Written for blindfold_spn for the prompt:
Sam's hurt both hands, so Dean has to shave him. Having Dean that close to him, focused with that little concentrating frown, breath warm on his face, Dean's competent hands tilting his head and angling him exactly the way he wants him -- well, Sam's not doing too well right now pretending he's not attracted to his brother. And he's only wearing boxers, Dean's bound to notice. Dean's going to have him all figured out.
Dean is amused and turned on and there is a slow, sensuous first time with bottom!Sam. No teen!Sam, please, canon timeline.
TItle: Monumentally Stupid
A/N: Spoilers for 7.12 and I messed with what we saw on camera, just a little. My first post on blindfold and it was so awesome! You all are great!
In retrospect, cutting both of his hands for the blood ritual likely wasn't the best idea Sam had ever had. At the time, he hadn't really been thinking -- he just wanted his brother back -- and the sharp, new, raw pain from the knife shot any remaining Lucifer whispers right out of his head. Writing 11:34 in his own blood on that paper had brought a clarity he hadn't felt in days, so he considered it a win.
It's not until he tries to properly grip a razor or even get enough shaving cream on his face that he realizes the drawbacks.
Sam drops his head from the bathroom mirror and sighs, wondering how the hell he's gonna accomplish this simple task.
Dean stomps into the motel room, bringing the smell of rain and breakfast and his voice carries that funny tone he gets when Dean finds the other bed empty. "Sammy?"
"Yeah, Dean," he calls.
Dean's presence fills the doorway; Sam senses it even though he doesn't look up and Dean quips, "What're you doing, princess? Asking the mirror if you're the fairest one of all?"
He's gruff -- gotta make up for the vulnerability from a second ago -- and Sam huffs a laugh because it's so typical, so Dean and straightens from his slouch. "Yep, you caught me. Just makin' sure I can keep up with the rest of the royalty."
"You're fine, fair maiden, c'mon. I got you a McMuffin."
Sam steps out of the bathroom and sits at the table, absently scratching his cheek, where the stubble has grown long enough that it itches.
"I know you're going for the world record in sideburns, but what's with the mountain man look?" Dean asks around a mouthful of hasbrowns as he takes the chair across from Sam.
Sam just shrugs, curls his fingers into fists around the bandages and reaches for the other greasy fast food bag.
"Y'thinkin' the Marlboro Man needs some competition?" his brother continues.
Sam realizes sausage doesn't look nearly as appealing when it's churning around in Dean's mouth.
"Is the Marlboro Man even around anymore?" Dean muses aloud, now halfway through his breakfast sandwich. "Or did his career go down the tubes when everyone realized smoking is bad?"
Sam lets him talk.
"Mm, no, wait, I know, the Brawny guy, right? You trying to get your mug on a roll of paper towels, Sammy? That your big plan? So all the MIlF's can drool over you when they do their grocery shopping?"
Sam nods around the chewy, slippery hashbrown in his mouth -- a lot of times it's just easier to agree with Dean.
"Dude, you going out for an 'I can't believe it's not butter' commercial? What was that guy's name?"
"Fabio," Sam supplies.
"Yeah, Fabio. Kinda creepy. He didn't have a beard, though, so that can't be it…"
Sam finishes his breakfast and listens to Dean ramble. It's so familiar it's comforting.
"You gonna be the new Old Spice guy? Y'know the one who goes, ladies," and Dean's voice drops at least two octaves, "look at your man, now back at me. I'm how your man could smell."
Sam balls up his wrappers and pronounces, "You watch way too much TV."
Dean snorts around his sandwich -- also not terribly attractive, but very much his brother -- and says, "No such thing."
Sam stretches in his chair, belly full, and actually feeling sated, a unique sensation since Lucifer took up residence in his head. He scratches his face again under his chin, even his blunt nails bringing a stinging sort of satisfaction.
"Seriously, Sam," Dean says as he shakes out of his jacket and leaves his empties on the table. "The serial killer look's not really in."
Sam avoids eye contact and stays quiet. He doesn't really want to have to explain that he can't shave himself. It's not like he's fifteen anymore. He hasn't been a goofy-assed teenager who has to have help from his brother for a hell of a long time and not being able to do something so common and routine makes him feel gangly and awkward and incompetent again. He doesn't like it.
Dean comes to one of those full-body stops just a few feet from Sam's chair and Sam knows Dean's doing that thing where he can see right through him. It takes a few extra seconds for Sam to realize he's been unconsciously rubbing the bandages on his hands and he knows he's screwed.
Dean claps him on the shoulder and he almost jumps out of the chair.
"C'mon, Sammy," he says motioning to the bathroom. "I got this."
Sam sighs. "Dean…"
"Nope, no sayin' my name all whiny. We gotta get you cleaned up. C'mon, kiddo."
Sam's not sure which he wants to protest more -- the shaving or the use of that stupid nickname that they've traded back and forth for years.
"Hey," Dean's using the authoritative voice. "Look here," and against his better judgment, Sam does, "See this face? This is my 'not messing around' face. So get your ass into the bathroom, so we can keep you from scaring the civvies too bad."
Sam doesn't really want to argue -- he's feeling too mellow -- and he would kind of like to have smooth cheeks again, so he gets up and takes a seat on the toilet when Dean points him there.
The room had been hot when he'd gotten out of bed, so he hadn't bothered to put on clothes over his boxers and threadbare t-shirt. The porcelain of the toilet seat reminds him that it's actually a little chilly and a shiver skates across his skin. Dean's too busy shaking the can of shaving cream, filling the sink and reaching for his favorite razor to notice.
It's not until Dean actually steps between Sam's legs that Sam thinks to worry about how close his brother's going to be. Dean appears perfectly calm and rational about settling himself neatly against Sam's thigh, denim rubbing along the hairs there, and kicking his legs apart even further. The cold is chased away by a flare of heat that shakes up Sam's spine and he knows he's in trouble.
Sam scoots further back on the porcelain, trying in vain to avoid touching his brother and Dean murmurs, "Dude, settle down. I'm not gonna cut you."
Sam just manages to choke back a wild laugh and wants to say, that's so not the problem.
Sam's always been a fuck up, this isn't news. And he's always been too close to his brother -- everyone loves to remind him of that, from demons to friends to other hunters. He took Psych 101 at Stanford, he knows the case studies, but a clinical view and all the rationality in the world doesn't stop him from wanting to do decidedly non-fraternal things to Dean. As much as he gets off with women -- and he remembers all the activities in which he participated when he was soulless -- his number one, go-to, never-fails-to-surprise-an-orgasm-out-of-him fantasy always has Dean at the center.
So this situation is slowly dissolving into near agony.
"Hey," Dean says, "Look up here."
His brother grabs his chin and forces Sam's face up and Sam inhales sharply.
"Just stay still, okay? I got this."
And then Dean brushes the hair out of Sam's eyes, tucks the unruly strands behind his ears and a warmth curls through him, a feeling of being protected and cherished and it's almost too much after everything he's been through. His exhale shudders slightly.
"You with me, Sammy?" Dean asks, still swirling his fingers behind Sam's ears even though his hair's all out of his face. "You okay?"
Sam's got his hands fisted in the bandages and his muscles are tense, but he whispers, "Yeah, I'm good."
"You wanna relax for me a little bit? M'telling you, I'm not gonna cut you."
Sam consciously lets go of the grip he's got on himself and settles back a little against the porcelain, thinking the quicker he does what Dean asks, the quicker he can go back to keeping his brother at arms length again.
"Close your eyes," Dean murmurs as he steps away.
Sam does so without thinking, hears Dean squeeze the shaving cream bottle and smells the crisp, clean scent before his brother's fingers skim along his face, jaw and neck. A small noise slips from Sam's throat and Dean mumbles nonsense words, still apparently thinking Sam's nervous about being cut.
Dean's tone and tenderness and body heat lull Sam until he almost melts into the seat, enjoying the sensation of being cared for, even at the end of a razor. Dean's careful, so fucking careful as he sweeps the blade along Sam's jaw, turning Sam's head this way and that and Sam just becomes pliable -- goes where his brother wants, wholly at his mercy and the conflicting feelings of both vulnerability and safety leave him shaken and stripped wide open.
The rhythm of scraping skin and swishing of the blade in the sink becomes almost soothing -- the sensation of the metal tracking across his face is just another note, another detail, in the whirlpool of emotions twisting through him -- and Sam doesn't notice when Dean steps even closer, brushing both of his legs against Sam's inner thighs.
Sam's thoroughly caught in his brother's orbit and he realizes not only would he gladly stay here -- on a toilet in some no-name motel -- for the rest of his life, but also that he's never felt more sane, more present and less crazy-hallucination-guy than he does right at this moment.
He wants to tell Dean what that means, but he doubts he can adequately put it into words.
"You want to keep the sideburns?" Dean whispers.
"Damn straight," Sam answers softly without thinking and is rewarded with a quiet chuff from his brother and the feel of his breath across his face.
It's over far too soon -- Dean's wiping Sam's face with a towel and muttering all done -- and Sam opens his eyes, blinks against the light in the bathroom, and can sense a change in the air, but is too mindless and disconnected to pinpoint the cause.
He sees a fondness in Dean's eyes, that he swears hasn't been there in years, and it lights him up so bright inside that he can't help but smile.
Dean chuckles, drags his leg a little too casually against Sam's thigh and asks, "You got a shaving kink, little brother?"
Sam doesn't get it -- he really doesn't -- until he follows Dean's gaze to his own crotch, where his hard-on is practically tenting his gray boxers, precome darkening the fabric at the head of his dick. He'd been so out of it, so enamored with Dean's closeness and gentle touch that he hadn't even been aware of his own body. His cock is outlined almost obscenely in his lap and between one breath and the next, it's like Sam's doused in freezing water.
He jerks upright, shoving the hem of his t-shirt over his erection and fervently wishes the world would open up -- again -- and swallow him.
"Sh-shit, sorry," his voice quivers and nausea rolls in his stomach. "I don't…it's not…"
Dean laughs again, low, and Sam knows he's never gonna hear the end of this. He squirms, trying to get away, disconnect from Dean -- and how did they end up touching in so many places? -- but it's difficult with his legs spread so far apart and Dean pushed up so close between them.
"Don't be sorry," Dean whispers, demeanor utterly pacifying and subdued. "You need some help?
Sam's reaction cascades through him, goosebumps pebble his arms -- hope, awe, disbelief, skepticism and serious doubt all mix with the physical response of his dick swelling in his boxers and his voice is gravel. "Dean, d-don't..."
"M'kinda serious, Sammy, doesn't have to be a big deal," Dean says, nudging his right knee a scant few inches closer to Sam's crotch.
It takes every ounce of willpower Sam has not to rub up against his brother's leg.
"Just you and me here, no one's gotta know," Dean murmurs.
Sam shudders -- full body -- in the face of essentially being handed something he'd wanted for so long, the reality of it is nearly untenable. His nipples harden under his t-shirt and he can actually feel a blurt of precome soak into the well-worn material of his boxers. He wants to say something, but damned if he can come up with an appropriate response, let alone voice it.
Dean shrugs, says, "no worries, Sam, not a big deal," and Sam can practically see the wall construct itself in his brother's eyes -- fortified even stronger now with the perceived rejection -- just as Dean steps back an inch or two.
Sam moves solely on instinct and reaches out for Dean, makes contact with a handful of denim and just whispers his brother's name.
Sam's never been more grateful for their ability to communicate without speaking than he is in this exact instant. Dean's expression goes from shuttered to perceptive and understanding and maybe even a little hungry.
For a wild second, Sam wonders if he's alone in his subversive leanings.
Dean smiles -- a small, truly genuine grin that mixes Sam up inside -- he flushes with a wild heat that spikes his blood and warms with a tenderness he hasn't felt since he was a kid.
Dean sinks to his knees on the cold bathroom floor so gracefully, Sam's awed speechless.
"It's cool, Sam," Dean's murmuring, the shrug evident in his voice, "I get that sometimes jerking off gets old. We gotta help each other out, you know?"
This is all spoken so nonchalantly, so casually, Sam has to wonder if it's part of a show -- that, and the matter-of-fact way Dean removes Sam's boxers -- just slips them over his hips, the elastic catching on the damp tip of his dick for a second, making his erection slap wetly back against his stomach and the hem of his t-shirt.
Dean whispers shit, Sammy so quietly, Sam's not sure his brother even knows he spoke out loud and the look in Dean's green eyes can only be described as a craving, like he wants and needs and the fact that all that vehemence is aimed his way kicks Sam's pulse so hard he can actually feel it in his dick.
Sam's breath hitches and his body shudders and his balls pull tight against his body and fuck he's not gonna to last long at all.
Dean blinks a few times and his expression becomes determined. "Sam," he says softly, "let me…just…"
Sam's arranged, there's no other word for it when Dean hooks a hand under Sam's left knee and props it on the corner of the sink and shoves the opposite thigh toward the tub -- effectively opening him to the cool air in the room and Dean's gaze. Sam's entire body shivers and he can truly say it's not from the temperature. His lower back bows against the toilet seat and Sam knows he's caught between his brother's hands and his eyes and he's never felt more exposed and coveted at the same time, precome dripping onto his abdomen.
Dean's slightly winded when he says, "I gotta -- just one taste…" and Sam anticipates the feel of his brother's mouth on his dick, so when Dean's lips land just inside of Sam's asscheek, tongue lapping at the sensitive, tender flesh of his rim, the shock causes Sam's stomach to drop fast, his hips jerk up and his toes curl on nothing but air.
"D-Dean…what, oh my fucking God -- nnngh," and he knows half the sounds coming out of his throat aren't even words, but the feel of his brother's hot, wet mouth and tongue against his pucker is just too much.
Fuck, he wants to grab Dean's head and force himself open on his brother's entire face. He wants to rub Dean's chin and nose and anything else he can fit into his ass and Sam has no idea where the urges come from. Instead of reaching for Dean like he wants, he grabs the back of the toilet, neck arching against the porcelain and he tries to warn -- he really, really does -- but all he manages is a choked, "D--shit, I can't…fuck…" before his balls empty and his cock practically explodes, shooting ropes of come across his threadbare t-shirt, almost to his chin, and the world around him just about whites out.
He's gasping, chest heaving like billows as he struggles for breath and when he opens his eyes, Dean's face hovers a few inches above his spent cock and his brother asks, "Been a while, huh, Sammy?"
Maybe it's the orgasm, maybe it's the gritty sound of Dean's voice after being tongue-deep in Sam's ass, maybe it's watching his brother lick the wetness from the rim job off his own lips and chin, but Sam hears himself pant, "No, it's you. God, it's just…it's always been you."
And time seems to stop; Sam can't look away from the surprise on Dean's face and he thinks, inanely, this will be the expression he remembers when his brother walks out.
A breath brings reality crashing back and Sam tries his damnedest to fix this. "Dean, I…I won't, wouldn't…I swear, it's just--"
"You better not be fucking with me right now, Sam."
Sam blinks. Of all the responses he could have ever expected, he doesn't now how to react to that. "I…what? Dean…"
Sam shakes his head, tries to sit up. "I'm not--"
"How long's it been me, Sam?"
Sam drops his leg from the corner of the counter, ass so slippery he knows no matter how this turns out it's gonna be jerk-off fodder for years. His voice wobbles, "I don't know…a while…I'm sorry, Dean, I swear I won't--"
Dean stands slowly, his bad knee cracking a little from being on the floor too long.
Sam's desperate, goes to reach out, not at all above begging at this point, and feels his entire body shudder to a standstill at the sight of his brother's hard-on bulging against the seam of his zipper.
Dean clears his throat softly and his words are so reticent, Sam almost doesn't hear him. "Been a while for me."
Sam's eyelashes flicker and he's snared so thoroughly in the moment, his breathing stops. It's not real. It can't be. He's gonna wake up from the most vivid dream of his life and not know what to do with himself, but first, he's gotta touch. With quivering fingers, he skates just the tips along the length of his brother's cock, the heat and strength so solid beneath his jeans. Sam twists his hand so the backs of his knuckles bump up and down Dean's dick in a fluttering rhythm that continues until Dean's hips thrust forward and he warns, "Sammy, you gotta stop. I really wanna fuck you and I know I won't be able to if you keep going."
Sam makes a noise -- somewhere between a sob and a squeak -- and his wet ass actually clenches on itself in anticipation.
"Is that a yes or a no?" Dean asks. "'Cause truthfully, I could go either way."
"Yes," Sam huffs, palm cupping Dean's balls through the denim, despite the warnings. "God, that's a yes…"
Dean grabs Sam's wrist and shoves their combined hands against his own crotch -- harder than Sam ever would have dared -- and his voice is wrecked when he says, "So, I know the gentlemanly thing to do is ask if it's okay, and more importantly, if you don't mind the taste of ass, because goddamn, I really wanna kiss you right now."
Sam smiles and shivers and his chest expands so big, he thinks surely his heart will beat out of it any second, but he arches his spine, sits up straighter, gets his fingers into the hair at the nape of Dean's neck and pulls his brother's lips against his mouth and it's insane. It's good and wet and the taste is musky and breakfast-y and under it all, there's Dean, and Sam knows he's going to get addicted to his brother's mouth as fast as he will to his body and this headlong, speeding rush into whatever the fuck they're doing feels so damn good and so right, it's almost unbelievable.
Dean whimpers and steps closer, pushing Sam against the toilet and wall and it's so fucking awesome to feel his brother's mouth and tongue and teeth and he realizes, in this stupid floral, cheap bathroom that he could keep doing this literally for the rest of his life and never tire of it.
Dean pulls back only enough to speak, even though the words are mumbled against Sam's mouth. "C'mon. Want you on the bed."
Sam's cock twitches and his knees are a little unstable, but he manages to get into the other room, remove his t-shirt and settle naked on the bed in a matter of minutes.
Dean's a bit slower, either because he's an exhibitionist or he likes to watch Sam, it's hard to tell, but he almost stalks toward the mattress, removing articles of clothing along the way as he asks, "You ever do this before?"
Sam's attention is actually on Dean's thick fingers as he works the buttons and zippers and skin is revealed in sluggish increments, the unhurried progression making Sam a little crazy, which is why the answer comes out so carelessly, "Some. Mostly just fingers."
"Yours?" Dean wonders as he kicks off his boots and shimmies out of his jeans.
"Y-yeah," Sam says without thinking. "Sometimes."
"Other people's?" Dean tosses a bottle of lube and a condom from his bag onto the bed and that's what does it for Sam -- makes this whole thing so real that he can actually feel the flush of blood seep from his heart to his dick. He's always had a bizarre erotic thing for condoms -- not the latex itself, but what it represents. When the condoms come out, the sex is inevitable and the certainty of that turns Sam's crank.
Sam's so lost in his body's reactions he nearly misses Dean's question and only answers at the last second with a quiet, "S-sometimes."
"Did it feel good?" Dean crawls overtop of Sam, barely touching, naked except for his black boxer briefs, the head of his cock peeking out from the elastic rim.
"Yeah," Sam breathes, squirming up on his elbows to get closer to Dean. "I liked it."
"Awesome," Dean whispers as he slides forward, connecting them skin to skin and mouth to mouth in a mind-numbing blaze of heat and friction. Sam's not even conscious of the noises he's making as he's caught up in his brother's lips and body and he can't help but grind his hips into Dean's, cocks separated by a thin slip of cotton and it makes Sam incoherent to be that close, but not really able to feel what he wants.
He whimpers and tries to bat ineffectively at Dean's briefs, but his brother just staples Sam's wrists to the mattress, the tiny display of dominance sending hot shivers down Sam's spine, pebbling his nipples.
Dean pulls back enough to watch Sam writhe against the meager restraint and murmur, "You like that, too, Sammy?"
Sam's legs jolt wider, slotting Dean even more solidly between them and he chokes, "Dean…"
"You like being held down?" Dean pushes that much harder and Sam twists under all that skin, both of them getting sleek with sweat.
"You a talker?" Dean wonders as he leans forward to wet Sam's taut nipple with his tongue. "Hmmm? Gonna tell me what you want?"
Dean sucks sharply, pulls with the muscles in his mouth, and it's almost like he's licking Sam's cock. Sam's never been a nipple guy until now, never before had anyone that could elicit that electrifying a reaction and he's trapped under his brother, arms and legs open wide, riding waves of insane hunger and need and pleasure, knowing he could get free if he wanted, but fuck if he would ever go anywhere.
Dean's mouth is as red as Sam's nipple must be when he leans up. "Goddamn, little brother, you're a fucking firecracker, aren't you?"
Sam's hips jerk and he groans as he realizes the combined puddle of their precome has slicked his abdomen.
Dean smiles and murmurs what sounds like fucking firecracker as he connects their lips again.
Dean confirms what Sam has always guessed -- his brother knows how to fucking kiss. He manages to use teeth and tongue in a way that's distracting and not overdone. It's delicious and maddening to touch the tip of Dean's tongue for a second only to have it slip away before delving too deep. He's teasing, Sam knows this, and it's driving the coils of sensation higher with each passing second, working Sam up until he's almost mindless, making noises of demand and plea mingled together.
Dean mouths his way down Sam's neck, biting and sucking and lapping the sweat and when Sam whines, too far gone to stifle it, and all but bucks Dean off the bed, his brother murmurs, okay, okay and sits back on his haunches.
Sam's well past modesty, so he doesn't even attempt to close his legs, in fact, if anything, he stretches his knees wider.
Dean makes a strangled sound and grabs the base of his own dick fast, through his boxer briefs and clenches his jaw. "Fuck, Sammy, Jesus. Gonna be the death of me."
Sam quivers and whispers, "Please…"
Dean must reach for some kind of mental composure because between one breath and the next, he's suddenly all business, slicks his fingers up with lube and reaches past Sam's balls to the tight whorl of flesh and Sam can only gasp and convulse and thrust his hips until Dean has to hold his thigh to keep him still.
Dean's slow about it -- almost agonizingly slow -- fingertip to first knuckle to second knuckle to bottoming out with his middle finger takes a full five minutes. Sam just opens up, little to no resistance, and fucks down on Dean's finger without even thinking coherently, whispers, "More, Dean…please, give me another."
Dean acquiesces and the stretch of a second is exactly what Sam wants. God, he loves a little burn with his ass play. He deliberately clenches his muscles around Dean's fingers and relishes the feeling of fullness, knowing it's only gonna get better once he gets Dean's dick inside him. The thought alone brings a blurt of precome out the slit of his own cock and he corkscrews his ass down against Dean's hand.
"Fuck, Sammy, you should see yourself," Dean marvels. "So damn hot."
Sam arches his lower back into a sharp bend just to shove Dean's fingers that much deeper. "Should fuck in front of a mirror next time," Sam pants.
It might be the use of the word fuck -- Dean always enjoys a well-placed expletive -- or maybe it was Sam saying next time, implying that they will fuck again, but whatever reason, Dean's expression turns to wonder and fascination and Sam knows a primal sense of delight that he put that look on his brother's face.
"You wanna turn over?" Dean asks quietly.
Sam's hair crackles against the mattress as he shakes his head and whimpers, "No, like this. Wanna see you. P-please…"
"Yeah," Dean's voice is gravel. "Yeah, baby. Okay."
Dean freezes for a split second and Sam clenches. He can't help it, it's automatic. Hearing the term of endearment from Dean, at this moment, after everything they've been through, makes something bright spark in Sam's chest and his body's reaction is instinctive.
Dean's answering grin is damn close to the physical countenance of what Sam's feeling. "Yeah?" Dean asks. "Baby does it for you? How about sweetheart? Sugar plum?"
Sam's hips pulse, but he can feel his cheeks flame. "Dean, c'mon, quit it…"
Dean kisses Sam and murmurs fucking adorable before pulling his fingers free and finally getting rid of his boxer briefs.
Sam's ass contracts again when he sees his brother's cock -- long and thick and blood dark and shiny wet at the tip and God, he just wants to get fucked. He doesn't like the emptiness and he worries that he's already rather alarmingly attached to the feel of Dean inside him, so he shifts his knees higher, almost to his chest. To encourage his brother, he holds himself as wide open as he can get, palms gripping his shins, the muscles of his thighs pulling and straining.
Dean's just about got the condom rolled down when he glances up and a moan punches out of him. His hands shake as he lubes himself up somewhat frantically, saying, "Sammy, I gotta…I can't…just let me…"
And then, he's right back where Sam wants him, between his legs, head of his dick aligned right against Sam's ass and Sam murmurs, "God, Dean, please fuck me" and his brother sinks in, the descent gradual but relentless. Sam's ass just opens up -- no real choice in the matter, but Sam doesn't want one. The stretch and burn of the delicate flesh feels like a brand, like there's no doubt who Sam belongs to -- if there ever was -- and Christ, but he loves the penetration, the fullness, the ownership, the surrender.
Dean bottoms out and burrows into Sam, full body, face pressed into Sam's neck and Sam feels the flare of heat travel from where they're connected all the way to the top of his head. It's amazing and consuming and so incredibly breathtaking and Sam would happily stay like this until the end of time.
"Gotta give me a second, Sammy, it's…you're…shit, man, you're fucking tight…"
Sam lets go of his shins to wrap his arms and legs around his brother, nuzzling against Dean's temple, inhaling the scent of sweat and the day-old shampoo and gel and cologne that Dean uses. It's familiar and strangely comforting and a little at odds with the pounding beat of need that's making Sam's fingers tingle, but somehow, it's profoundly them.
It's difficult to say who does it -- the tiniest shift of a hip -- and they're both gasping and arching, that centimeter of change bringing a flash of overwhelming sensation.
Dean uncurls around a deep groan and whispers, "Fuck, baby, you gonna let me fuck you, huh?"
Sam unravels, begs with two words, please and Dean and flattens his palms against the headboard to take Dean's first thrust. The chafing and grinding in his ass should be painful, but Dean works him up to it, pulling out inches at a time and building up until Sam's rim closes shut around the tip of Dean's cock before he digs back in. Dean's a veritable maestro at this, varying the tempo and rhythm and churning of his hips until Sam can't do anything but fuck up into it, wholly captivated by his brother.
The mattress shakes and their breaths hammer in and out to the cadence of their hips and Sam looks up at Dean above him, flushed and beautiful, sweat beading on his forehead and temples and thinks we're those kind of brothers now, the ones that people whisper about behind their hands, the ones who make others uncomfortable, who are too close, are sin personified, and Sam thinks this might have been inevitable, that they were heading here all along.
"Sammy," Dean moans. "You gotta…M'close…c'mere…"
And Dean somehow manages to balance on one hand while his other wraps firmly around Sam's dick, literally wringing Sam's second orgasm out of him with only three strokes, the pleasure convulsing his ass in rhythmic tremors around Dean's cock and making him grab blindly onto Dean's hips to hold him deep inside.
"Yeah," Dean grates out. "Fuck, yeah, that's…shit shit shit…"
He's beautiful, Sam's brother, when he comes, hips pistoning, dick snugged up balls deep against Sam's rim and when they both collapse, gasping for air and still wrapped up in each other, it's dizzying, but in the best way possible.
Sam loses track of time, doesn't know how long they lie together, coming down, trying to regulate their heartbeats; Dean moves eventually, pulling out with a wet sound and a shocked breath from both of them, but doesn't go far. He drops against Sam's side, hand still tucked under Sam's shoulder and whispers, "Damn."
"We're monumentally fucking stupid, you know," Sam announces.
Dean props himself up on a elbow next to Sam, hooking their legs together, tying them up bodily. "Because we could have been doing this for a long time?"
Sam grins, loves when their thinking circles around to the same page, "Yeah."
Sam leans in and up a little for a quick kiss, pulls back to watch the surprise on Dean's face morph into elation and eagerly opens his lips when Dean swoops back in for a second and third.
"Your hair's monumentally stupid," Dean says with his fingers fisted at Sam's nape.
Sam tingles, everywhere -- fingers, toes, his ass, his dick, his freshly shaved face and he laughs, quick and true and real. "You love it."
Dean's expression is so open, so accessible when he says, "yeah" that Sam has to bury his nose against Dean's shoulder and rub his mouth along his brother's skin, so damn giddy that he's allowed, that he can do this, be with Dean like this, he's breathless with the newness of it.
Dean inhales against Sam's hair and says, "Okay lazyass, the research on the Barton farm isn't gonna do itself."
Sam chuckles into his brother's bicep, "Since when are you Library Guy?"
Dean pulls Sam's head back so they can make eye contact. "Since the quicker we get this damn case done, the quicker we can use up the cash reserves we got to properly christen every corner of this hotel room."
Sam's entire body heats at the words and at this rate, he's not sure they'll make it out of the library without a public indecency charge, but he knows he hasn't felt this exhilarated and downright enchanted since he was a teenager and the fact that it's Dean makes it that much more amazing and sweet and hopeful.
With a wide-open grin and an eagerness he's not even trying to hide, Sam quips, "Race you to the shower."
By the time they're under the water, they decide to call it a tie.