FIC: What's a Four-Letter Word For ... (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
This is for presentiment, who requested laundromat!Wincest like 3 weeks ago, and has been very patient in waiting for me to overcome my writer's block. It is pretty much porn with no redeeming plot whatsoever. Also, thanks to beizy for help with the title. :)
What's a Four-Letter Word For ...
Supernatural - Sam/Dean - NC-17 - 3616 words
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and all characters depicted within are copyright The CW. No offense or copyright infringement is intended.
The laundromat is just like every other laundromat they've ever visited: pink formica counters, dirty white tiles, florescent lights flickering bravely against the odds, and a change machine that eats your bills half the time. It's as much a part of hunting as seedy motels and the back rooms of pawn shops, familiar and unchanging from town to town.
At two o'clock in the morning, the place is blessedly deserted, despite the blue neon sign advertising 24-hour service. They've stripped to their boxers, because when your wardrobe consists of two pairs of jeans and a dozen shirts, you can either be modest or clean. Sam's not exactly comfortable being nearly naked in what is essentially a public place, but both pairs of jeans were stiff with dirt and blood and other unmentionable substances, and he's got his limits.
Besides, it makes for an interesting way to pass the time.
Sam slouches further into the rickety plastic chair he's claimed, letting his legs fall wider apart, and feels his boxers ruck up to the crease of his thigh. The soft fabric is stretched tight across his groin, buttons scraping almost-painful on sensitive skin, but he doesn't bother adjusting himself. It's obscene, and if it were anyone but Dean sitting across from him, he'd be blushing. As it is, he has to bury his smirk in the crossword he's pretending to work. He listens as Dean sucks in a slow breath, and breathes it out shaky-slow, barely audible above the rumbling of the dryers behind him.
60. Law partner?
O-R-D-E-R, Sam pencils in. He hears plastic crinkling from where Dean is sitting, but doesn't look up. They've been playing this game for the better part of an hour, and he's been half-hard for what feels like forever, but fuck if he's going to give up now.
"What's a four-letter word for 'kick back'?" he asks aloud. "Starts with 'r'."
"'Relax' ...no, that's five-letters ...how about 'rest'?" Dean replies, but the word is muffled, and Sam risks a peek over the top of his crossword book. Dean's got a bag of mini-donuts in his lap, and there is powdered sugar smeared across his lips. He grins triumphantly at Sam, and then his tongue slides out, obscenely pink against the white of his lips, and gathers up the sugar before disappearing again.
Sam swallows, suddenly more hard than half-hard.
"Want one?" Dean asks, reaching into the bag to hold up another tiny donut. His knuckles are dusted white, and he holds Sam's gaze as he lifts his hand to taste the back of them.
Yeah, okay, Sam thinks, because if he's learned nothing else from Dean, it's the mastery of one-up-manship. He drops his pencil and the crossword on the floor and stands, bare toes curling against the dirty tiles. He doesn't move for a moment, just catches Dean's eye and holds it, and then crosses the floor in two quick strides. He curls his fingers around Dean's wrist and tugs; Dean resists, gazing up at Sam with a smug smile on his sugar-smudged lips, an I'm winning in his eyes. Sam lets him think it; makes a frustrated noise and tugs harder, and Dean finally lets himself be dragged to his feet, lawn chair toppling to the side, forgotten.
As soon as Dean is on his feet, Sam grins, and that puts a suddenly wary look on Dean's face. "What are you," he starts to ask, but then Sam licks his lips, and Dean seems to lose his train of thought. Sam steps forward and Dean backs up; they repeat the pattern twice, until Dean's back hits one of the rumbling dryers. "Sam."
"Shh," Sam says, and lowers his head, slowly, slowly, to bite into the donut. It's a burst of artificial sweetness against his tongue, and he mouths it wetly until it dissolves into a soft lump of sugar and dough, then swallows, tipping his head back so that Dean can watch the slow bob of his Adam's apple. When he dips his head again, he takes the other half of the donut between his lips, letting his tongue slide across Dean's fingertips as he pulls it into his mouth. Dean's low moan of appreciation is barely audible, but it vibrates the air between them, and Sam smiles his victory as he swallows.
He's not done, though, and when he raises Dean's hand to his mouth, he meets Dean's eyes. His hips jerk forward at the look he sees there, heat and desire, and he has to dig his fingers hard into Dean's wrist to keep from giving in, from leaning forward and tasting Dean's lips. Sam's got other plans, though, and he opens his mouth to draw Dean's first two fingers into his mouth. He sucks lightly, tasting sugar and salt and Dean, and then draws them in deep, presses them against the back of his throat and slides his tongue across the webbing in between. This time he doesn't have to strain to hear Dean's moan.
"Sam," Dean says, sounding strangled, but that seems about the extent of his vocabulary at the moment. His breath is coming short and uneven, and he can't seem to take his eyes off Sam's mouth.
Sam repeats the process with the next two fingers - suck, pull deep, and lick - and then moves to the thumb, tracing the sharp curve of the nail, the rough catch of calluses. Sucks hard, and finally, finally, Dean growls and jerks his hand away, replacing it with his mouth. They kiss, hard and sloppy and dirty, more like they're trying to eat other whole than kiss, and Dean pushes his wet fingers beneath the waistband of Sam's boxers. He slides them down the crease of Sam's ass, digs in hard, and uses the grip to yank Sam's body against his.
"I win," Sam mumbles against Dean's lips. He curls his fingers at the nape of Dean's neck, tugging the short hairs there, and pushes his hips firmly against Dean's.
"Fuck you," Dean says, but his eyes are laughing when he pulls back to look at Sam.
Sam wiggles his hips, pushing his ass back into Dean's hand, and grins. "Yeah, that's the idea."
Dean snorts and shakes his head, but his eyes are following the line of Sam's throat, and he licks his lips. "In a laundromat, Sammy? I always knew you were a kinky sonuvabitch." His fingers slide downward and press, making Sam's hips jerk.
"I learned from the best." Sam laughs, but it quickly dissolves into a gasp as Dean pushes the tip of his finger in. Dean's teeth scrape across one of the tendons in Sam's neck, and he squirms, pressing Dean back against the dryer. "Fuck."
"Yeah," Dean says, a breathy chuckle against Sam's throat. He leans up to nip Sam's ear, and then breathes against the damp skin. "That's the idea." He tugs on Sam's hair, and their lips meet in a slow slide, tongues testing and pushing into each other's mouths, hips grinding. They line their cocks up, push and rub in dirtyquick movement, the thin fabric of their boxers catching and twisting until Sam thinks he hears something rip.
They could get off just like that, some quick and dirty frottage, and come with the boxers still on, no harm, no foul. It wouldn't be the first time, or the last, and they'd both come out the other side happy and sated. But ... "I want you to fuck me," Sam says, words fast and jumbled, tripping over themselves to get out before he loses his nerve. He doesn't usually demand - hell, he rarely even asks - but he's horny as hell, and he wants more.
Dean stills abruptly, and for a long moment there is nothing but his raspy breathing. Sam feels his heart bottom out somewhere around his stomach, and he tries to pull back, face burning with embarrassment, but Dean stops him, tugs him close again. "Jesus, Sam, that's fucking hot," he says, and covers Sam mouth with his in another biting kiss. He pulls his hand free, and there's a moment of shifting and sliding against each other, and then Sam's stomach is pressed against the vibrating dryer, and Dean is covering him from behind.
Dean presses an open-mouthed kiss to the back of Sam's neck, burying his nose in the short curls there, writing secret messages with the tip of his tongue. His hands bracket Sam's hips, and then slide up his sides, slow and teasing, calluses catching on the smooth lines of old scars. Sam's breath stutters when Dean reaches forward and tweaks a nipple, a hard pinch and a little twist, just that perfect amount of pain to make Sam's hips surge forward. The smooth-slick surface of the dryer doesn't provide much in the way of friction, but the vibrations from its spin cycle are almost better, and Sam grinds his hips hard against it.
"Say it again," Dean murmurs into his hair.
"Fuck me," Sam says, and twists his upper body around for a kiss. Their lips collide forcefully, teeth clacking together, and Sam tastes blood. Dean scrapes blunt nails over his other nipple and swallows his gasp, pushes against him so that his cock catches and drags the material of Sam's boxers tight across his ass. "Dean ..."
"Yeah, yeah, Sammy, I ..." Dean says, and bites his jaw, his ear, his neck, like he can't decide what he wants to taste first. He forces a hand between Sam's hip and the dryer, dips his thumb into Sam's belly-button and pushes his fingers beneath the elastic of his boxers. His fingertips just barely graze the head of Sam's cock, stroke it lightly, and it's not enough, never enough.
"Dean," Sam whines, aware that he's begging, that he's losing it, but not caring. He can't decide whether to push back against Dean's cock, or forward into his hand, the dryer, something, and the end result is a strange sideways shimmy with his hips.
"Yeah, okay," Dean says, but he just kisses Sam again, slow and dirty. Sam's back and jaw are starting to ache from the awkward angle, but he kisses Dean hungrily, foregoing complaint in favor of licking, biting, sucking. It feels like ages since they've had the time or energy for this; they haven't done more than jerk each other off in almost two weeks, which is something like forever when you're a couple of horny, twenty-something men.
Dean pulls away with a final nip to his lower lip, and then his warmth peels away from Sam's back, and Sam's boxers are being eased from his hips. Dean's fingers slide down his thighs and dust across his kneecaps, making him shiver. When Sam finally glances over his shoulder, he sees Dean kneeling on the gritty floor behind him and it feels like all the oxygen's been sucked from his lungs.
Sam has to close his eyes at the first touch of Dean's tongue; he hunches his shoulders and presses his fists to his forehead, lets the dryer rattle his teeth and tries not to come like a twelve-year-old boy just discovering his dick. It's hard, though, with Dean's hands pressing bruises into his hips, thighs, ass, and Dean's tongue pressing into him, warm and wet. His knees tremble dangerously, so he spreads his legs and lets his weight rest on his elbows, and prays that his arms don't give out, too. Dean pushes his tongue deep, stubble scraping sensitive skin and making Sam want to laugh and sob at the same time; he settles for a low keening, instead, and Dean hums in response.
"Dean," Sam murmurs, hips canting back, and, god, it feels fucking dirtygoodamazing. He's always a little surprised at that, because the idea of someone's (Dean's) tongue in his ass still makes his inner six-year-old squinch up his face and say "eww." He tried to explain that to Dean once - the first time, actually, when Dean had pushed his face between Sam's legs and licked, and Sam shrieked and pushed him away and asked "What the hell are you doing?" Dean had just laughed, teased and goaded and said, "Trust me," and Sam did, because how could he not? It still makes his insides crawl just thinking about it, but these days it's a decidedly good sort of crawl.
"Dean," Sam says again, more urgently, because it's good, yeah, but it's not enough. He opens his mouth to say so, to tell Dean exactly what he's asking for, but Dean's already pulling back and pushing a finger against Sam's spit-slick opening, and all that comes out is a gasp. It slides in easy, the stretch and burn so faint and so familiar that Sam just pushes back against the intrusion, and then Dean leans forward and sinks his teeth into Sam's hip. Sam's cock jerks in response, and his whole body echoes it; when his knees give out entirely, the only things supporting him are the dryer and Dean.
"Sam," Dean rasps, tongue sliding over the skin his teeth just bruised. "Sam, Sammy, I need ..." His finger pushes deeper, twists and presses, searching, until he hits that spot, the one that makes Sam shudder and moan and beg for moremoremore.
"Yeah," Sam babbles, gripping his own hair tight, tugging, because it helps take the edge off the pleasure. "Yeah, do it, c'mon, just ..."
Dean's breathless laughter gusts across the base of Sam's spine. "Slut," he teases.
Sam forgets his comeback when Dean adds a second finger, and it's the slow stretch and burn and feeling of fullness that Sam will never, ever get used to. He bites his lip and concentrates on relaxing, because the lube's in the car, which might as well be a million miles away, so they'll make do with spit and precome.
Sam is only peripherally aware when Dean stands up again, working his way up Sam's body with soft touches and biting kisses, until he's got nose buried in Sam's hair and his cock against Sam's hip. He draws his fingers out slowly, trails them halfway up Sam's spine and then reaches around to pinch a nipple. "Ready?" he asks, tone low and gravelly.
Sam nods frantically, wants to tell Dean that he is so beyond ready, but the words catch in his throat. It doesn't matter; Dean knows and he mouths Sam's neck with lips and tongue and murmurs soft, dirty things against his skin. He uses one hand to line himself up, and the other rubs soothing patterns across Sam's chest and stomach.
Dean pushes forward and Sam stops breathing, and just for an instant the whole world stands still. Sam can't feel, or smell, or hear anything that isn't Dean; even the thundering dryer beneath him is suddenly very, very far away.
It's just a heartbeat, a millisecond in time, and it's gone just as quickly, and Sam is sucking in a deep breath as Dean thrusts allthewayin. Dean's hips cradle his like they were made for each other, warm, sticky skin pressed flush together, and Sam reaches back to clutch Dean's hip, holds him still deep inside. "Just," he gasps, but that's all he can get out.
Dean presses his face into the curve of Sam's neck and murmurs, "It's okay, I got you." He strokes the soft skin of Sam's belly, squeezes his hip, and waits.
Sam lets out a shuddering breath, shifts his hips experimentally, and then nods. "Yeah, okay, it's," he says, and Dean starts moving, slow and careful at first. Pull out, drag and burn, and then push in, heat and fullness and ... Sam gasps when Dean changes the angle subtly, hits that spot; he writhes and moans and claws at the slick, unyielding surface of the dryer. Dean plants his feet and grips Sams hips, starts hitting it on nearly every upstroke, and stars explode behind Sam's eyes. Dean's got his lips buried in the sweaty curls at the base of Sam's neck, huffing hot breaths down the length of Sam's spine, muttering a litany of filth, love, inanity. It's hot and dirty and them, and Sam wishes ...he wishes ...
He can't remember what he wishes, except for Dean to move faster, harder. Sam pushes his cock against the warmth and vibration of the dryer, grinds against it in time with Dean's thrusts. "Faster," he moans. "Fuck, Dean, please, I need ..." Morehardernow.
Dean forces hand between Sam's body and the dryer, wraps his fingers around Sam's cock and starts stroking. Every time he thrusts forward, he pounds his own fist into the metal, and there'll be bruises, but Sam can't stop his own jerky movements, urged on by Dean's hand and hips and mouth. He's got Dean inside him, around him; he inhales, smells Dean and sex and fabric softener, and it's too much, too much. His rhythm stutters as he spills into Dean's hand, on the dryer, on his stomach, coming to the sound of Dean's pained hiss in his ears as his body clenches tight around Dean's cock.
Dean slows his thrusts as he wrings Sam's orgasm from him, letting Sam fuck his hand until he's spent, and then just cradles his cock, letting it grow soft in the curve of his fingers. He licks Sam's neck, nips his earlobe, his long, slow thrusts sending bright aftershocks sparking along Sam's nerves. "Okay?" he asks, finally.
Sam shudders, pushes Dean's hand away from his over-sensitive cock, and nods. He has to gulp in great breaths of air, feeling lightheaded, like his lungs suddenly aren't big enough to supply his body. "Yeah, you can," he manages to say, voice raspy and unrecognizable to his own ears. His arms feel weak, and he only just manages to hold himself up, keep his cock from coming in contact with the unforgiving metal when Dean starts speeding up his thrusts. Dean closes sticky hands over Sam's hips, holds him still as he fucks him, short, sharp jabs so deep that Sam can almost taste them. Sam closes his eyes and watches the colors dance behind his lids, white and red and green, feels his cock twitch feebly as Dean strokes over his prostate again.
It doesn't take long for Dean's thrusts to grow faster, more erratic, and when he starts to come he pushes in deep and says Sam's name once, quiet and strangled and so, so full of love. Something twists down low in Sam's stomach, and he reaches back blindly, twists his head around and they kiss, perfect and messy, and this? This is all they'll ever really need.
When they break the kiss, Dean drops his head onto Sam's shoulder, breathing hard and fast, and wraps his arms tight around Sam's middle. "Christ," he says on a breathless laugh. "Sam, that was ..."
"Hot," Sam finishes, feeling a goofy sort of grin split his face. The dryer is digging uncomfortably into his stomach, and his legs are tired, and Dean is leaning heavy against him, but he has no urge to move. "I can't believe I let you coerce me into having sex in the laundromat."
"I coerced you?" Dean asks incredulously, but the contented hum that follows ruins the effect. He bites Sam's ear, a little too hard to be considered erotic, and adds, "You were the one engaging in porntastic finger licking."
"'Porntastic?'" Sam repeats, and a tiny giggle escapes before he can stop it. He feels, more than hears, Dean's answering rumble of laughter. "I don't ...it wasn't ..."
"It was," Dean says firmly. He unwinds his arms from around Sam and takes a step back, his cock sliding out with a wet pop that makes them both sigh. There is immediately a trickle of warm wetness down the backs of Sam's thighs, and he grimaces, accepting his discarded boxers from Dean and using them to clean some of the mess.
"That's not even a word, you freak. And even if it-" Sam says, but something catches his eye as he turns to face Dean, and he stops mid-sentence. He feels his stomach plummet, so sudden and dizzying that his knees almost give out again. "Oh, shit."
"What?" Dean asks, whipping around to see what Sam is looking at. "What are you-" But then he sees what Sam did: a security camera, set high in the back corner of the room, aimed almost directly at them.
Dean starts to laugh.
"What's the matter with you?" Sam hisses, hitting him. He clutches his boxers over his groin, and shimmies to the side so that he can open the dryer. He pulls out the first pair of jeans he grabs, and starts to yank them on. They're still damp, and the seams rub uncomfortably against his bare skin, but that doesn't fucking matter, because they've got to get out of here now. "Jesus, I can't believe ... We could get in serious trouble for this, Dean. If someone watches that tape ..."
"Then they'll get a hell of a show," Dean drawls, grinning as he crowds right into Sam's pesonal space, still buck naked. He bats Sam's trembling fingers away from his fly, and then slides a hand into Sam's hair, drawing him down for a kiss.
Sam responds almost immediately despite himself, tugging Dean hard against him as his tongue is drawn into that sinfulftalentedperfect mouth and sucking hard. He thinks he's probably losing something here, like dignity or pride or some other equally pompous trait, but really? He doesn't give a damn.
After all, what are a couple more minutes of footage?
What's a Four-Letter Word For ...
Supernatural - Sam/Dean - NC-17 - 3616 words
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and all characters depicted within are copyright The CW. No offense or copyright infringement is intended.
The laundromat is just like every other laundromat they've ever visited: pink formica counters, dirty white tiles, florescent lights flickering bravely against the odds, and a change machine that eats your bills half the time. It's as much a part of hunting as seedy motels and the back rooms of pawn shops, familiar and unchanging from town to town.
At two o'clock in the morning, the place is blessedly deserted, despite the blue neon sign advertising 24-hour service. They've stripped to their boxers, because when your wardrobe consists of two pairs of jeans and a dozen shirts, you can either be modest or clean. Sam's not exactly comfortable being nearly naked in what is essentially a public place, but both pairs of jeans were stiff with dirt and blood and other unmentionable substances, and he's got his limits.
Besides, it makes for an interesting way to pass the time.
Sam slouches further into the rickety plastic chair he's claimed, letting his legs fall wider apart, and feels his boxers ruck up to the crease of his thigh. The soft fabric is stretched tight across his groin, buttons scraping almost-painful on sensitive skin, but he doesn't bother adjusting himself. It's obscene, and if it were anyone but Dean sitting across from him, he'd be blushing. As it is, he has to bury his smirk in the crossword he's pretending to work. He listens as Dean sucks in a slow breath, and breathes it out shaky-slow, barely audible above the rumbling of the dryers behind him.
60. Law partner?
O-R-D-E-R, Sam pencils in. He hears plastic crinkling from where Dean is sitting, but doesn't look up. They've been playing this game for the better part of an hour, and he's been half-hard for what feels like forever, but fuck if he's going to give up now.
"What's a four-letter word for 'kick back'?" he asks aloud. "Starts with 'r'."
"'Relax' ...no, that's five-letters ...how about 'rest'?" Dean replies, but the word is muffled, and Sam risks a peek over the top of his crossword book. Dean's got a bag of mini-donuts in his lap, and there is powdered sugar smeared across his lips. He grins triumphantly at Sam, and then his tongue slides out, obscenely pink against the white of his lips, and gathers up the sugar before disappearing again.
Sam swallows, suddenly more hard than half-hard.
"Want one?" Dean asks, reaching into the bag to hold up another tiny donut. His knuckles are dusted white, and he holds Sam's gaze as he lifts his hand to taste the back of them.
Yeah, okay, Sam thinks, because if he's learned nothing else from Dean, it's the mastery of one-up-manship. He drops his pencil and the crossword on the floor and stands, bare toes curling against the dirty tiles. He doesn't move for a moment, just catches Dean's eye and holds it, and then crosses the floor in two quick strides. He curls his fingers around Dean's wrist and tugs; Dean resists, gazing up at Sam with a smug smile on his sugar-smudged lips, an I'm winning in his eyes. Sam lets him think it; makes a frustrated noise and tugs harder, and Dean finally lets himself be dragged to his feet, lawn chair toppling to the side, forgotten.
As soon as Dean is on his feet, Sam grins, and that puts a suddenly wary look on Dean's face. "What are you," he starts to ask, but then Sam licks his lips, and Dean seems to lose his train of thought. Sam steps forward and Dean backs up; they repeat the pattern twice, until Dean's back hits one of the rumbling dryers. "Sam."
"Shh," Sam says, and lowers his head, slowly, slowly, to bite into the donut. It's a burst of artificial sweetness against his tongue, and he mouths it wetly until it dissolves into a soft lump of sugar and dough, then swallows, tipping his head back so that Dean can watch the slow bob of his Adam's apple. When he dips his head again, he takes the other half of the donut between his lips, letting his tongue slide across Dean's fingertips as he pulls it into his mouth. Dean's low moan of appreciation is barely audible, but it vibrates the air between them, and Sam smiles his victory as he swallows.
He's not done, though, and when he raises Dean's hand to his mouth, he meets Dean's eyes. His hips jerk forward at the look he sees there, heat and desire, and he has to dig his fingers hard into Dean's wrist to keep from giving in, from leaning forward and tasting Dean's lips. Sam's got other plans, though, and he opens his mouth to draw Dean's first two fingers into his mouth. He sucks lightly, tasting sugar and salt and Dean, and then draws them in deep, presses them against the back of his throat and slides his tongue across the webbing in between. This time he doesn't have to strain to hear Dean's moan.
"Sam," Dean says, sounding strangled, but that seems about the extent of his vocabulary at the moment. His breath is coming short and uneven, and he can't seem to take his eyes off Sam's mouth.
Sam repeats the process with the next two fingers - suck, pull deep, and lick - and then moves to the thumb, tracing the sharp curve of the nail, the rough catch of calluses. Sucks hard, and finally, finally, Dean growls and jerks his hand away, replacing it with his mouth. They kiss, hard and sloppy and dirty, more like they're trying to eat other whole than kiss, and Dean pushes his wet fingers beneath the waistband of Sam's boxers. He slides them down the crease of Sam's ass, digs in hard, and uses the grip to yank Sam's body against his.
"I win," Sam mumbles against Dean's lips. He curls his fingers at the nape of Dean's neck, tugging the short hairs there, and pushes his hips firmly against Dean's.
"Fuck you," Dean says, but his eyes are laughing when he pulls back to look at Sam.
Sam wiggles his hips, pushing his ass back into Dean's hand, and grins. "Yeah, that's the idea."
Dean snorts and shakes his head, but his eyes are following the line of Sam's throat, and he licks his lips. "In a laundromat, Sammy? I always knew you were a kinky sonuvabitch." His fingers slide downward and press, making Sam's hips jerk.
"I learned from the best." Sam laughs, but it quickly dissolves into a gasp as Dean pushes the tip of his finger in. Dean's teeth scrape across one of the tendons in Sam's neck, and he squirms, pressing Dean back against the dryer. "Fuck."
"Yeah," Dean says, a breathy chuckle against Sam's throat. He leans up to nip Sam's ear, and then breathes against the damp skin. "That's the idea." He tugs on Sam's hair, and their lips meet in a slow slide, tongues testing and pushing into each other's mouths, hips grinding. They line their cocks up, push and rub in dirtyquick movement, the thin fabric of their boxers catching and twisting until Sam thinks he hears something rip.
They could get off just like that, some quick and dirty frottage, and come with the boxers still on, no harm, no foul. It wouldn't be the first time, or the last, and they'd both come out the other side happy and sated. But ... "I want you to fuck me," Sam says, words fast and jumbled, tripping over themselves to get out before he loses his nerve. He doesn't usually demand - hell, he rarely even asks - but he's horny as hell, and he wants more.
Dean stills abruptly, and for a long moment there is nothing but his raspy breathing. Sam feels his heart bottom out somewhere around his stomach, and he tries to pull back, face burning with embarrassment, but Dean stops him, tugs him close again. "Jesus, Sam, that's fucking hot," he says, and covers Sam mouth with his in another biting kiss. He pulls his hand free, and there's a moment of shifting and sliding against each other, and then Sam's stomach is pressed against the vibrating dryer, and Dean is covering him from behind.
Dean presses an open-mouthed kiss to the back of Sam's neck, burying his nose in the short curls there, writing secret messages with the tip of his tongue. His hands bracket Sam's hips, and then slide up his sides, slow and teasing, calluses catching on the smooth lines of old scars. Sam's breath stutters when Dean reaches forward and tweaks a nipple, a hard pinch and a little twist, just that perfect amount of pain to make Sam's hips surge forward. The smooth-slick surface of the dryer doesn't provide much in the way of friction, but the vibrations from its spin cycle are almost better, and Sam grinds his hips hard against it.
"Say it again," Dean murmurs into his hair.
"Fuck me," Sam says, and twists his upper body around for a kiss. Their lips collide forcefully, teeth clacking together, and Sam tastes blood. Dean scrapes blunt nails over his other nipple and swallows his gasp, pushes against him so that his cock catches and drags the material of Sam's boxers tight across his ass. "Dean ..."
"Yeah, yeah, Sammy, I ..." Dean says, and bites his jaw, his ear, his neck, like he can't decide what he wants to taste first. He forces a hand between Sam's hip and the dryer, dips his thumb into Sam's belly-button and pushes his fingers beneath the elastic of his boxers. His fingertips just barely graze the head of Sam's cock, stroke it lightly, and it's not enough, never enough.
"Dean," Sam whines, aware that he's begging, that he's losing it, but not caring. He can't decide whether to push back against Dean's cock, or forward into his hand, the dryer, something, and the end result is a strange sideways shimmy with his hips.
"Yeah, okay," Dean says, but he just kisses Sam again, slow and dirty. Sam's back and jaw are starting to ache from the awkward angle, but he kisses Dean hungrily, foregoing complaint in favor of licking, biting, sucking. It feels like ages since they've had the time or energy for this; they haven't done more than jerk each other off in almost two weeks, which is something like forever when you're a couple of horny, twenty-something men.
Dean pulls away with a final nip to his lower lip, and then his warmth peels away from Sam's back, and Sam's boxers are being eased from his hips. Dean's fingers slide down his thighs and dust across his kneecaps, making him shiver. When Sam finally glances over his shoulder, he sees Dean kneeling on the gritty floor behind him and it feels like all the oxygen's been sucked from his lungs.
Sam has to close his eyes at the first touch of Dean's tongue; he hunches his shoulders and presses his fists to his forehead, lets the dryer rattle his teeth and tries not to come like a twelve-year-old boy just discovering his dick. It's hard, though, with Dean's hands pressing bruises into his hips, thighs, ass, and Dean's tongue pressing into him, warm and wet. His knees tremble dangerously, so he spreads his legs and lets his weight rest on his elbows, and prays that his arms don't give out, too. Dean pushes his tongue deep, stubble scraping sensitive skin and making Sam want to laugh and sob at the same time; he settles for a low keening, instead, and Dean hums in response.
"Dean," Sam murmurs, hips canting back, and, god, it feels fucking dirtygoodamazing. He's always a little surprised at that, because the idea of someone's (Dean's) tongue in his ass still makes his inner six-year-old squinch up his face and say "eww." He tried to explain that to Dean once - the first time, actually, when Dean had pushed his face between Sam's legs and licked, and Sam shrieked and pushed him away and asked "What the hell are you doing?" Dean had just laughed, teased and goaded and said, "Trust me," and Sam did, because how could he not? It still makes his insides crawl just thinking about it, but these days it's a decidedly good sort of crawl.
"Dean," Sam says again, more urgently, because it's good, yeah, but it's not enough. He opens his mouth to say so, to tell Dean exactly what he's asking for, but Dean's already pulling back and pushing a finger against Sam's spit-slick opening, and all that comes out is a gasp. It slides in easy, the stretch and burn so faint and so familiar that Sam just pushes back against the intrusion, and then Dean leans forward and sinks his teeth into Sam's hip. Sam's cock jerks in response, and his whole body echoes it; when his knees give out entirely, the only things supporting him are the dryer and Dean.
"Sam," Dean rasps, tongue sliding over the skin his teeth just bruised. "Sam, Sammy, I need ..." His finger pushes deeper, twists and presses, searching, until he hits that spot, the one that makes Sam shudder and moan and beg for moremoremore.
"Yeah," Sam babbles, gripping his own hair tight, tugging, because it helps take the edge off the pleasure. "Yeah, do it, c'mon, just ..."
Dean's breathless laughter gusts across the base of Sam's spine. "Slut," he teases.
Sam forgets his comeback when Dean adds a second finger, and it's the slow stretch and burn and feeling of fullness that Sam will never, ever get used to. He bites his lip and concentrates on relaxing, because the lube's in the car, which might as well be a million miles away, so they'll make do with spit and precome.
Sam is only peripherally aware when Dean stands up again, working his way up Sam's body with soft touches and biting kisses, until he's got nose buried in Sam's hair and his cock against Sam's hip. He draws his fingers out slowly, trails them halfway up Sam's spine and then reaches around to pinch a nipple. "Ready?" he asks, tone low and gravelly.
Sam nods frantically, wants to tell Dean that he is so beyond ready, but the words catch in his throat. It doesn't matter; Dean knows and he mouths Sam's neck with lips and tongue and murmurs soft, dirty things against his skin. He uses one hand to line himself up, and the other rubs soothing patterns across Sam's chest and stomach.
Dean pushes forward and Sam stops breathing, and just for an instant the whole world stands still. Sam can't feel, or smell, or hear anything that isn't Dean; even the thundering dryer beneath him is suddenly very, very far away.
It's just a heartbeat, a millisecond in time, and it's gone just as quickly, and Sam is sucking in a deep breath as Dean thrusts allthewayin. Dean's hips cradle his like they were made for each other, warm, sticky skin pressed flush together, and Sam reaches back to clutch Dean's hip, holds him still deep inside. "Just," he gasps, but that's all he can get out.
Dean presses his face into the curve of Sam's neck and murmurs, "It's okay, I got you." He strokes the soft skin of Sam's belly, squeezes his hip, and waits.
Sam lets out a shuddering breath, shifts his hips experimentally, and then nods. "Yeah, okay, it's," he says, and Dean starts moving, slow and careful at first. Pull out, drag and burn, and then push in, heat and fullness and ... Sam gasps when Dean changes the angle subtly, hits that spot; he writhes and moans and claws at the slick, unyielding surface of the dryer. Dean plants his feet and grips Sams hips, starts hitting it on nearly every upstroke, and stars explode behind Sam's eyes. Dean's got his lips buried in the sweaty curls at the base of Sam's neck, huffing hot breaths down the length of Sam's spine, muttering a litany of filth, love, inanity. It's hot and dirty and them, and Sam wishes ...he wishes ...
He can't remember what he wishes, except for Dean to move faster, harder. Sam pushes his cock against the warmth and vibration of the dryer, grinds against it in time with Dean's thrusts. "Faster," he moans. "Fuck, Dean, please, I need ..." Morehardernow.
Dean forces hand between Sam's body and the dryer, wraps his fingers around Sam's cock and starts stroking. Every time he thrusts forward, he pounds his own fist into the metal, and there'll be bruises, but Sam can't stop his own jerky movements, urged on by Dean's hand and hips and mouth. He's got Dean inside him, around him; he inhales, smells Dean and sex and fabric softener, and it's too much, too much. His rhythm stutters as he spills into Dean's hand, on the dryer, on his stomach, coming to the sound of Dean's pained hiss in his ears as his body clenches tight around Dean's cock.
Dean slows his thrusts as he wrings Sam's orgasm from him, letting Sam fuck his hand until he's spent, and then just cradles his cock, letting it grow soft in the curve of his fingers. He licks Sam's neck, nips his earlobe, his long, slow thrusts sending bright aftershocks sparking along Sam's nerves. "Okay?" he asks, finally.
Sam shudders, pushes Dean's hand away from his over-sensitive cock, and nods. He has to gulp in great breaths of air, feeling lightheaded, like his lungs suddenly aren't big enough to supply his body. "Yeah, you can," he manages to say, voice raspy and unrecognizable to his own ears. His arms feel weak, and he only just manages to hold himself up, keep his cock from coming in contact with the unforgiving metal when Dean starts speeding up his thrusts. Dean closes sticky hands over Sam's hips, holds him still as he fucks him, short, sharp jabs so deep that Sam can almost taste them. Sam closes his eyes and watches the colors dance behind his lids, white and red and green, feels his cock twitch feebly as Dean strokes over his prostate again.
It doesn't take long for Dean's thrusts to grow faster, more erratic, and when he starts to come he pushes in deep and says Sam's name once, quiet and strangled and so, so full of love. Something twists down low in Sam's stomach, and he reaches back blindly, twists his head around and they kiss, perfect and messy, and this? This is all they'll ever really need.
When they break the kiss, Dean drops his head onto Sam's shoulder, breathing hard and fast, and wraps his arms tight around Sam's middle. "Christ," he says on a breathless laugh. "Sam, that was ..."
"Hot," Sam finishes, feeling a goofy sort of grin split his face. The dryer is digging uncomfortably into his stomach, and his legs are tired, and Dean is leaning heavy against him, but he has no urge to move. "I can't believe I let you coerce me into having sex in the laundromat."
"I coerced you?" Dean asks incredulously, but the contented hum that follows ruins the effect. He bites Sam's ear, a little too hard to be considered erotic, and adds, "You were the one engaging in porntastic finger licking."
"'Porntastic?'" Sam repeats, and a tiny giggle escapes before he can stop it. He feels, more than hears, Dean's answering rumble of laughter. "I don't ...it wasn't ..."
"It was," Dean says firmly. He unwinds his arms from around Sam and takes a step back, his cock sliding out with a wet pop that makes them both sigh. There is immediately a trickle of warm wetness down the backs of Sam's thighs, and he grimaces, accepting his discarded boxers from Dean and using them to clean some of the mess.
"That's not even a word, you freak. And even if it-" Sam says, but something catches his eye as he turns to face Dean, and he stops mid-sentence. He feels his stomach plummet, so sudden and dizzying that his knees almost give out again. "Oh, shit."
"What?" Dean asks, whipping around to see what Sam is looking at. "What are you-" But then he sees what Sam did: a security camera, set high in the back corner of the room, aimed almost directly at them.
Dean starts to laugh.
"What's the matter with you?" Sam hisses, hitting him. He clutches his boxers over his groin, and shimmies to the side so that he can open the dryer. He pulls out the first pair of jeans he grabs, and starts to yank them on. They're still damp, and the seams rub uncomfortably against his bare skin, but that doesn't fucking matter, because they've got to get out of here now. "Jesus, I can't believe ... We could get in serious trouble for this, Dean. If someone watches that tape ..."
"Then they'll get a hell of a show," Dean drawls, grinning as he crowds right into Sam's pesonal space, still buck naked. He bats Sam's trembling fingers away from his fly, and then slides a hand into Sam's hair, drawing him down for a kiss.
Sam responds almost immediately despite himself, tugging Dean hard against him as his tongue is drawn into that sinfulftalentedperfect mouth and sucking hard. He thinks he's probably losing something here, like dignity or pride or some other equally pompous trait, but really? He doesn't give a damn.
After all, what are a couple more minutes of footage?