Fic: As Good As It Gets (Dean/Sam)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 2,900
Warnings: PWP, toppy!Dean, drunk!Sam, very very mild exhibitionism
Notes: This was written for rozabellalove who prompted me forever and a day ago (I didn't forget, I'm just ADD, I promise!) - she asked for drunk!Sam and toppy!Dean who is uncomfortable in a posh situation. I did absolutely zero interesting things with the plot. Hope you like, honey!
Summary - There just might be some perks to getting all dressed up for a charity ball, but it takes Dean a while to find them.
"You are never allowed to have champagne again," Dean rails, dragging his oversized little brother down one of the impossible to navigate, wood paneled hallways. There has got to be a fucking exit around here somewhere.
Normally, Dean likes drunk-Sammy; he's laid back and kinda goofy and falls all over himself half the time. Plus there's that whole horny/handsy combo that's almost never a bad thing in Dean's book, but this right here is the exception.
Dean's tired and annoyed and his stupid, starched tuxedo collar is rubbing his throat raw. He's pretty sure his cummerbund is on wrong - not that he knows what the fucking thing's for anyway - the stink of clashing floral perfume assaults him from every side so it's like walking through a goddamn funeral parlor - actually, no, that would be better - not to mention that fucking taste that he cannot get out of his mouth - who the hell would want to eat a snail! - and he can practically feel everybody staring at him. It's not the sort of thing that usually gets to him, but then most of the time he's the center of attention by choice; now it's like the words 'you don't belong here' are telegraphing out of every pair of snooty, over-made-up eyes and it's making his skin itch. And of course, on top of the fact that their lead on that Micronesian blood totem was a total bust, his dumb ass little brother goes and gets hammered because he can't handle a little bubbly.
If the alcohol wasn't such an effective anesthetic, he'd definitely deck Sammy right about now; as it stands it would just be a waste of a good punch.
"Dude, it was so epic," Sam laughs loudly, spreading his giant arms so they nearly take out some eighty-year-old bitch in orange satin, cut so low there's nothing but nipple left to the imagination. Dean may have permanent retina damage.
"I mean your face, man," Sam steamrolls on, oblivious to Dean dragging him around like a ragdoll or the fact that his flailing is attracting the attention of everybody within two hundred feet of them. "You were just all, bleb!" Sam mimes something that looks like puking but is probably supposed to symbolize Dean spitting the fucking snail back out onto the server's little silver tray. It should be illegal to disguise shit like that with toast on top - toast deserves better than that.
Sam's knees give way and he curls in on himself, laughing so hard no sound is actually coming out.
Correction, Dean hates drunk-Sam. A lot.
"If you don't get your ass up I am fucking leaving you here," he grumbles, trying to ignore how hot his cheeks feel. It doesn't matter if people stare, fuck them he doesn't care anyway, it doesn't matter. He's going to goddamn kill Sam. He always wanted to be an only child.
His brother at least manages to stumble up again, using Dean as a life raft which is pretty fucking ineffective considering Sam has a good three inches and at least thirty pounds on him. Dean drags him along anyway. He just wants to get the fuck out of here, ditch the monkey suit, and get a real drink. And maybe fuck Sam so hard he can't sit down. Yeah, that sounds pretty satisfying.
He flings another in a series of heavy wooden doors open and is this a fucking joke? How the hell do you get out of this place?
"Coats!" Sam yells and throws himself headfirst into the - yeah - coat closet in front of them. Because someone up there hates Dean. With a not so silent groan of frustration, Dean goes in after him.
It doesn't help that the closet's big enough to part the Impala in, and packed full of enough fur and cashmere to clothe a very small, cold country. The smell of moth balls is stifling - Dean's going to have to give his nose the day off once this shit is over.
Sam's at the back of the closet, leaning heavily on a packed rack of coats as he rubs his face affectionately on one of the furs. "Soft," he exhales fondly, nuzzling at the coat. Lifelong ban on champagne, no question.
Dean resists the urge to bang his head against the wall and tugs on his brother's arm instead.
"Sam, c'mon," he urges fruitlessly, Sam still caught up in making face-love to the dead animal skin. Why does everything suck?
Sam groans dejectedly and sticks his tongue out - why does he have to turn into a five year old when he’s drunk? - before going back to rubbing on the goddamn coat. Fuck this all to hell.
Dean bitches a lot about Sam's floppy girl-hair, but moments like this, it's damn useful. One yank on a good fistful of baby-soft waves and he's got Sam yelping and bent at his mercy. His dick gives a little twitch at that particular line of thought, combined with the familiar clasp of his hand in Sam's hair, but this is neither the time nor the place. Except Sam's looking up at him from the cock-eyed angle Dean's holding him at with eyes darkened by lust. That look’s a hard kick to the gut that sends blood rushing south so fast he's dizzy. It's never not going to be hot like burning that Sammy likes it rough.
"Yeah?" he asks, twisting the hold on Sam's hair so that his brother has to go to his knees and arch his head back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. Dean ticks up the ridges there with the light touch of a fingertip. Sam makes this pretty little broken noise that shudders up Dean's fingers.
"Been acting like a bitch all night, Sammy. Think you wanna be treated like one." Dean's fingers skate up the curve of Sam's jaw, play at the supple give of his lips before Sam opens for him, tongue licking out to curl around the tips of the digits. Dean doesn't try to disguise his groan of want, cock already thick and pressing at the front of his tuxedo pants.
"That what you want? You wanna suck for me, Sammy?"
Sam can't nod like this, but he doesn't seem to remember that until after he's already tried, hissing when Dean doesn't relent on his hold.
"Get my pants open."
There's a bark in the command and Sam rushes to follow the order the way he never bothers to when they’re actually on a hunt. Sam fumbles with the catches and the zip, pawing at the fabric until it finally slides down over Dean's hips. His big hand slides into Dean's underwear, fingers wrapping around the rigid length until Dean slaps him away.
"Didn't say you could touch."
Sam pulls out the puppy dog eyes, tongue darting out to wet his lips, but he keeps his hands to himself for now, lying restlessly on the tops of his thighs.
"Good boy," Dean rewards his brother by loosening the grip in his hair just slightly, enough that he can scritch through the silky strands in that way that makes Sammy arch like a cat in heat.
He inhales sharply as he forces his briefs down his thighs, the elastic catching on the sensitive head before it slaps flat to the burgundy cummerbund covering his middle, eager for the promise in Sam's eyes. His brother lets loose a needy sound and shuffles forward an inch on his knees before Dean firms his wrist and snaps the hold on Sam's hair tight again. Hazel eyes slam closed like disguising the way his eyes roll up in razor-edged pleasure is going to make Dean miss the slack of his jaw or the tremble of his lip.
Sam in a tux is hot, sure; Dean can admit that half the reason he agreed to check out this fucking place tonight was the idea of seeing Sammy all dudded up and then wrecking all of that precisely put together pretense with nothing but his hands and his mouth and his dick. So yeah, drunk Sam is usually good and tux Sam is usually good, but Sammy in a tux, on his knees, all strung out and cock-hungry and breathless... if they could figure out a way to bottle that they'd never have to run another credit card scam again.
Dean gets a hand on his dick, doesn't jack it even though the temptation is tingling through his palm like and electric shock. The glistening tip bumps Sam's pink lips as he holds it out and his brother's mouth opens for it reflexively like a baby bird. For a minute that's all he gives, just marking Sam's skin up with his slick, watching Sam try to turn into the touch, get his mouth around it while Dean's knees threaten to turn to jelly over how goddamn motherfucking hot it is.
Finally he eases off just enough with the hand in Sam's hair that his brother can pout his lips around the very tip in an x-rated parody of a kiss. There's a little noise as Sammy suckles at it - just the slit and the few centimeters around it - when his mouth won't completely seal around flushed, sensitive flesh and he ends up just mouthing softly like he's slurping water from a drinking fountain. The muscles in Dean's belly shiver, his whole body flooded hot by the too much, not enough, ohJesusfuckingyes.
It's like the top layer of his skin's been peeled off, everything raw and exposed, his nerves flipped over to 'vibrate' so that he's practically trembling by the time he feeds his cock into Sam's waiting mouth. There's nothing but spit slickness and clutching heat as Dean pushes all the way to the back, not relenting until the fluttering catch of Sam's throat opens up and the protesting, unprepared muscles are clamping tight around him.
Sam's fingers are tight on his hips, pulling and grasping, fingernails leaving little trails of fire o bare skin, and Dean can't tell if he's trying to get away or get more but he doesn't really give a shit - he'd said he was gonna treat Sam like a bitch, if his brother doesn't like it, maybe he'll shape the fuck up next time and remember what being an obnoxious ass gets him.
Sam's face goes cherry red, a sparkle of wetness at the corners of his closed eyes and Dean slowly slides out, giving Sammy a chance to get in two wet coughs, his spit still stringing between the tip of Dean's cock and his swollen lips before Dean is doing it all over again.
He's got Sam's fever-hot cheeks cradled in the palms of his hands, thumbs finding the groove of sharp cheekbones like they were made to fit there and pumps himself in and out; jacking his cock with his baby brother's mouth when Sam doesn't seem inclined to do more than sit back on his heels and take it.
It's sloppy like Sam almost never is anymore; usually it's all carefully coordinated licks and sucks, tongue dragging up the underside in a precise rhythm that Sam probably counts out in his head to get Dean off fast and efficient and so fucking hard he can't see straight. But the alcohol has stripped Sammy down to dazed reflexes and instinct, not even aware enough to care that he's got spit dribbling down his chin onto his perfectly starched collar and expertly tied bowtie.
It's the hottest fucking thing ever.
Dean scrapes enough braincells together to disentangle one of Sam's hands from where they're limply hanging from Dean's waistband and nudge it toward his brother's lap.
"Rub off," is about as much coherency he can manage at the moment, especially when Dean can feel the quiver in his bones from the moan that rushes up out of Sam's throat at the first touch of his own hand through his pants. He can't decide if it's sexier to that Sam waited for the order or that he's so into swallowing down Dean's dick that he forgot all about his own.
He widens his stance a little, lets his shoulders drop back to admire the way Sam's blood-darkened lips stretch around the stiffness of his cock, mouth almost too full to manage even the clumsy flicks of tongue he's giving. His brother's body is working on auto-pilot by now, swallowing at just the right moment as Dean pulls out so it's open again when he fucks his way back in, gag reflex half-heartedly fluttering against the intrusion. Sam's hips are working shamelessly, grinding up into the press of his own hand - hasn't even bothered to get himself out yet and Dean's not going to tell him to either; it'll be way too much fun to let Sammy try and explain that stain to the rental place once he sobers up.
Dean can feel the push of his own cock through the thumbs pressed to Sam's cheeks, the little flare as the head comes almost all the way out only to sink deep again and fuck if this isn't going to be over way too fucking soon. He forces himself in harder, faster, not sure when he started biting his own lip, but the sharp-edged satisfaction just makes it even sweeter as Sam moans and sucks, mouth moving unconsciously as he buck up against his hand and shakes as he comes all over himself.
He can hear his own high whine as his thrusts become erratic, the pressure at the base of his spine turning from a hum to a relentless burn. Black, sin-smooth pleasure pours through his veins, stripping them raw, and he has just enough time to pant out, "Don't swallow," and shove a thumb up to the knuckle into Sam's mouth before he loses basic motor function.
Orgasm hits so hard he can't breathe, his hand on Sam's unsteady shoulder the only thing that's keeping him upright. Come floods Sam's mouth, hot and sticky, but he can't swallow around the digit Dean's got in there along his cock, so the wet heat just flows around him, extra little jolts of bliss from the cloying friction.
By the time he's got enough wits about him to stand on his own again, there's milky fluid mixed with the spittle at the corners of Sam's mouth, some of it spilling free as he pulls out. There's one quick, tantalizing flash of white-on-pink before Sam closes his mouth and swallows noisily, licking the stray traces from his flushed lips when he's finished.
Dean's on his knees just in time to keep Sam from slumping over bonelessly. His brother rests his forehead on Dean's shoulder, turning enough to share a lazy, Dean-flavored kiss; whatever manic, drunk energy he was running on earlier melting away under the fog climax.
He smiles hazily at Dean and looks all set to climb into his big brother's lap and fall asleep for the night but instead Dean manages to get his arms tucked around Sam's middle and drag him into something vaguely resembling an upright position. It's a hell of a shuffle for Dean to get his softened dick back in and his pants done up when he's also the only thing keeping Sammy standing, but it's not the hardest thing he's ever had to do so he manages.
Sam looks completely and utterly wrecked and Dean doubts he’s much better even if he at least hasn't drooled all over himself mid-blowjob, but there's nothing to be done about it now and Sammy's too out of it to care at any rate. He tugs on Sam's belt and obediently, Sam follows him away from the coats and out into the hallway.
The party must be shutting down - barely 11 o'clock, pansy-ass rich bitches - because the hall to the coat closet is pretty crowded and Dean once again commends himself on his impeccable timing; it would have been awkward as fuck if anyone had actually walked in one them. He just smirks at all of the scandalized expressions and kind of wishes he'd had the forethought to make sure some of their jizz ended up on all of those nice coats.
The crypt-keeper in the low-cut orange dress looks mortified when he politely asks her where the exit is - like she has any room to judge - but points the way and less than sixty seconds later, they are blessedly free of the Charity Ball of Horror.
Dean rips off his tie instantaneously - only refraining from throwing the damn thing on the ground and running over it a couple of times for good measure because he knows how deeply pissed Sam is going to be in the morning about that wet spot on the front of his pants.
Even with the weight of his giant big brother trying to drag him down as he slowly moves them toward the car, the droning wail of classical music following them out and the inevitable fight with his stupid fucking cufflinks that is to come, Dean still can't keep the smile off of his face.
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 2,900
Warnings: PWP, toppy!Dean, drunk!Sam, very very mild exhibitionism
Notes: This was written for rozabellalove who prompted me forever and a day ago (I didn't forget, I'm just ADD, I promise!) - she asked for drunk!Sam and toppy!Dean who is uncomfortable in a posh situation. I did absolutely zero interesting things with the plot. Hope you like, honey!
Summary - There just might be some perks to getting all dressed up for a charity ball, but it takes Dean a while to find them.
"You are never allowed to have champagne again," Dean rails, dragging his oversized little brother down one of the impossible to navigate, wood paneled hallways. There has got to be a fucking exit around here somewhere.
Normally, Dean likes drunk-Sammy; he's laid back and kinda goofy and falls all over himself half the time. Plus there's that whole horny/handsy combo that's almost never a bad thing in Dean's book, but this right here is the exception.
Dean's tired and annoyed and his stupid, starched tuxedo collar is rubbing his throat raw. He's pretty sure his cummerbund is on wrong - not that he knows what the fucking thing's for anyway - the stink of clashing floral perfume assaults him from every side so it's like walking through a goddamn funeral parlor - actually, no, that would be better - not to mention that fucking taste that he cannot get out of his mouth - who the hell would want to eat a snail! - and he can practically feel everybody staring at him. It's not the sort of thing that usually gets to him, but then most of the time he's the center of attention by choice; now it's like the words 'you don't belong here' are telegraphing out of every pair of snooty, over-made-up eyes and it's making his skin itch. And of course, on top of the fact that their lead on that Micronesian blood totem was a total bust, his dumb ass little brother goes and gets hammered because he can't handle a little bubbly.
If the alcohol wasn't such an effective anesthetic, he'd definitely deck Sammy right about now; as it stands it would just be a waste of a good punch.
"Dude, it was so epic," Sam laughs loudly, spreading his giant arms so they nearly take out some eighty-year-old bitch in orange satin, cut so low there's nothing but nipple left to the imagination. Dean may have permanent retina damage.
"I mean your face, man," Sam steamrolls on, oblivious to Dean dragging him around like a ragdoll or the fact that his flailing is attracting the attention of everybody within two hundred feet of them. "You were just all, bleb!" Sam mimes something that looks like puking but is probably supposed to symbolize Dean spitting the fucking snail back out onto the server's little silver tray. It should be illegal to disguise shit like that with toast on top - toast deserves better than that.
Sam's knees give way and he curls in on himself, laughing so hard no sound is actually coming out.
Correction, Dean hates drunk-Sam. A lot.
"If you don't get your ass up I am fucking leaving you here," he grumbles, trying to ignore how hot his cheeks feel. It doesn't matter if people stare, fuck them he doesn't care anyway, it doesn't matter. He's going to goddamn kill Sam. He always wanted to be an only child.
His brother at least manages to stumble up again, using Dean as a life raft which is pretty fucking ineffective considering Sam has a good three inches and at least thirty pounds on him. Dean drags him along anyway. He just wants to get the fuck out of here, ditch the monkey suit, and get a real drink. And maybe fuck Sam so hard he can't sit down. Yeah, that sounds pretty satisfying.
He flings another in a series of heavy wooden doors open and is this a fucking joke? How the hell do you get out of this place?
"Coats!" Sam yells and throws himself headfirst into the - yeah - coat closet in front of them. Because someone up there hates Dean. With a not so silent groan of frustration, Dean goes in after him.
It doesn't help that the closet's big enough to part the Impala in, and packed full of enough fur and cashmere to clothe a very small, cold country. The smell of moth balls is stifling - Dean's going to have to give his nose the day off once this shit is over.
Sam's at the back of the closet, leaning heavily on a packed rack of coats as he rubs his face affectionately on one of the furs. "Soft," he exhales fondly, nuzzling at the coat. Lifelong ban on champagne, no question.
Dean resists the urge to bang his head against the wall and tugs on his brother's arm instead.
"Sam, c'mon," he urges fruitlessly, Sam still caught up in making face-love to the dead animal skin. Why does everything suck?
Sam groans dejectedly and sticks his tongue out - why does he have to turn into a five year old when he’s drunk? - before going back to rubbing on the goddamn coat. Fuck this all to hell.
Dean bitches a lot about Sam's floppy girl-hair, but moments like this, it's damn useful. One yank on a good fistful of baby-soft waves and he's got Sam yelping and bent at his mercy. His dick gives a little twitch at that particular line of thought, combined with the familiar clasp of his hand in Sam's hair, but this is neither the time nor the place. Except Sam's looking up at him from the cock-eyed angle Dean's holding him at with eyes darkened by lust. That look’s a hard kick to the gut that sends blood rushing south so fast he's dizzy. It's never not going to be hot like burning that Sammy likes it rough.
"Yeah?" he asks, twisting the hold on Sam's hair so that his brother has to go to his knees and arch his head back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. Dean ticks up the ridges there with the light touch of a fingertip. Sam makes this pretty little broken noise that shudders up Dean's fingers.
"Been acting like a bitch all night, Sammy. Think you wanna be treated like one." Dean's fingers skate up the curve of Sam's jaw, play at the supple give of his lips before Sam opens for him, tongue licking out to curl around the tips of the digits. Dean doesn't try to disguise his groan of want, cock already thick and pressing at the front of his tuxedo pants.
"That what you want? You wanna suck for me, Sammy?"
Sam can't nod like this, but he doesn't seem to remember that until after he's already tried, hissing when Dean doesn't relent on his hold.
"Get my pants open."
There's a bark in the command and Sam rushes to follow the order the way he never bothers to when they’re actually on a hunt. Sam fumbles with the catches and the zip, pawing at the fabric until it finally slides down over Dean's hips. His big hand slides into Dean's underwear, fingers wrapping around the rigid length until Dean slaps him away.
"Didn't say you could touch."
Sam pulls out the puppy dog eyes, tongue darting out to wet his lips, but he keeps his hands to himself for now, lying restlessly on the tops of his thighs.
"Good boy," Dean rewards his brother by loosening the grip in his hair just slightly, enough that he can scritch through the silky strands in that way that makes Sammy arch like a cat in heat.
He inhales sharply as he forces his briefs down his thighs, the elastic catching on the sensitive head before it slaps flat to the burgundy cummerbund covering his middle, eager for the promise in Sam's eyes. His brother lets loose a needy sound and shuffles forward an inch on his knees before Dean firms his wrist and snaps the hold on Sam's hair tight again. Hazel eyes slam closed like disguising the way his eyes roll up in razor-edged pleasure is going to make Dean miss the slack of his jaw or the tremble of his lip.
Sam in a tux is hot, sure; Dean can admit that half the reason he agreed to check out this fucking place tonight was the idea of seeing Sammy all dudded up and then wrecking all of that precisely put together pretense with nothing but his hands and his mouth and his dick. So yeah, drunk Sam is usually good and tux Sam is usually good, but Sammy in a tux, on his knees, all strung out and cock-hungry and breathless... if they could figure out a way to bottle that they'd never have to run another credit card scam again.
Dean gets a hand on his dick, doesn't jack it even though the temptation is tingling through his palm like and electric shock. The glistening tip bumps Sam's pink lips as he holds it out and his brother's mouth opens for it reflexively like a baby bird. For a minute that's all he gives, just marking Sam's skin up with his slick, watching Sam try to turn into the touch, get his mouth around it while Dean's knees threaten to turn to jelly over how goddamn motherfucking hot it is.
Finally he eases off just enough with the hand in Sam's hair that his brother can pout his lips around the very tip in an x-rated parody of a kiss. There's a little noise as Sammy suckles at it - just the slit and the few centimeters around it - when his mouth won't completely seal around flushed, sensitive flesh and he ends up just mouthing softly like he's slurping water from a drinking fountain. The muscles in Dean's belly shiver, his whole body flooded hot by the too much, not enough, ohJesusfuckingyes.
It's like the top layer of his skin's been peeled off, everything raw and exposed, his nerves flipped over to 'vibrate' so that he's practically trembling by the time he feeds his cock into Sam's waiting mouth. There's nothing but spit slickness and clutching heat as Dean pushes all the way to the back, not relenting until the fluttering catch of Sam's throat opens up and the protesting, unprepared muscles are clamping tight around him.
Sam's fingers are tight on his hips, pulling and grasping, fingernails leaving little trails of fire o bare skin, and Dean can't tell if he's trying to get away or get more but he doesn't really give a shit - he'd said he was gonna treat Sam like a bitch, if his brother doesn't like it, maybe he'll shape the fuck up next time and remember what being an obnoxious ass gets him.
Sam's face goes cherry red, a sparkle of wetness at the corners of his closed eyes and Dean slowly slides out, giving Sammy a chance to get in two wet coughs, his spit still stringing between the tip of Dean's cock and his swollen lips before Dean is doing it all over again.
He's got Sam's fever-hot cheeks cradled in the palms of his hands, thumbs finding the groove of sharp cheekbones like they were made to fit there and pumps himself in and out; jacking his cock with his baby brother's mouth when Sam doesn't seem inclined to do more than sit back on his heels and take it.
It's sloppy like Sam almost never is anymore; usually it's all carefully coordinated licks and sucks, tongue dragging up the underside in a precise rhythm that Sam probably counts out in his head to get Dean off fast and efficient and so fucking hard he can't see straight. But the alcohol has stripped Sammy down to dazed reflexes and instinct, not even aware enough to care that he's got spit dribbling down his chin onto his perfectly starched collar and expertly tied bowtie.
It's the hottest fucking thing ever.
Dean scrapes enough braincells together to disentangle one of Sam's hands from where they're limply hanging from Dean's waistband and nudge it toward his brother's lap.
"Rub off," is about as much coherency he can manage at the moment, especially when Dean can feel the quiver in his bones from the moan that rushes up out of Sam's throat at the first touch of his own hand through his pants. He can't decide if it's sexier to that Sam waited for the order or that he's so into swallowing down Dean's dick that he forgot all about his own.
He widens his stance a little, lets his shoulders drop back to admire the way Sam's blood-darkened lips stretch around the stiffness of his cock, mouth almost too full to manage even the clumsy flicks of tongue he's giving. His brother's body is working on auto-pilot by now, swallowing at just the right moment as Dean pulls out so it's open again when he fucks his way back in, gag reflex half-heartedly fluttering against the intrusion. Sam's hips are working shamelessly, grinding up into the press of his own hand - hasn't even bothered to get himself out yet and Dean's not going to tell him to either; it'll be way too much fun to let Sammy try and explain that stain to the rental place once he sobers up.
Dean can feel the push of his own cock through the thumbs pressed to Sam's cheeks, the little flare as the head comes almost all the way out only to sink deep again and fuck if this isn't going to be over way too fucking soon. He forces himself in harder, faster, not sure when he started biting his own lip, but the sharp-edged satisfaction just makes it even sweeter as Sam moans and sucks, mouth moving unconsciously as he buck up against his hand and shakes as he comes all over himself.
He can hear his own high whine as his thrusts become erratic, the pressure at the base of his spine turning from a hum to a relentless burn. Black, sin-smooth pleasure pours through his veins, stripping them raw, and he has just enough time to pant out, "Don't swallow," and shove a thumb up to the knuckle into Sam's mouth before he loses basic motor function.
Orgasm hits so hard he can't breathe, his hand on Sam's unsteady shoulder the only thing that's keeping him upright. Come floods Sam's mouth, hot and sticky, but he can't swallow around the digit Dean's got in there along his cock, so the wet heat just flows around him, extra little jolts of bliss from the cloying friction.
By the time he's got enough wits about him to stand on his own again, there's milky fluid mixed with the spittle at the corners of Sam's mouth, some of it spilling free as he pulls out. There's one quick, tantalizing flash of white-on-pink before Sam closes his mouth and swallows noisily, licking the stray traces from his flushed lips when he's finished.
Dean's on his knees just in time to keep Sam from slumping over bonelessly. His brother rests his forehead on Dean's shoulder, turning enough to share a lazy, Dean-flavored kiss; whatever manic, drunk energy he was running on earlier melting away under the fog climax.
He smiles hazily at Dean and looks all set to climb into his big brother's lap and fall asleep for the night but instead Dean manages to get his arms tucked around Sam's middle and drag him into something vaguely resembling an upright position. It's a hell of a shuffle for Dean to get his softened dick back in and his pants done up when he's also the only thing keeping Sammy standing, but it's not the hardest thing he's ever had to do so he manages.
Sam looks completely and utterly wrecked and Dean doubts he’s much better even if he at least hasn't drooled all over himself mid-blowjob, but there's nothing to be done about it now and Sammy's too out of it to care at any rate. He tugs on Sam's belt and obediently, Sam follows him away from the coats and out into the hallway.
The party must be shutting down - barely 11 o'clock, pansy-ass rich bitches - because the hall to the coat closet is pretty crowded and Dean once again commends himself on his impeccable timing; it would have been awkward as fuck if anyone had actually walked in one them. He just smirks at all of the scandalized expressions and kind of wishes he'd had the forethought to make sure some of their jizz ended up on all of those nice coats.
The crypt-keeper in the low-cut orange dress looks mortified when he politely asks her where the exit is - like she has any room to judge - but points the way and less than sixty seconds later, they are blessedly free of the Charity Ball of Horror.
Dean rips off his tie instantaneously - only refraining from throwing the damn thing on the ground and running over it a couple of times for good measure because he knows how deeply pissed Sam is going to be in the morning about that wet spot on the front of his pants.
Even with the weight of his giant big brother trying to drag him down as he slowly moves them toward the car, the droning wail of classical music following them out and the inevitable fight with his stupid fucking cufflinks that is to come, Dean still can't keep the smile off of his face.