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Fic: Time Wastes Itself - Sam/Dean (1/1)
Title: Time Wastes Itself
Author: Blue
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: ~5000
Warnings/Notes: Dean has daddy issues; Sam's a control freak. Crossposted all over IJ like holy crap.
*
Time Wastes Itself
It's stupid. Dean is in the driver's seat, bellowing at the top of his lungs over the thundering bass that he's calling Bobby, that's it, no arguments, Sam is in the passenger side with his lap full of crumpled newspapers and a map in even worse shape, waving half a Big Gulp in one hand and flashlight in the other, and Sam yells, "All we did was take a wrong turn! So what, you're going to run to him for advice the next time we fuck? 'Cause, damn," he adds, not quite under his breath, "damn if you don't need a map half the time then, too."
Dean stops dead. The music keeps on blaring but for a minute, Sam's almost sure the car's going to chew up the tape and spit it out in unnatural sympathy with the shell-shocked look on Dean's face.
The lights on the phone in Dean's hand flicker. Sam hears the call connect and Dean jumps to end it, staring at the flashing display in disbelief before he turns on Sam.
"What the fuck! Seriously, what the fuck!"
"What!" Sam shouts back. "Are you?"
"No, what the hell! Don't say that shit when I'm callin' Bobby!"
"Stop calling Bobby every fucking twenty miles and he won't hear me!"
"Sam!"
"Dean!"
"Jesus."
So that's how they rack up five hundred and three miles in complete roaring silence. Consequently, that's also how Sam goes to bed alone that night. Not because Dean actually kicked him out (Dean wouldn't, he's way too concerned about the future of his sex life for that sort of drama) but because it's the principle of the fucking thing.
Sometimes, Sam really hates his principles.
*
By the next evening, they're back on track. The roadside grease they had for lunch is an unfulfilling lump settled in the middle of his gut and it's as muggy as a bayou inside the car. Sam fiddles with the fans, wishing for the million-and-fourth time that he'd pushed for air conditioning when Dean had rebuilt her.
"Quit it," Dean snaps.
Sam says, "Shut up," and keeps poking at the dash.
"It's not gonna help."
"I said, shut up."
"Don't go takin' your sexual frustration out on me."
"I'm not- God, would you just shut up?"
The quirk at the corner of Dean's mouth wobbles a little but holds firm. "You gonna make me?"
Okay. So that's the olive branch. Sam can work with this. "Pull over."
Dean's eyebrows creep upward. "Here?"
"Yeah, here. Now."
Dean checks the rearview before steering the car sedately onto the gravel shoulder. Sam jiggles his leg nervously as the engine ticks. Honestly, Dean giving him the finger was more expected.
On Dean's sharp intake of breath, Sam shoves across the seat to slap a hand over his mouth. Green eyes startle wide before narrowing and Sam presses harder, says, "Not a word."
Dean rolls his eyes but miraculously stays quiet. A sharp trill of victory races down Sam's spine. The back of his hand warms with Dean's tiny, puffing breaths, he can feel the rapid rise-fall of Dean's chest, and abruptly that thrill coils right back up, prickling his skin as it goes.
"What were you saying about sexual frustration?" Sam asks.
Deliberately, Dean sinks lower in the seat, knees falling wide around the steering column. There's a light in his eyes Sam can't really interpret but it's what makes him stretch out his other hand to open the door. "Out."
Dean clambers out so fast there should be a screech and skid marks smoking on the leather. Scooting back across the seat, Sam gets out on the other side, scrubbing his palms dry on his jeans where Dean can't see. So he's got no clue what the hell he's doing. Maybe that doesn't matter much.
A minivan whips by at about thirty over the limit. Dean's waiting for him when he rounds the front bumper, not-quite-casually leaning against the shiny black metal. Stomach knotting itself up in a collection a Boy Scout could be proud of, Sam presses right up against him, hands on the roof and mouth at Dean's ear. One thing Sam's never going to get over is how soft Dean's skin is against his lips.
"Are you going to tell me what you want?"
"Sam."
"Seriously. I want to hear it," Sam says. It's only mostly a line. Dean might be vocal but he's not vocal about this, hardly ever saying flat out he wants this, like that, now. Not that Sam's got a huge problem with getting what he wants all the time.
A little one, maybe.
"Just do it," Dean says, voice steadier, more impatient.
"Tell me."
"You're the one that said pull over." Tension snaps back into Dean's body, muscles tightening, the hand that'd been grasping at Sam's waist turning to a fist in his shirt. "You wanna fuck around on the side of Highway 20, go for it. I'm game."
Whatever had been sparking under Sam's skin evaporates on a shallow sigh. He puts some distance between them because it just feels awkward, exposed. Who knows who could be driving by in that beat-up old Toyota.
"What, Sammy, you givin' up on me already?" In about five seconds flat, Dean's posture goes from inviting to flat-out, in-your-face attitude. "Got a little performance anxiety? Stage fright?"
"Jesus Christ," Sam mutters. "Forget it."
"Aw, but you got me all hot 'n bothered-"
"Hey," interrupts the guy rolling up in a lime-green Honda, his head stuck out the window and three kids crammed into the back. "You boys got some car trouble? 'S always the pretty ones, right?"
A hard bark of laughter jumps out of Sam's throat. "Right," he says. "The pretty ones."
*
"Kinda ironic," Dean says.
Busy trying to look busy so he doesn't have to listen to Dean's running commentary, Sam just grunts. Naturally it doesn't work because Dean doesn't give a shit about a captive audience.
"This place is a fire hazard."
Sam's sort of forced to agree. The main floor of the fire hall is crammed with junk, broken pieces of things not even recognisable anymore and lopsided heaps of mildewed boxes (air quality: non-existent). They'd spent a good fifteen minutes searching for the stairs. He'd been ready to call it quits and sleep in the car, rainstorm or no.
But at least Dean hadn't suggested crawling up the rusty pole jammed in the middle of all that chaos. Sam really would've had to just kill him.
"You gonna light that lamp any time tonight, Captain Oblivious?"
"Y'know, maybe you could do something useful, like figure out where the fuck we're going to sleep."
Dean's mouth forms a soft 'o' as the wick ignites. For exactly thirty seconds, Sam enjoys pure, blessed silence. Then, like the rain thundering back down, Dean starts mouthing off like that time in ninth grade when Billy Elms had called him limpdick. Even then, it was pretty minor, but Dean's got his pride.
Sam doesn't process a word he's saying, though. Not a word. Because Sam can't hear anything over the noise of his own teeth grinding to a fine powder in his skull. Before he really knows it, he's halfway across the living quarters, and by then, his brain has caught up to his feet and everyone's completely on board with the plan of shutting Dean up right the fuck now.
Dean is about as shocked to be slammed back against the rough brick wall as Sam is over putting him there.
Sam opens his mouth to hiss at Dean to just shut up, for the love of god, shut up, but.
But.
Sam can actually fucking feel the frantic drumbeat of Dean's heart kicking at his ribs. There's barely a sliver of rich colour skirting the blown-wide black of his pupils. Fifty bucks and half a lifetime of guilt says the thing darkening his brother's eyes to a forest at twilight is not fear.
"Sam-"
"D'you want this?"
"What- Jesus!" The last's half-mangled on an explosion of air as Sam hauls Dean away from the wall to shove him right back up against it again, face-first. He's careful this time, deliberately using his weight to pin Dean in place.
Sam says, "C'mon, do you? You remember?"
On the red brick, Dean's fingertips are white. "Remember what?"
Sam lets his eyes slide shut. The familiar smells of Dean and dust, salt warm on skin and old, closed-up rooms makes it easy to sink into a memory that most people'd never want to have, let alone relish. Sam's got plenty. It creeps into his voice, his mouth brushing Dean's skin as he whispers, and it feels like he's fourteen again. Fourteen and greedy and too damn stubborn for Dean's own good.
"You used to tell me I had to ask for it if I wanted it." The short hairs at Dean's nape are prickly-soft against Sam's lips. "If I wanted your mouth on my dick I had to ask for it, had to get my hands on your head and shove you down, tell you how bad I wanted it. You remember?"
Dean's throat makes a shallow clicking noise as he swallows. His lips are parted, wet, red like he's been scraping them with his teeth. Halfway to fucked out already and Sam hasn't done a thing.
"Taught me every filthy fucking trick I know. How to get you to open up good and wide." Fingertips on Dean's lips, Sam rubs them dry, watches how they catch and pull. The way Dean lets him makes his stomach melt into something liquid-hot, searing. "How you sure as hell didn't mind swallowing but you liked your mouth full of it first."
Eyes clenched tight, body tense and thrumming, Dean moans, "Fuck, Sam, careful."
"Why, are you planning on losing it already? You want to come that bad?"
"Dad, Jesus Christ, Dad'll-"
Shocked straight back into the here and now, Sam says, "What?" right as Dean's eyes fly open.
"Nothing," Dean says, too fast, too quiet.
Headfirst out on a shaky limb, Sam says, "Dad'll hear," and Dean's hips jerk on this long, whole-body shudder. "That it?"
Unable to look at Sam out of even the corner of his eye, Dean says, "No."
Sam eases off a little, leaving one hand heavy on Dean and scrubbing at his face with the other. Stubble rasps quietly against his palm, a barely-there twitch of muscle betraying that Dean can hear it, too.
He lets Dean take a little more of his weight, feels his fingers dig into the meat of Dean's shoulder. "You're going to answer me when I ask you a question," he says, the slight change in the timbre of his voice not entirely deliberate. It gets an immediate reaction, subtle but there, a tiny shift in Dean's breathing, in the way he holds himself between Sam and the wall. "You're going to do what I tell you to."
Not really expecting an answer, Sam gets one in the slack of Dean's mouth and the way he nods once, so slight as to be almost imperceptible. That one acknowledgement changes everything. Everything except not knowing what the hell he's doing. Between them, nothing could ever change that.
"If I put you on your knees, are you going to stay there on your own?"
Dean doesn't answer. Sam usually takes that as his clue to back off, quit pushing. But come to think of it (couple seconds worth, not a moment more), backing off hasn't ever really worked out so well.
Swallowing quickly, not wanting a chance to think again, Sam commits them both to whatever the hell they're doing with a tight grip to the back of Dean's neck, thumb and fingers digging hard against bone. "Spread your legs."
What Dean should do is make a lame crack about Sam's control issues. Get mouthy, snarky, anything to brush this off, turn it into a joke instead of something they're actually going to get serious about.
The heavy soles of Dean's boots scrape-grind on the wrinkled linoleum floor. On instinct, Sam says, "Good," and some of the tension in Dean bleeds off, turns into something it takes Sam a couple long seconds to recognise.
"Ready to listen to me, now? Because Dad isn't here, isn't ever gonna be here." Sam pushes aside the slight twinge of wrong in his gut. He got over that feeling a long time ago. Learned that wrong is all about perspective and he's never going to listen to anybody try to tell him this isn't what he wants. "Just you and me in the dark, no lights 'cause what if somebody saw."
"Don't care," Dean says. He strains for the warm press of Sam's hand on his belly, sucks in a tripping breath as Sam lets it wander further south.
"Yeah?" Idly, Sam's fingers ghost over Dean's zip. Heat pours through worn denim. If Sam wanted to, he could measure Dean's heartbeat in the blood-rich throb of his cock. "Tell me why not."
Half a moan, Dean says, "I-" and his fucking ringtone screeches out over the rest. He jolts against Sam's grip, another rough noise let loose, and Sam hisses, "Stand still," as he digs violently into Dean's pocket for his cell.
Hardly believing himself, Sam flips the phone open and tugs Dean back hard by the hand still spread wide over his dick. "Hey, Bobby."
Whatever Bobby says isn't half as important as the shocked, almost pained moan that comes rippling straight out of Dean's throat. He grinds against the heel of Sam's palm, white-knuckled grip on Sam's wrist to keep it there, and if that weren't enough to clue Sam in on how hard Dean's getting off on this, the jackrabbit-dart of Dean's eyes beneath tightly-closed eyelids might.
"That noise?" Sam asks. It's got nothing to do with why Bobby's calling but that's the least of Sam's worries. Most of the time, Bobby thinks they're crazy anyway. Loves them, sure, Sam doesn't doubt that, but definitely thinks they're not all there. "'S Dean."
"Holy fuck," Dean gasps, good and loud, and he gets louder still when Sam shoves him against the wall again.
Snapping the phone shut without so much as a goodbye (bad connection, Bobby'll buy that, won't really want to know the truth), Sam jams it back down the front of Dean's jacket. "Problem?"
"Wasn't really Bobby," Dean says. "Sam?"
"You're going to have to explain to him later what all the fuss was about."
Brow wrinkling like he doesn't want to ask, Dean says, "What're we doin' here, Sammy? Don't think I'm complainin', I ain't, but."
Figuring out what the hell Dean wants is the answer he's got, which probably isn't going to fly. And if he's right, he'll just make things worse by saying it. With his heart marching straight up his ribcage, Sam says, "Finding out how well you follow orders when it's not Dad giving them. Turn around."
Reluctantly, Dean does, eyes everywhere but on Sam. That can slide for now, Sam's way too caught up in the rippling pulse of pure pleasure that just went straight to his cock. Voice close to wrecked, he says, "Down."
And Dean slides down, jacket scraping the brick, knees falling wide to bracket Sam's legs. His hands, shaking just enough to be noticeable, are braced on Sam's thighs for balance.
"Good," Sam says, hoping for the same reaction as before but getting a muted, uncertain echo of it. It shouldn't be, but Dean off-balance is one of the hottest things Sam's ever seen, right up there with the time Sam finally figured out how much Dean liked to be kissed. Long, slow deep kisses that got Dean sucking his dick so hard Sam thought his heart would burst from his chest.
Speaking of, that's a fucking fantastic idea. "You want to suck me off?"
Dean's eyes flick up, then back down. "Wouldn't mind."
Sam's amazed to actually see the disappointment slumping Dean's shoulders. Christ, if he were anybody else, Dean would've given him an inferiority complex years ago.
"Isn't worth my time if you're not going to make it good."
Dean's head snaps up. "What?"
"I don't want your mouth on my dick if all you've got to give me is a half-assed blow. I can get that pretty much anywhere."
It seems pretty likely that Sam's just fucked them both over, then there's this spark in Dean's eyes, almost-challenge. Now he's got to prove himself. Dean's thrived for years on that need, what the fuck was Sam thinking, waiting so long to put it to use like this.
Sam curves his hand over the top of Dean's head, not pushing, not yet. "I want all or nothing, boy." The word doesn't sit quite right on Sam's tongue. Doesn't matter, though--it gets to Dean, visibly crawls under his skin and makes him shiver. "All or nothing."
Dean says something that's more than likely, "Yes, sir," and Sam's glad he can't quite hear it, not sure what it'd do to him to hear that note of deference directed his way. But he imagines that's what it was anyway and maybe it makes his insides start tying themselves up. Or maybe that's only anticipation crawling along his nerves, because Dean's fingers are inching up, curling in the pockets of Sam's jeans to hold on, and Dean's mouth is open, pressing slowly against the dizzying ache between Sam's legs.
"Make it good, wet but not sloppy. I won't tolerate you being sloppy," Sam says, firming his grip on Dean's head, holding him right there until Dean manages a shaky nod. Sam's hips jerk, forcing another low moan out of Dean, and Dean has to know how good that looked because he's doing it again, dragging his mouth over the rise beneath the zip, rubbing his face in it.
This is when Sam realises it's going to be goddamn impossible to keep up the act, let alone keep himself up because he's pretty sure any second now his knees are going to buckle and he's going to blow a load in his pants. Worst sort of shame to waste a go like that, especially when he's got Dean so fucking willing (Dean's never really unwilling, it's just, this is a whole new level for Sam to become addicted to), and right now, Dean's probably up for anything-
"Hurry up and pull it out," Sam grits out between clenched teeth. "Get it in your mouth."
A sharp hiss of Dean's breath fills the air. He fumbles at the zip, taking twice as long to get it open because his eyes keep jumping up to Sam's face and back down again like he's not sure where he wants to be looking more.
Sam makes the decision for him by grabbing his chin, forcing his head up. "Now show me how good you are."
"Christ, Sam." Blindly, Dean gets his jeans open, shoves one hand in and visibly shudders as his fingers curl tightly around Sam's cock to haul it out. He doesn't even bother with a few token tugs like usual before closing his mouth over the head, lips clamped tight, tongue flickering at the slit, little bit of sweet pressure. Then it's a slick and dirty wriggle, tongue curling and lips working to draw him just a bit deeper.
"I know you're not afraid to make noise," Sam tells him, and before the last syllable's even faded, this gorgeous, throaty moan builds up in Dean's chest, spills out around Sam's dick in a flood of sensation. It doesn't stop there, either, like all Dean needed was permission and he's making enough noise to shame anybody in the business.
The last thing Sam wants is this to end, but he says, not even sure that's his own voice he's hearing, "Stop."
Dean shudders, slows, finally goes still with his mouth full. He holds there, breathing hard and fast and shallow, eyes dark and as desperate as Sam feels.
One hand cupping the base of Dean's skull, Sam pulls back, heart thudding harder and harder as his dick slides thick and glistening between Dean's lips. He licks his own, imagining the tight, swollen feeling, how good Dean would taste right now.
Instead of finding out, he hauls Dean up, surprised at how heavy and limp Dean is in his arms but liking it, oh fuck, loving it, and shoves his chest back up against the wall. Dean moans something that could be Sam's name or a curse or both. Sam says, "Yeah," because hell yes, he agrees wholeheartedly. That same sound echoes even louder in Sam's ears when he roughly strips off Dean's jacket, rips through the button and zip on his jeans to shuck them straight down Dean's legs.
"Hands on the wall," Sam says, shrugging out of his own clothes, leaving his jeans caught somewhere around his thighs. He waits until Dean obeys (not even a second's hesitation this time around) before fisting a hand in Dean's shirt, hiking it up. "You know what I'm gonna do?"
"Fuck," Dean breathes. His voice sandpaper-rough, full of cracks. It's the most beautiful thing Sam's ever heard. "Anything. Everything you want."
Hard not to like the sound of that, but all the shoving around seems to be working wonders for Dean--fuck knows it's working for Sam--so Sam gives him another shove forward, hears the catch-snap of Dean's shirt scraping along the brick.
There's a foil packet of lube in Dean's wallet along with a condom or two. Always is. They both know it. Time slows to a soupy crawl as Sam licks his bottom lip, rolls it under to scrape it dry with his teeth.
With the hand fisted in Dean's shirt, Sam yanks it up, shoves a tight knot of cloth between Dean's teeth with a rasped, "Open your mouth," that comes too late. The wet-warm inside of Dean's lip catches on Sam's knuckle, makes him think about Dean sucking his fingers, about fucking Dean's mouth with them listening to the blessed-out noises of anticipation Dean'll make as saliva slicks his skin.
Sweat sheens the smooth curve of Dean's back. Sam's gaze follows the line of it down to the taper of narrow hips, the swell of Dean's ass. He's never really said so (sounds cheap and dirty but doesn't change the fact that it's true), but he loves the shape of it, firm muscle under soft flesh, the shocking, scorching tightness when he's buried inside losing his mind thrust by thrust.
Palms spread wide and dark over pale skin, one on each cheek to spread Dean open, Sam says it all now. Every filthy word that pours out makes Dean shake harder, moan louder, until Sam's fingertips brush the dry clench of Dean's hole and he's quit talking entirely because Dean won't even hear it. The hard press of his knuckle sends Dean rocking up on his toes with a noise that sounds like no but means yes knifing into Sam's gut.
"Too bad your mouth's full." Back to the tip of his middle finger again this time, only slight pressure, but Dean takes it, not easily. "Wish I could really see," Sam says. "Lay you flat and spread you right out, watch you open up for me. See that little bit of pink inside you."
Dean's hips jerk, breath hissing at the burn as Sam's finger slides deeper than he'd intended. Something Sam didn't know he had in him makes him keep it there longer than he should, holding Dean open, drinking in how Dean squirms against it in a way that they both know has almost nothing to do with the physical sensation.
"Pink and soft inside," Sam goes on, getting impossibly harder as he pictures it, as Dean shakes to pieces beneath him. "Delicate, even. You're so tough, you think you want the whole world to know it, but all you really want is someone to break you down."
He doesn't need to hear why Dean's never asked for this before. It makes too much fucked-up sense. Always taking care of him, of Dad, always giving and giving and giving. Too late to take it all back now, it's been ground so deep into Dean's bones, built brick by brick into Dean's psyche. Bad enough to want your brother fucking you than to need him to do it the way you think your father would. All orders, no quarter; take what I give you, boy, and like it.
Bad enough to find out he wants to do it, that all you had to do was ask.
Sam's so used to taking from Dean it's not at all surprising that it's easy to play with Dean the way he wants, fingers sliding in, out, slipping through the sweat gathering at the base of Dean's spine. He keeps his fingers splayed wide between the cheeks of Dean's ass as he bends down to rummage through pockets for the lube. Foil gets jammed uncomfortably between his teeth when he uses them to open it, just so he doesn't have to take his hand off Dean, stop watching the shivers skate under sparsely-freckled skin as one blunt nail scratches gently at tightly wrinkled flesh.
The slickness is body-warm as Sam presses his fingers back in, up past the knuckle quick and hard. Dean's hips cant up and back, the sallow dip in his back deepening in shadow. He rocks forward, back, an invitation like never before, and Sam has no idea how the hell he resists it to lean in close, cock nestled right up against his fingers and teeth on the shell of Dean's ear.
"You planning on getting yourself off humping my hand like that? You do, you better not shoot all over fucking wall. I intend to see you eat it." A tremor wracks Dean's body, starts from the inside out and builds, rolls back in on itself. He is gonna lose it and Sam wants to see, wants to fucking well order Dean over the edge just because he can. "You are, aren't you. Gonna lick it-" and there, Dean's gone, shaking and crying out low, half-strangled, muffled around the shirt wadded up in his mouth.
The floor shakes with a dull thud, Dean slipping away, on his knees before Sam can blink, not enough space between him and the brick for Dean to fit without scraping up his arms on the way down. There isn't even a scrap of hesitation left in him when he puts his mouth, lips soft and open and swollen dark, right in the mess of his own come.
And it's stupid, reckless and insane and god only knows what's on that wall but Sam's so hot, burning up. Any second his skin is going to split wide open because he can't handle everything screaming through him trying get out. Dean reaches back over his shoulder, moans, "Sammy," between sharp, darting licks. His hand closes firm around Sam's dick, tugs once, careful and slow. "C'mon, c'mon," he says, turning his head just enough to rub the sticky length of it against the welt on his cheek. "C'mon, please."
Sam doesn't have a chance. Every last nerve he's got explodes with pleasure, second of freeze-frame tension before it rushes out of him like a backdraft, splashes in thick, glistening streams on Dean's face, his neck, pools in the crook of his shoulder. Dean keeps milking him for more, licking his lips to catch stray drops, and doesn't stop shaking even when Sam pulls out of his grip.
Dean's barely conscious when Sam manhandles him to his feet. His eyes are liquid. He makes a noise that's not smug enough to be satisfaction when Sam kisses the scrape on his cheek, not quite pained when Sam can't help but lick it (sweat and dirt, blood and come, their whole lives condensed). They collapse on the bedroll Sam haphazardly kicks out on the hard floor because he's not strong enough to hold them both up any longer.
Something unexpected, almost surreal, unfurls inside Sam when Dean lets himself be pulled close, slotted back to chest, all angles and lax muscle in the curve of Sam's body.
Morning sunlight finds Sam sticky and over-warm and Dean spread out flat on his stomach, dead to the world. Sam strokes a hand down his back, pausing to feel the shallow rise and fall of his steady breaths. The back of Dean's neck fits perfectly between the span of Sam's forefinger and thumb. That's when Dean wakes, sleepy eyes slipping from unfocused to purely dazed as Sam gently squeezes.
This is something they need to talk about. That they should talk about. Forget about all the other crap mucking up their lives, Sam's not stupid. He knows a little about relationships like these. There needs to be structure, rules, a when and why. Safewords, for fuck's sake.
The look in Dean's eyes is anything but safe. It's fucked wide open and raw as the scratches on his cheek. He won't want any of that. He's not stupid, either. If it were that easy, it wouldn't have taken this long for last night to happen.
They've never done things easy, but maybe they could find a way to balance things out. For the way Dean's watching him right now, Sam's wiling to take the chance that it'll be worth it.
*
End
Author: Blue
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: ~5000
Warnings/Notes: Dean has daddy issues; Sam's a control freak. Crossposted all over IJ like holy crap.
Time Wastes Itself
It's stupid. Dean is in the driver's seat, bellowing at the top of his lungs over the thundering bass that he's calling Bobby, that's it, no arguments, Sam is in the passenger side with his lap full of crumpled newspapers and a map in even worse shape, waving half a Big Gulp in one hand and flashlight in the other, and Sam yells, "All we did was take a wrong turn! So what, you're going to run to him for advice the next time we fuck? 'Cause, damn," he adds, not quite under his breath, "damn if you don't need a map half the time then, too."
Dean stops dead. The music keeps on blaring but for a minute, Sam's almost sure the car's going to chew up the tape and spit it out in unnatural sympathy with the shell-shocked look on Dean's face.
The lights on the phone in Dean's hand flicker. Sam hears the call connect and Dean jumps to end it, staring at the flashing display in disbelief before he turns on Sam.
"What the fuck! Seriously, what the fuck!"
"What!" Sam shouts back. "Are you?"
"No, what the hell! Don't say that shit when I'm callin' Bobby!"
"Stop calling Bobby every fucking twenty miles and he won't hear me!"
"Sam!"
"Dean!"
"Jesus."
So that's how they rack up five hundred and three miles in complete roaring silence. Consequently, that's also how Sam goes to bed alone that night. Not because Dean actually kicked him out (Dean wouldn't, he's way too concerned about the future of his sex life for that sort of drama) but because it's the principle of the fucking thing.
Sometimes, Sam really hates his principles.
By the next evening, they're back on track. The roadside grease they had for lunch is an unfulfilling lump settled in the middle of his gut and it's as muggy as a bayou inside the car. Sam fiddles with the fans, wishing for the million-and-fourth time that he'd pushed for air conditioning when Dean had rebuilt her.
"Quit it," Dean snaps.
Sam says, "Shut up," and keeps poking at the dash.
"It's not gonna help."
"I said, shut up."
"Don't go takin' your sexual frustration out on me."
"I'm not- God, would you just shut up?"
The quirk at the corner of Dean's mouth wobbles a little but holds firm. "You gonna make me?"
Okay. So that's the olive branch. Sam can work with this. "Pull over."
Dean's eyebrows creep upward. "Here?"
"Yeah, here. Now."
Dean checks the rearview before steering the car sedately onto the gravel shoulder. Sam jiggles his leg nervously as the engine ticks. Honestly, Dean giving him the finger was more expected.
On Dean's sharp intake of breath, Sam shoves across the seat to slap a hand over his mouth. Green eyes startle wide before narrowing and Sam presses harder, says, "Not a word."
Dean rolls his eyes but miraculously stays quiet. A sharp trill of victory races down Sam's spine. The back of his hand warms with Dean's tiny, puffing breaths, he can feel the rapid rise-fall of Dean's chest, and abruptly that thrill coils right back up, prickling his skin as it goes.
"What were you saying about sexual frustration?" Sam asks.
Deliberately, Dean sinks lower in the seat, knees falling wide around the steering column. There's a light in his eyes Sam can't really interpret but it's what makes him stretch out his other hand to open the door. "Out."
Dean clambers out so fast there should be a screech and skid marks smoking on the leather. Scooting back across the seat, Sam gets out on the other side, scrubbing his palms dry on his jeans where Dean can't see. So he's got no clue what the hell he's doing. Maybe that doesn't matter much.
A minivan whips by at about thirty over the limit. Dean's waiting for him when he rounds the front bumper, not-quite-casually leaning against the shiny black metal. Stomach knotting itself up in a collection a Boy Scout could be proud of, Sam presses right up against him, hands on the roof and mouth at Dean's ear. One thing Sam's never going to get over is how soft Dean's skin is against his lips.
"Are you going to tell me what you want?"
"Sam."
"Seriously. I want to hear it," Sam says. It's only mostly a line. Dean might be vocal but he's not vocal about this, hardly ever saying flat out he wants this, like that, now. Not that Sam's got a huge problem with getting what he wants all the time.
A little one, maybe.
"Just do it," Dean says, voice steadier, more impatient.
"Tell me."
"You're the one that said pull over." Tension snaps back into Dean's body, muscles tightening, the hand that'd been grasping at Sam's waist turning to a fist in his shirt. "You wanna fuck around on the side of Highway 20, go for it. I'm game."
Whatever had been sparking under Sam's skin evaporates on a shallow sigh. He puts some distance between them because it just feels awkward, exposed. Who knows who could be driving by in that beat-up old Toyota.
"What, Sammy, you givin' up on me already?" In about five seconds flat, Dean's posture goes from inviting to flat-out, in-your-face attitude. "Got a little performance anxiety? Stage fright?"
"Jesus Christ," Sam mutters. "Forget it."
"Aw, but you got me all hot 'n bothered-"
"Hey," interrupts the guy rolling up in a lime-green Honda, his head stuck out the window and three kids crammed into the back. "You boys got some car trouble? 'S always the pretty ones, right?"
A hard bark of laughter jumps out of Sam's throat. "Right," he says. "The pretty ones."
"Kinda ironic," Dean says.
Busy trying to look busy so he doesn't have to listen to Dean's running commentary, Sam just grunts. Naturally it doesn't work because Dean doesn't give a shit about a captive audience.
"This place is a fire hazard."
Sam's sort of forced to agree. The main floor of the fire hall is crammed with junk, broken pieces of things not even recognisable anymore and lopsided heaps of mildewed boxes (air quality: non-existent). They'd spent a good fifteen minutes searching for the stairs. He'd been ready to call it quits and sleep in the car, rainstorm or no.
But at least Dean hadn't suggested crawling up the rusty pole jammed in the middle of all that chaos. Sam really would've had to just kill him.
"You gonna light that lamp any time tonight, Captain Oblivious?"
"Y'know, maybe you could do something useful, like figure out where the fuck we're going to sleep."
Dean's mouth forms a soft 'o' as the wick ignites. For exactly thirty seconds, Sam enjoys pure, blessed silence. Then, like the rain thundering back down, Dean starts mouthing off like that time in ninth grade when Billy Elms had called him limpdick. Even then, it was pretty minor, but Dean's got his pride.
Sam doesn't process a word he's saying, though. Not a word. Because Sam can't hear anything over the noise of his own teeth grinding to a fine powder in his skull. Before he really knows it, he's halfway across the living quarters, and by then, his brain has caught up to his feet and everyone's completely on board with the plan of shutting Dean up right the fuck now.
Dean is about as shocked to be slammed back against the rough brick wall as Sam is over putting him there.
Sam opens his mouth to hiss at Dean to just shut up, for the love of god, shut up, but.
But.
Sam can actually fucking feel the frantic drumbeat of Dean's heart kicking at his ribs. There's barely a sliver of rich colour skirting the blown-wide black of his pupils. Fifty bucks and half a lifetime of guilt says the thing darkening his brother's eyes to a forest at twilight is not fear.
"Sam-"
"D'you want this?"
"What- Jesus!" The last's half-mangled on an explosion of air as Sam hauls Dean away from the wall to shove him right back up against it again, face-first. He's careful this time, deliberately using his weight to pin Dean in place.
Sam says, "C'mon, do you? You remember?"
On the red brick, Dean's fingertips are white. "Remember what?"
Sam lets his eyes slide shut. The familiar smells of Dean and dust, salt warm on skin and old, closed-up rooms makes it easy to sink into a memory that most people'd never want to have, let alone relish. Sam's got plenty. It creeps into his voice, his mouth brushing Dean's skin as he whispers, and it feels like he's fourteen again. Fourteen and greedy and too damn stubborn for Dean's own good.
"You used to tell me I had to ask for it if I wanted it." The short hairs at Dean's nape are prickly-soft against Sam's lips. "If I wanted your mouth on my dick I had to ask for it, had to get my hands on your head and shove you down, tell you how bad I wanted it. You remember?"
Dean's throat makes a shallow clicking noise as he swallows. His lips are parted, wet, red like he's been scraping them with his teeth. Halfway to fucked out already and Sam hasn't done a thing.
"Taught me every filthy fucking trick I know. How to get you to open up good and wide." Fingertips on Dean's lips, Sam rubs them dry, watches how they catch and pull. The way Dean lets him makes his stomach melt into something liquid-hot, searing. "How you sure as hell didn't mind swallowing but you liked your mouth full of it first."
Eyes clenched tight, body tense and thrumming, Dean moans, "Fuck, Sam, careful."
"Why, are you planning on losing it already? You want to come that bad?"
"Dad, Jesus Christ, Dad'll-"
Shocked straight back into the here and now, Sam says, "What?" right as Dean's eyes fly open.
"Nothing," Dean says, too fast, too quiet.
Headfirst out on a shaky limb, Sam says, "Dad'll hear," and Dean's hips jerk on this long, whole-body shudder. "That it?"
Unable to look at Sam out of even the corner of his eye, Dean says, "No."
Sam eases off a little, leaving one hand heavy on Dean and scrubbing at his face with the other. Stubble rasps quietly against his palm, a barely-there twitch of muscle betraying that Dean can hear it, too.
He lets Dean take a little more of his weight, feels his fingers dig into the meat of Dean's shoulder. "You're going to answer me when I ask you a question," he says, the slight change in the timbre of his voice not entirely deliberate. It gets an immediate reaction, subtle but there, a tiny shift in Dean's breathing, in the way he holds himself between Sam and the wall. "You're going to do what I tell you to."
Not really expecting an answer, Sam gets one in the slack of Dean's mouth and the way he nods once, so slight as to be almost imperceptible. That one acknowledgement changes everything. Everything except not knowing what the hell he's doing. Between them, nothing could ever change that.
"If I put you on your knees, are you going to stay there on your own?"
Dean doesn't answer. Sam usually takes that as his clue to back off, quit pushing. But come to think of it (couple seconds worth, not a moment more), backing off hasn't ever really worked out so well.
Swallowing quickly, not wanting a chance to think again, Sam commits them both to whatever the hell they're doing with a tight grip to the back of Dean's neck, thumb and fingers digging hard against bone. "Spread your legs."
What Dean should do is make a lame crack about Sam's control issues. Get mouthy, snarky, anything to brush this off, turn it into a joke instead of something they're actually going to get serious about.
The heavy soles of Dean's boots scrape-grind on the wrinkled linoleum floor. On instinct, Sam says, "Good," and some of the tension in Dean bleeds off, turns into something it takes Sam a couple long seconds to recognise.
"Ready to listen to me, now? Because Dad isn't here, isn't ever gonna be here." Sam pushes aside the slight twinge of wrong in his gut. He got over that feeling a long time ago. Learned that wrong is all about perspective and he's never going to listen to anybody try to tell him this isn't what he wants. "Just you and me in the dark, no lights 'cause what if somebody saw."
"Don't care," Dean says. He strains for the warm press of Sam's hand on his belly, sucks in a tripping breath as Sam lets it wander further south.
"Yeah?" Idly, Sam's fingers ghost over Dean's zip. Heat pours through worn denim. If Sam wanted to, he could measure Dean's heartbeat in the blood-rich throb of his cock. "Tell me why not."
Half a moan, Dean says, "I-" and his fucking ringtone screeches out over the rest. He jolts against Sam's grip, another rough noise let loose, and Sam hisses, "Stand still," as he digs violently into Dean's pocket for his cell.
Hardly believing himself, Sam flips the phone open and tugs Dean back hard by the hand still spread wide over his dick. "Hey, Bobby."
Whatever Bobby says isn't half as important as the shocked, almost pained moan that comes rippling straight out of Dean's throat. He grinds against the heel of Sam's palm, white-knuckled grip on Sam's wrist to keep it there, and if that weren't enough to clue Sam in on how hard Dean's getting off on this, the jackrabbit-dart of Dean's eyes beneath tightly-closed eyelids might.
"That noise?" Sam asks. It's got nothing to do with why Bobby's calling but that's the least of Sam's worries. Most of the time, Bobby thinks they're crazy anyway. Loves them, sure, Sam doesn't doubt that, but definitely thinks they're not all there. "'S Dean."
"Holy fuck," Dean gasps, good and loud, and he gets louder still when Sam shoves him against the wall again.
Snapping the phone shut without so much as a goodbye (bad connection, Bobby'll buy that, won't really want to know the truth), Sam jams it back down the front of Dean's jacket. "Problem?"
"Wasn't really Bobby," Dean says. "Sam?"
"You're going to have to explain to him later what all the fuss was about."
Brow wrinkling like he doesn't want to ask, Dean says, "What're we doin' here, Sammy? Don't think I'm complainin', I ain't, but."
Figuring out what the hell Dean wants is the answer he's got, which probably isn't going to fly. And if he's right, he'll just make things worse by saying it. With his heart marching straight up his ribcage, Sam says, "Finding out how well you follow orders when it's not Dad giving them. Turn around."
Reluctantly, Dean does, eyes everywhere but on Sam. That can slide for now, Sam's way too caught up in the rippling pulse of pure pleasure that just went straight to his cock. Voice close to wrecked, he says, "Down."
And Dean slides down, jacket scraping the brick, knees falling wide to bracket Sam's legs. His hands, shaking just enough to be noticeable, are braced on Sam's thighs for balance.
"Good," Sam says, hoping for the same reaction as before but getting a muted, uncertain echo of it. It shouldn't be, but Dean off-balance is one of the hottest things Sam's ever seen, right up there with the time Sam finally figured out how much Dean liked to be kissed. Long, slow deep kisses that got Dean sucking his dick so hard Sam thought his heart would burst from his chest.
Speaking of, that's a fucking fantastic idea. "You want to suck me off?"
Dean's eyes flick up, then back down. "Wouldn't mind."
Sam's amazed to actually see the disappointment slumping Dean's shoulders. Christ, if he were anybody else, Dean would've given him an inferiority complex years ago.
"Isn't worth my time if you're not going to make it good."
Dean's head snaps up. "What?"
"I don't want your mouth on my dick if all you've got to give me is a half-assed blow. I can get that pretty much anywhere."
It seems pretty likely that Sam's just fucked them both over, then there's this spark in Dean's eyes, almost-challenge. Now he's got to prove himself. Dean's thrived for years on that need, what the fuck was Sam thinking, waiting so long to put it to use like this.
Sam curves his hand over the top of Dean's head, not pushing, not yet. "I want all or nothing, boy." The word doesn't sit quite right on Sam's tongue. Doesn't matter, though--it gets to Dean, visibly crawls under his skin and makes him shiver. "All or nothing."
Dean says something that's more than likely, "Yes, sir," and Sam's glad he can't quite hear it, not sure what it'd do to him to hear that note of deference directed his way. But he imagines that's what it was anyway and maybe it makes his insides start tying themselves up. Or maybe that's only anticipation crawling along his nerves, because Dean's fingers are inching up, curling in the pockets of Sam's jeans to hold on, and Dean's mouth is open, pressing slowly against the dizzying ache between Sam's legs.
"Make it good, wet but not sloppy. I won't tolerate you being sloppy," Sam says, firming his grip on Dean's head, holding him right there until Dean manages a shaky nod. Sam's hips jerk, forcing another low moan out of Dean, and Dean has to know how good that looked because he's doing it again, dragging his mouth over the rise beneath the zip, rubbing his face in it.
This is when Sam realises it's going to be goddamn impossible to keep up the act, let alone keep himself up because he's pretty sure any second now his knees are going to buckle and he's going to blow a load in his pants. Worst sort of shame to waste a go like that, especially when he's got Dean so fucking willing (Dean's never really unwilling, it's just, this is a whole new level for Sam to become addicted to), and right now, Dean's probably up for anything-
"Hurry up and pull it out," Sam grits out between clenched teeth. "Get it in your mouth."
A sharp hiss of Dean's breath fills the air. He fumbles at the zip, taking twice as long to get it open because his eyes keep jumping up to Sam's face and back down again like he's not sure where he wants to be looking more.
Sam makes the decision for him by grabbing his chin, forcing his head up. "Now show me how good you are."
"Christ, Sam." Blindly, Dean gets his jeans open, shoves one hand in and visibly shudders as his fingers curl tightly around Sam's cock to haul it out. He doesn't even bother with a few token tugs like usual before closing his mouth over the head, lips clamped tight, tongue flickering at the slit, little bit of sweet pressure. Then it's a slick and dirty wriggle, tongue curling and lips working to draw him just a bit deeper.
"I know you're not afraid to make noise," Sam tells him, and before the last syllable's even faded, this gorgeous, throaty moan builds up in Dean's chest, spills out around Sam's dick in a flood of sensation. It doesn't stop there, either, like all Dean needed was permission and he's making enough noise to shame anybody in the business.
The last thing Sam wants is this to end, but he says, not even sure that's his own voice he's hearing, "Stop."
Dean shudders, slows, finally goes still with his mouth full. He holds there, breathing hard and fast and shallow, eyes dark and as desperate as Sam feels.
One hand cupping the base of Dean's skull, Sam pulls back, heart thudding harder and harder as his dick slides thick and glistening between Dean's lips. He licks his own, imagining the tight, swollen feeling, how good Dean would taste right now.
Instead of finding out, he hauls Dean up, surprised at how heavy and limp Dean is in his arms but liking it, oh fuck, loving it, and shoves his chest back up against the wall. Dean moans something that could be Sam's name or a curse or both. Sam says, "Yeah," because hell yes, he agrees wholeheartedly. That same sound echoes even louder in Sam's ears when he roughly strips off Dean's jacket, rips through the button and zip on his jeans to shuck them straight down Dean's legs.
"Hands on the wall," Sam says, shrugging out of his own clothes, leaving his jeans caught somewhere around his thighs. He waits until Dean obeys (not even a second's hesitation this time around) before fisting a hand in Dean's shirt, hiking it up. "You know what I'm gonna do?"
"Fuck," Dean breathes. His voice sandpaper-rough, full of cracks. It's the most beautiful thing Sam's ever heard. "Anything. Everything you want."
Hard not to like the sound of that, but all the shoving around seems to be working wonders for Dean--fuck knows it's working for Sam--so Sam gives him another shove forward, hears the catch-snap of Dean's shirt scraping along the brick.
There's a foil packet of lube in Dean's wallet along with a condom or two. Always is. They both know it. Time slows to a soupy crawl as Sam licks his bottom lip, rolls it under to scrape it dry with his teeth.
With the hand fisted in Dean's shirt, Sam yanks it up, shoves a tight knot of cloth between Dean's teeth with a rasped, "Open your mouth," that comes too late. The wet-warm inside of Dean's lip catches on Sam's knuckle, makes him think about Dean sucking his fingers, about fucking Dean's mouth with them listening to the blessed-out noises of anticipation Dean'll make as saliva slicks his skin.
Sweat sheens the smooth curve of Dean's back. Sam's gaze follows the line of it down to the taper of narrow hips, the swell of Dean's ass. He's never really said so (sounds cheap and dirty but doesn't change the fact that it's true), but he loves the shape of it, firm muscle under soft flesh, the shocking, scorching tightness when he's buried inside losing his mind thrust by thrust.
Palms spread wide and dark over pale skin, one on each cheek to spread Dean open, Sam says it all now. Every filthy word that pours out makes Dean shake harder, moan louder, until Sam's fingertips brush the dry clench of Dean's hole and he's quit talking entirely because Dean won't even hear it. The hard press of his knuckle sends Dean rocking up on his toes with a noise that sounds like no but means yes knifing into Sam's gut.
"Too bad your mouth's full." Back to the tip of his middle finger again this time, only slight pressure, but Dean takes it, not easily. "Wish I could really see," Sam says. "Lay you flat and spread you right out, watch you open up for me. See that little bit of pink inside you."
Dean's hips jerk, breath hissing at the burn as Sam's finger slides deeper than he'd intended. Something Sam didn't know he had in him makes him keep it there longer than he should, holding Dean open, drinking in how Dean squirms against it in a way that they both know has almost nothing to do with the physical sensation.
"Pink and soft inside," Sam goes on, getting impossibly harder as he pictures it, as Dean shakes to pieces beneath him. "Delicate, even. You're so tough, you think you want the whole world to know it, but all you really want is someone to break you down."
He doesn't need to hear why Dean's never asked for this before. It makes too much fucked-up sense. Always taking care of him, of Dad, always giving and giving and giving. Too late to take it all back now, it's been ground so deep into Dean's bones, built brick by brick into Dean's psyche. Bad enough to want your brother fucking you than to need him to do it the way you think your father would. All orders, no quarter; take what I give you, boy, and like it.
Bad enough to find out he wants to do it, that all you had to do was ask.
Sam's so used to taking from Dean it's not at all surprising that it's easy to play with Dean the way he wants, fingers sliding in, out, slipping through the sweat gathering at the base of Dean's spine. He keeps his fingers splayed wide between the cheeks of Dean's ass as he bends down to rummage through pockets for the lube. Foil gets jammed uncomfortably between his teeth when he uses them to open it, just so he doesn't have to take his hand off Dean, stop watching the shivers skate under sparsely-freckled skin as one blunt nail scratches gently at tightly wrinkled flesh.
The slickness is body-warm as Sam presses his fingers back in, up past the knuckle quick and hard. Dean's hips cant up and back, the sallow dip in his back deepening in shadow. He rocks forward, back, an invitation like never before, and Sam has no idea how the hell he resists it to lean in close, cock nestled right up against his fingers and teeth on the shell of Dean's ear.
"You planning on getting yourself off humping my hand like that? You do, you better not shoot all over fucking wall. I intend to see you eat it." A tremor wracks Dean's body, starts from the inside out and builds, rolls back in on itself. He is gonna lose it and Sam wants to see, wants to fucking well order Dean over the edge just because he can. "You are, aren't you. Gonna lick it-" and there, Dean's gone, shaking and crying out low, half-strangled, muffled around the shirt wadded up in his mouth.
The floor shakes with a dull thud, Dean slipping away, on his knees before Sam can blink, not enough space between him and the brick for Dean to fit without scraping up his arms on the way down. There isn't even a scrap of hesitation left in him when he puts his mouth, lips soft and open and swollen dark, right in the mess of his own come.
And it's stupid, reckless and insane and god only knows what's on that wall but Sam's so hot, burning up. Any second his skin is going to split wide open because he can't handle everything screaming through him trying get out. Dean reaches back over his shoulder, moans, "Sammy," between sharp, darting licks. His hand closes firm around Sam's dick, tugs once, careful and slow. "C'mon, c'mon," he says, turning his head just enough to rub the sticky length of it against the welt on his cheek. "C'mon, please."
Sam doesn't have a chance. Every last nerve he's got explodes with pleasure, second of freeze-frame tension before it rushes out of him like a backdraft, splashes in thick, glistening streams on Dean's face, his neck, pools in the crook of his shoulder. Dean keeps milking him for more, licking his lips to catch stray drops, and doesn't stop shaking even when Sam pulls out of his grip.
Dean's barely conscious when Sam manhandles him to his feet. His eyes are liquid. He makes a noise that's not smug enough to be satisfaction when Sam kisses the scrape on his cheek, not quite pained when Sam can't help but lick it (sweat and dirt, blood and come, their whole lives condensed). They collapse on the bedroll Sam haphazardly kicks out on the hard floor because he's not strong enough to hold them both up any longer.
Something unexpected, almost surreal, unfurls inside Sam when Dean lets himself be pulled close, slotted back to chest, all angles and lax muscle in the curve of Sam's body.
Morning sunlight finds Sam sticky and over-warm and Dean spread out flat on his stomach, dead to the world. Sam strokes a hand down his back, pausing to feel the shallow rise and fall of his steady breaths. The back of Dean's neck fits perfectly between the span of Sam's forefinger and thumb. That's when Dean wakes, sleepy eyes slipping from unfocused to purely dazed as Sam gently squeezes.
This is something they need to talk about. That they should talk about. Forget about all the other crap mucking up their lives, Sam's not stupid. He knows a little about relationships like these. There needs to be structure, rules, a when and why. Safewords, for fuck's sake.
The look in Dean's eyes is anything but safe. It's fucked wide open and raw as the scratches on his cheek. He won't want any of that. He's not stupid, either. If it were that easy, it wouldn't have taken this long for last night to happen.
They've never done things easy, but maybe they could find a way to balance things out. For the way Dean's watching him right now, Sam's wiling to take the chance that it'll be worth it.
End
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