"You're staring again."
"Huh?" Dean jerks his head, tries to pretend he wasn't doing what Sam just said he was. Unfortunately, Sam isn't that easy to fool, and this time he actually looks away from his computer, and fixes his gaze on Dean.
"Dude. You've been staring at me all morning. It's kind of starting to freak me out. Do I have something on my face, or what?"
Actually, that's exactly what Dean's been trying to figure it out all morning. Something's different, but he can't put his finger on it.
"Nah, it's just you're so sexy, Sammy, you're a distraction. You should do something about that." He throws in a smirk and hopes that'll get Sam's attention off him and back onto research.
"Maybe I should."
It's kind of funny, in a really not funny sort of way, just how fast Sam can move, for such a big guy. He's out of his chair and has Dean pinned on the bed before Dean finishes processing that Sam's moving.
Pinned, arms above his head, wrists pressed tight against the rumpled sheets, with Sam's knees on the outside of his, and Sam's mouth brushing just against his ear. "Shouldn't I? This what you want, Dean?"
Dean swallows the words wanting out and tenses, trying to find some purchase beneath him to push Sam off. He can't move far enough, can't shift even his legs to get his feet against the bed, and Sam's breathing right in his fucking ear, moist and warm and distracting.
"Get off me, you big freak," is what he says finally, shuddering when Sam laughs low and soft.
"Not a chance," Sam breathes into his ear, voice pitched low and rough. He nips at Dean's ear, then licks the edge of it. "You been wantin' this since we woke up. I'm just giving you what you want." Sam licks just under Dean's ear, then down along his jaw.
"Jesus, Sam--" He begins, trying one more time to pull away, to wiggle out of Sam's grip.
Sam tightens his hold on Dean's wrists and brushes his mouth across Dean's. "Just relax and enjoy it, okay?" Another brush of his mouth, tongue lingering against Dean's lips, teasing lightly. "I want to taste you," he whispers. "Tell me you want it, too."
"Sam," Dean moans, trying again. He wasn't even thinking of sex -- he can almost hear Sam scoff at that, but it's the truth, really -- was just trying to figure out what was different this morning. "Christo," he whispers, pushing up against Sam, breath catching at the feel of Sam's erection pressing back.
Sam laughs and pulls back just enough for Dean to see him: pupils blown wide, eyes dark with hunger, skin dark with stubble and flushed with arousal. He's absolutely gorgeous, and it makes Dean's blood run hotter, faster.
"I'm not possessed, idiot. I just--" He kisses Dean's throat, licking, then sucking, at his Adam's Apple. "Want to taste you. Eat you, man." Each word is punctuated with a nip or a lick, and then Sam turns his head and rubs, and Dean growls at the sensation of rough stubble scraping over the sensitive skin of his throat.
"You pick now?" Dean says roughly, turning his head toward Sam's. Sam laughs, low and dark, and takes Dean's mouth, tongue sliding slick and hot around the inside of Dean's mouth. It's a wet, messy kiss, teeth banging and catching, and Dean tastes the sharp tang of blood when Sam's split lip reopens.
It's a disappointment when Sam lets go and sits back on his haunches. Dean's loose, he could buck Sam off him and -- do what? He's right where he likes to be, so why would he fight against it?
Instead, he tilts his head just a little and gives Sammy his best come-and-get-me look. "You waitin' for an engraved invitation, or what?"
"You're such a dick," Sam says, but it's fond, gentle. "Take your clothes off."
"Should make you work for this," Dean grumbles, but he struggles more-or-less upright and pulls his t-shirt up over his head.
"Baby, I work for it every day," Sam laughs, scooting backward so Dean can pop the button on his jeans. Dean scowls at the 'baby', but can't maintain the scowl, because Sam's turned his attention back to tasting as much of Dean as he can reach.
Each nipple is tasted: licked, sucked into hard, tight points, and bitten. Dean's not even as sensitive there as Sam is, and he's writhing by the time Sam's done, his breathing hard and fast. His whole body feels hot, feverish, and the flames lick higher each time Sam moves a little lower.
Sam nips at Dean's ribs, bites and sucks at random spots until Dean feels half-crazy from want. The half-crazy ratchets upward when Sam rims his navel, tongue darting in and out in shallow thrusts while large, broad hands hold his hips flush against the bed.
"Sam," he moans, desperate to thrust upward, to get some kind of friction going. His dick is so hard it's going to break off, or he's gonna cream his pants like a teenager. "C'mon, lemme--"
Sam doesn't budge, though, just tightens his hold and licks downward from Dean's navel to the waistband of his jeans, palming Dean's erection through the denim once before pulling back.
Heat curls through Dean in molten tendrils, gathering at the base of his spine, pooling in his belly and he whimpers before he can stop the sound, arching up toward Sam when he rubs again, fingers cupping and curving to fit.
"You should see yourself," Sam murmurs, fingers working at the rest of the buttons. "You look like a living wet-dream. Be nice to have you like this, twenty-four-seven. Spread out -- could tie you up, Dean. You couldn't move, you'd just have to lie here, waiting for me."
Dean's breath catches in his chest, and heat surges through him again, fiery and potent and a thousand times stronger than even five minutes ago.
"Yeah, um. You could," he says, and it's embarrassing how rough his voice is. Or it would be, if he could be assed to care about anything but Sam's hands and mouth on him. Dean licks his lips and groans again when Sam strokes him roughly through his jeans. It's just this side of painful, streaks of fire licking at him as the denim grabs and holds, then lets him go.
"No underwear?" Sam asks, pulling on the fly. He ignores Dean's dick -- curving aggressively up toward Dean's belly -- which is just so unfair.
"None clean," Dean mutters, lifting his hips so Sam can tug the jeans down and off. "And dude, if I'm gonna be naked, you need to get naked, too."
Sam arches an eyebrow. "So who's running this show?" He smacks Dean on the side of his leg. "Roll over."
Dean snarls wordlessly, then rolls, muttering, "I am not your bitch, Sammy."
Sam laughs. "Oh, you so are. But it's okay, man. I'm not gonna tell anyone." He settles his weight over Dean, and the next words are low; soft caresses against Dean's ear. "I love you like this, because I know you want it, even if you don't want to want it." He presses against Dean, dick hard -- Dean can practically feel it throbbing inside him, right now, and closes his eyes to better visualize it -- and then he's gone, pulling a whine of protest out of Dean.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." Sam bites at tender part of Dean's neck, teeth scraping over, down, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He laps over the scrapes, licking his way downward, then backtracks to breathe into Dean's ear again. "Two ways this could go, Dean. I can eat you open and then fuck you, or fuck you open, then eat you. Got a pref?"
The visuals are stunning, and Dean takes a second to breathe through the urge to grind down and come *right the fuck now*. Sam laughs, low and nasty, and curls his tongue around the edge of Dean's ear. It feels -- sounds -- slick and dirty, and hunger bubbles up through Dean.
A quick nip to the fleshy part of his earlobe grabs his attention back. "Well?"
"I--" He begins, hoarsely, shivering from the moist warmth sliding down into his ear, along his nerve-endings, through his body. "E-eat me open, then fuck me."
"Good choice," Sam says, and his voice is a rough growl that resonates all through Dean. "My pleasure."
No, really, it's mine, Dean thinks, and then he can't think, because Sam's shifting, nudging Dean's legs open as he settles between them.
"Up," Sam says after a minute, and Dean struggles to push himself up onto his hands and knees. Sam's hand pushes back against his shoulders, though, and okay, ass in the air. Dean can do that.
His belly is wet where his dick's been leaking against it, and the sudden rush of air across the damp spot makes him all the more aware of the heat throbbing between his legs; of Sam's hot breath just brushing over his ass. Sam's hands sliding over his cheeks, cupping and spreading them, make the throb so much worse and so much better all at once, and Dean quivers; feels himself clench and release without conscious thought.
"Jesus, do something," he growls, when it seems like Sam's been holding him open, staring at him, for hours.
"Impatient, much?" Sam mumbles, the words spoken against his skin.
There's a sharp, bright prickle of not-quite-pain -- like sandpaper rubbed over tender skin -- and Dean flinches. It happens again, and again, until he feels raw and hot, and it strikes him then what's different this morning: Sam didn't shave. Hasn't shaved, for a couple of days.
The prickling not-quite-pain moves inward, back out, and then Sam tastes him. Licks straight down the center of the crease between his ass, slicking his tongue over Dean's hole.
He thinks he says something, but if it even makes sense, Dean doesn't know and couldn't care.
"Love tasting you," Sam says, puffs of air against straining muscle, and then he's licking again; biting and sucking at the tender ring until Dean's panting, gasping, pushing back toward that wicked tongue. "Hot and dark; could lose myself in here, stay here forever like this."
Dean whines low in his throat; he thinks it comes out as, "be my guest."
He presses Dean open even further, thumbs spreading him wide until it hurts, just a little. Sam uses his tongue like a cock, licking into Dean in little thrusts, holding there while Dean flutters around him, the muscle trying to close.
When Sam pulls back with a wet, sucking sound, Dean makes an aborted attempt to follow him, his body aching for more.
"Want you to come on my tongue, Dean," Sam says, biting each word into Dean's ass, following the curve of skin and muscle. "No," he adds, voice sharp, when Dean shifts, reaching for his dick. "Just my tongue. Nothing else."
Arousal sizzles through him, and his dick throbs against his belly while his pulse pounds in his ears. "Christ, Sammy."
"Just my tongue," Sam repeats, and then Dean's spread wide open again, Sam fucking him wetly and making detours to lick at Dean's balls, at the tender skin between balls and hole, massaging it with his tongue.
It's hard to hold still, and Sam didn't say he couldn't move; just that he can't touch himself. A tiny part of Dean wants to hate this -- he really isn't Sam's bitch, no matter what he might say -- but the larger part of him is more than happy to go along. He rocks backward, meeting each tongue thrust, feeling the heat building inside him.
It explodes when Sam presses both thumbs -- broad, thick, slippery against slick muscle -- into him, opening him completely. Sam licks around the ring, fluttering his tongue, making Dean think for just one moment of the time he described to Sam how to go down on a girl. The fluttering is quick, light, a tease of a promise dangling just out of reach until Sam shifts, scraping his stubbled cheeks over sensitive, aroused tissue.
Dean comes with a shout, fingers clenching the sheets as his body pulses over and over, Sam's tongue working in and out of him through each spasm.
There's a muted sound behind him, then Sam's pressing into him, dick hard and hot and God, so welcome. Dean groans and shoves back, body open and accepting, and Sam's groan mingles with his.
"Fuck, Dean--" The words are gasps, hardly even that, and Sam's a heavy weight against him, driving them forward. A welcome weight, and all Dean can do is tighten his grip on the sheets and hold on.
Each thrust rubs over his prostate until all he sees are silver sparkles hanging in the air and all he hears is the roaring in his ears. His body feels hot and heavy, not big enough to contain the hunger, the need surging through him. Hot fingers circling his dick make him shudder, not sure if he should thrust into that heat, or back against Sam.
"Come again for me," Sam gasps, jacking Dean's dick with quick, sharp strokes. Pleasure slides hot and bright across his nerves; he's sensitive from coming already, though he's hard and ready again, and then the choice isn't his anymore -- if it ever was -- because Sam's rubbing his thumb across the small, wet slit, thumbnail catching just so, making pleasure and pain splinter into one another.
Dean comes again, feels like he's shaking apart with the force of it. Through the haze he feels Sam throbbing inside him, feels each pulse as he empties himself deep inside. Sam drives himself forward again and again until he's whining, the sound vibrating against Dean's neck. When he stops they fall forward, into the sticky, wet mess Dean left on the sheets.
They lay there for a minute, panting, until Dean's need for oxygen overrides the need to never, ever move again. He elbows Sam in the ribs and mutters, "You weigh a ton, get off."
Sam grunts and rolls, and they separate with a slick, wet sound that would have Dean's dick rising with interest if he hadn't just come twice in like, five minutes.
"So how do I taste?" He asks after a few minutes, when he can breathe and think -- mostly -- again.
Sam snorts and rolls back toward him, cupping Dean's head to pull him in for a kiss. "Like sin and salvation," he whispers, opening Dean's mouth with his, and letting him taste for himself.