asked, rubbing the cold spit from his hand onto the white sheet. Dean reached across to the scuffed bedside table and easily snatched up the KY Sam left there earlier. He tossed it down Sam's way with no fanfare, no grin, and settled himself against the bed again. Sam let the lube stay where it landed, somewhere past his right thigh. He positioned himself closer to Dean, but kept his cock from touching any part of him. "You want your baby brother's fucking cock, Dean?"

Dean's head raised, involuntary, and he thunked back down with a groan. "Oh my God, shut up."

"No, come on, tell me." His hands smoothed down Dean's sides, bumping across ribs and the slight flare of Dean's hipbones. They were misleadingly gentle. "I wanna hear it. Wanna hear you ask for it." Sam let himself -- fucking finally - touch his own dick, showing it off in a smooth stroke, and God, it felt so good, how hot it was, practically burning his palm.

Dean gritted it out like it was an order, no rise or fall in his voice; "Want your cock, Sammy, want --"

"So you want it?" Sam said, just to be an asshole, but his own panting made it a joke. "You want this fat cock?"

"Fuck, yeah, fucking put it in me already."

He used his hand to push it forward, everything coalescing; hips inching into place and Dean's legs starting to cross over his back, and Sam's cock slid between Dean's cheeks and rested there. Both of them sucked in a breath. "Wanted it all day." Sam indulged himself and rubbed a fingertip across the head. The milky-clear fluid of his own precome had gathered there; some of it got on Dean, some of it on his finger.

"Yeah, fuck, wanted it all day." Evidenced by mess on Dean's skin, the sweat along his temple that made his hair darker there. By the way his cock looked raw and angry, like he'd been beating off for hours with no relief.

Sam grabbed the lube. He wanted to see Dean's hole shiny with his precome, wanted to tease them both with the beginning of a dry fuck, but his balls were drawn tight and close to his body already, no way he'd last. He opened the cap with a snick.

The lube was cold, always a shock, and that was only on Sam's fingers. He used what was there to coat over Dean's opening, holding back a smug laugh when Dean's hips followed the movement, wordlessly asking for the rest of the prep. Only that was just a fucking pipe dream as far as Sam was concerned; twenty minutes rimming Dean's ass and the game they'd been playing all day was enough. Sam held the KY bottle over his cock and squeezed, let it dribble on messily, the shocking cold of it drawing out a hiss even though he knew it was coming. It was probably going to get all over the sheets, leaving one hell of a wet spot for Dean to bitch about later.

"Sammy," Dean started, seemingly about to ask what the hell was going on, why fingers weren't up his ass so they could hurry up and fuck already.

"You wanted my cock," Sam said, low, positioning himself and rising up over Dean in one easy movement. He wanted to watch Dean's face like this; they'd never gone without at least some cursory finger-fucking, and what Sam did earlier so didn't count. "You wanted it, right?" He was past caring if Dean thought they both sounded stupid; he knew he liked it, he knew it made Dean's pulse quicker and Sam's voice go so deep and rough it sounded like he was strangling. "Wanted Sammy's fucking huge cock spreading you open, wanted--"

"Right, okay, Jesus," Dean said, and Sam was close enough now to see the blush spreading underneath his freckles.

"Gonna get it, just like this."

Dean's eyes widened in realization. Fuck. If there was a way to put that on rewind, Sam would have. His mouth was open, too, Sam could see into the dark wet pink there, the sides of his stupidly white teeth -- countless mornings fighting back a punch to Dean's throat if it would just get him to stop gargling the fucking mouthwash. His eyes narrowed in amusement at that thought coming to him right now, when his cock was slippery with lube and Dean was spread like a whore and too-tight, it was too funny.

"Uh-huh," Sam muttered, busy concentrating on the slide of his dick in Dean's ass. In, but not in.

"Sam." Dean's expression was shifting, though he was clearly turned on by the idea, Sam bearing down and fucking him like that, but Sam wasn't dumb. He had a big cock, bigger than most; Sam towered a head above nearly everybody he met, so proportional was actually fairly impressive. And more than that, it was thick, a fat head that didn't taper off down the shaft. "D'you, uh."

"You changing your mind?" Sam asked, making like he was going to pull back, and Dean's hands tightened like clamps around his biceps, short fingernails little pricks of almost-pain.

"No, shit, give it to me."

Dean's body clenched so tight that Sam just slipped off in the abundance of lube. Sam had to nudge in a careful millimeter at a time, holding back gasps and girly declarations at how good it felt, just that much. He was so tight, virgin-tight, so tight Sam considered giving up the whole thing and giving Dean some prep. Dean kicked a leg out and slammed his heel down on Sam, who barely felt it.

"Jesus Christ, you." Sam's cockhead slipped in, Dean squeezing around it and dragging his nails over Sam's back. "Hold on."

"M' not moving." His elbows hurt with the strain of holding him up in that position, but he could handle it. His legs used to burn and shake during the drills their dad put them through, and John used to say, just your body trying to trick you, just gotta get through it. Yeah, Dean's eyes were back to being seal-wide and he was grunting in no small amount of pain from Sam's cock. Fucking his brother was not really when Sam wanted to think about his dad. Dean seemed to be doing better, though. "Okay?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, more." He forced it out between clenched teeth. When Sam obliged, his breath came out in a sharp half-vocalization, a warning ah. "Just -- had to fuck me like this, fuckin' boss me around and make -- shiiiit."

"You love it," Sam insisted, rumbly. He pushed through a spasm until he was close to all the way in. "You love taking my cock."

Dean didn't argue. He puffed out a breath when Sam stopped for another long moment, letting Dean get used to it. "Yeah, whatever gets you through the day, man."

One jerk of his hips was all it took to shove in the rest, and lucky for both of them Dean was ready. He whined and rocked up, their bodies moving together gracelessly now that Sam was in all the way. "Close?" Sam asked, all trace of teasing gone. "You gonna come for me?"

"Sammy--"

"Don't do it yet."

Like this, as tight as it had ever been, their fucking felt different. Normally they'd fuck around and try it out, and things got hotter, rougher, Dean panting into Sam's ear or Sam muttering in his, and when they finally came it was after what felt like ages. Dean was -- different, tighter, placid for all his bitching, just taking it, the glaze of his eyes letting Sam know how much of an effort that was. And milking Sam's cock, spasms and clenches and enough resistance to make thrusting difficult.

Dean closed his eyes. A muscle in his jaw ticced. All day, he'd wanted it. Sam tried to look down to see his cock, knew how sticky and hard it'd be. You don't get to come till I say. Jesus Christ. Dean was right there, two seconds from coming and trying anything to hold it back and wait until Sam said so. As Sam went harder, the pull and give of Dean's muscles on the inside became less distinct. Each thrust was a glide of hot and smooth, with the tight ring of muscle a clamp.

"You can come," Sam said in a whisper, staring down at Dean's face.

Thrusting made the bed shake and made Dean's face almost a blur, but it was hard to miss his teeth suddenly biting down into his lower lip. Dean's eyes were screwed shut, laugh lines never more obvious, and then his mouth opened wide for a choking moan. Dean's whole body was frozen, tense, and Sam went even faster.

Splash of hot wet on his stomach and chest, Dean's come, oh fuck, rope after rope of it, seeming like there was no end. When Dean did stop coming, it was a fucking mess between them. Dean's eyes came back open, points of light from the overhead light especially noticeable in their shine. He looked dazed, and except for the heavy rasp of his breathing, he made no noise.

Sam couldn't look anymore or he'd come; he'd thought saying no in the bathroom had been working Dean over all day, but it was him too. Sam had just repressed the urge until it wasn't more than white noise in the back of his head. Now the white noise wouldn't shut up, his cock pounding a hammer pulse in time with his heart, the same pulse a drum in his ears. He fucked in and out, deeper, harder, the sound like slaps echoing through the room, Dean loosing startled breaths with each thrust.

It took some maneuvering, but Sam arched up high enough to kiss Dean's mouth, catching the corner of it first. The taste of him, the plush of his lips, it made everything worse instead of letting Sam get some control. They shared one sloppy, long kiss, Sam getting Dean's spit all on his chin and vise versa.

Dean pulled away, eyes hooded, and Sam tried to chase after his mouth but Dean wouldn't let him. "Come in me," he said, hoarse but a challenge. "C'mon Sammy."

He bit Dean's mouth, and it probably hurt; neither of them cared, Sam going still above him and coming with a really stupid noise. His whole frame shook with it, and his elbows and wrists gave out at once, leaving him to pancake out on top of Dean while his cock still pulsed out come.

It felt like decades had gone by before the last shivers of pleasure finished ransacking Sam's body. Dean was sweaty and still breathing heavy beneath him, it wasn't comfortable in the slightest. Sam opened his eyes and lifted his head, bleary, and expected Dean to immediately crack some joke or demand he pull out. Dean did neither; he stared at Sam, or he was possibly staring into space, looking fucked out and vaguely stunned by it. Oversaturated.

Pulling out was unsteady and both of them winced. It would have been nice to have worn a condom; this part would have been cut and dry, pinch it off, toss it into the wastebasket. Instead he could feel lube and come all down his cock, cool in the air. His hand went up curiously to the curve of Dean's ass and worked inside; fuck, he was wet, like, girl wet, and it got all over Sam's hand.

"You wanna..." Dean's voice gave out and he cleared his throat. "Get me a rag."

"When I can fucking walk." Sam flopped over onto his back, shoulder to shoulder with Dean, and saw spots from the annoyingly bright overhead. He felt numb and supersensitive at the same time, like he'd had a sunburn.

Dean shut his eyes and stayed silent, looking like he was about to fall asleep. Sam couldn't blame him. He moved a little closer, hip brushing the top of Dean's thigh -- they never quite lined up in bed. "You okay?" he asked, keeping it light in case Dean took it wrong and it set him off.

"Fine."

Sam managed to drag himself out of bed, making a disgusted noise over how sticky and gross he felt. In the bathroom, the shower beckoned, but he didn't think he could stand long enough. He took two washcloths from above the toilet, both of them folded like swans or something -- the motel's attempt to be charming -- and ran both under warm water.

When he came out, washcloth dripping onto his toes, Dean was asleep, tucked into the one clean pillow they had left.

-- gin@metallicar.org

What the world says about sam and dean
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