SPN Fic: Arson
In the end, they decide to burn the warehouse down. Turns out Elizabeth Klein wasn’t the only young girl murdered here and not the only pissed off ghost. They don’t have time to track down and dig up the others, so John makes the call to let it burn. Dean finishes pouring the lighter fluid out and Sam finishes with the salt just as John drags out the unconscious body of the guy they were just in time to save.
“You boys finish up here,” barks John. “Then peel out in the Impala. I’m gonna take our friend Tim here to the ER.”
“Yes sir,” snaps back Dean, shaking a match into his hand. Sam tries to grab it from him. “Rendezvous at oh eight hundred?”
John nods, patting Tim down for the keys to the guy’s car. He finds the keys and nods at Dean again, then takes off. Dean watches him go, and when he turns around, Sam’s staring at him with a determined expression.
“I want to light the match,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Nuh uh,” smirks Dean. “Didn’t I ever teach you not to play with fire?”
“Rock, paper, scissors,” demands Sam, holding his fist out, and he softens his expression to one of pleading. Dean swallows.
“All right,” he says roughly, and he picks scissors and loses in quick succession. “Best two out of three,” he tries, but Sam just laughs at him and snatches the match out of Dean’s hand. He lights it against his jeans, and Dean feels a familiar liquid warmth roll through his stomach at that, quickly accompanied by the equally familiar nauseous twist of guilt.
Sam throws the match into the warehouse, then steps back as the fire blossoms up. It dances angrily, red and orange, sends flickering shadows across Sam’s face. And it hits Dean then like it’s been hitting him for the last year that Sam is gorgeous. He keeps telling himself that he means it objectively, that a stranger would see Sam’s slanted eyed and wide mouth, his long limbs and feral-pretty features and think Sam attractive.
But he’s having a hard time breathing when Sam looks at him and says, voice breathy and urgent, “Come on Dean, we need to get outta here.”
Dean nods, and they get into the Impala, leave the burning building behind. Dean tries to gauge how long they should let it burn before calling 911, and Sam unrolls the window and sticks his head out into the muggy night air to watch the flames.
Dean hears Sam laugh, high and hysterical, and when Sam pops his head back into the car, he’s smiling moon-bright and sickle-sharp.
“Jesus Christ,” says Sam delightedly, and he’s twitchy and shaking in the passenger seat.
“You’re in a good mood,” snorts Dean, his own adrenaline starting to drain out of him. He’s beginning to feel heavy and sated, his own good mood buoyed up by Sam’s. It’s rare that Sam smiles these days, let alone laughs.
“I just committed a felony Dean,” says Sam. “Fuck.” He sounds breathless and nervous and gleeful, and Dean slants him a smile.
“You’re such a pyro,” he says.
“Yeah,” scoffs Sam. “Cuz you’re not,” and then he’s beaming again, pounding his hands against the dashboard and saying, “Seriously Dean. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.”
Dean laughs, light, soaring feeling in his head and chest as he navigates through the empty streets. It takes him a second to realize that Sam’s crept across the front seat, one hand on Dean’s shoulder and the other on his thigh, and Dean jerks away.
“What the fuck Sam?” he says, and Sam smiles up at him, child-wide and mischievous.
“Pull over Dean,” he says. “I want to watch the fire.”
“The fire?” repeats Dean dumbly, and he glances at the side mirror. Sure enough, he realizes, he’s driven them onto higher ground, and the street they’re on looks down at the warehouses below. The one warehouse is blazing, flames merry and bright against the flat black of the August sky. Dean pulls over, still watching the flames in the mirror, and he feels terribly young.
“Shit,” says Dean quietly, and then he feels a familiar rush of exhilaration. He grabs Sam and headlocks him, tangling his fingers in the soft curls at the nape of Sam’s neck. “Job’s not so bad now, is it sparky?”
“It’s got it perks,” agrees Sam, punch-drunk and giddy, and next thing Dean knows, he’s got a lapful of squirming little brother.
“What the-” he starts to say, but Sam seals his mouth over Dean’s, messy and determined. Dean’s brain shuts down for a second, blown wide open with shock and panic. He pushes Sam away and wipes at his mouth.
“What the hell are you doing?” he explodes, scared, nervous energy shooting through him. Sam makes a face and wriggles in his lap, and Dean grunts without meaning to, his body beginning to react to Sam’s.
“Come on Dean,” says Sam, eyes huge and bright and wild. He licks his lips and Dean can’t help but watch. Then Sam tips forward into Dean and mouths at the spot where his stubble meets his necks, sends shivers through Dean’s spine.
“We burned down a building,” says Sam, soft and crafty. “We should celebrate.”
He kisses Dean again, and Dean’s mind blooms out like a clusterbomb, swell of terror and lust in his gut that his brother wants this too. Part of him always hoped that he was the only Winchester brother fucked up this bad, ignores the way Sam sometimes glances sidelong at him with narrowed eyes and a sly, sharp smile.
“Want you so bad,” says Sam into his mouth. “Please Dean.” He grinds down against Dean, and Dean instinctively presses back against him, feels the sweet burn of friction and pressure. He swears softly and feels Sam smiles against his mouth, press into him harder. Shit, thinks Dean. Shit.
He pulls back.
Sam stares at him. “Wha…”
Dean’s always been weak.
“Backseat,” growls Dean. “And take your goddamned shirt off.”
It takes a minute for what Dean’s saying to hit Sam, and when it does, Sam grins impishly and complies, stripping off his shirt in a second and tossing it on the floor, before climbing into the backseat. Dean follows and ends up straddling Sam. He takes off his own shirt and tosses into the darkness of the front seat.
“Come here often?” asks Sam, grinning up at him.
“Course Sammy,” smirks Dean. “This is where I bring all my dates.”
Sam wrinkles his nose. “What the fuck Dean?” he huffs, like he wasn’t begging for it moments earlier. “I sleep here.”
“Yeah,” murmurs Dean, bending down so his lips are pressed to Sam’s ear. “Bet you’re gonna be thinking about that next time we’re in the car and you’re back here, huh?” He licks his lips and his tongue flicks against the shell of Sam’s ear. Sam shivers. “Gonna be thinking about me fucking some girl, wishing it were you. Gonna get you hard Sammy, and you’re not gonna be able to do anything about it, just sit here and squirm.”
“Full of yourself,” says Sam, but he’s breathing hard, face flushed and eyes rounded like coins.
“Guess I’ll just have to show you,” grunts Dean, and he leverages himself back up so he’s straddling his brother again. He stares down, frozen for a moment. Sammy’s laid out before him, all long rangy lines, his eyelashes sweeping dark and thick against his cheeks and his mouth pink and shiny with spit. Dean wants to mark him up, suck bruises into his neck and leave bitemarks on his collarbone.
Dad’ll see those, he thinks with a peculiar, distant clarity. And at the thought of Dad, at what he and Sam are doing, it’s enough to make Dean stop, sick burn of guilt and shame in his gut. He doesn’t know which is worse, that he was gonna touch Sam or that he was gonna let Sam touch him, compound his sin by dragging his little brother into it. And he’s in stasis, completely paralyzed, blood pounding in his ears like the sea.
But then Sam wriggles and jerks up, erection pressing into Dean’s own, and he snaps, “Jesus Dean. I’m the virgin. Are you gonna do something or what?”
And that snaps Dean back to the present with his little brother cracked open and begging for it like every other wet dream Dean’s had for the past six months. He doesn’t dignify Sam’s challenge with a reply, just arches down and presses his tongue flat against Sam’s nipple, swirls his tongue around the tight bead and then scrapes his teeth with sharp intent against his brother’s skin. Sam’s whole body jerks and shudders like he’s been electrocuted.
“Fuck,” he says, and Dean smiles against his skin, dragging his mouth and tongue down Sam’s body, finding the ridges of scars, the sharp curve of the ribs and the indents of muscle. He bites at Sam’s bellybutton, knows he’ll be okay if he leaves a mark there, and Sam jerks and flails again, still not used enough to his new body to be able to properly fight with it, let alone fuck with it.
“I gotchya Sammy,” murmurs Dean, hand creeping up to unzip Sam’s jeans, and he can feel his own hard-on pressing tight and painful in his denim. He grunts and ignores it. There’s a thicket of dark, wiry curls and then Sam’s dick is poking out of his boxers and the vee of his pants, red and already leaking at the tip. Dean gives it a few experimental strokes.
“Whaddya like?” he asks. “Harder? Slower?”
Sam’s head is tilted away from him, but Dean can see the muscles Sam’s throat and jaw work as he clenches his teeth and grits out, “Harder.”
Dean nods, and then he shimmies back up so that he’s lying pressed against Sam. He gives another few jerks, still ignoring his own erection, and then he feels Sam fumbling at his zipper. It catches on Dean as Sam unzips, and Dean winces and hisses.
“Jesus Sammy. Careful.” he says, and Sam lifts his head and smiles at him cheekily.
“Sorry,” he says brattily, eyes heavy-lidded, and then he pulls Dean out, and Dean stifles a moan. His brother’s got a soft, warm grip, his calluses a rough and pleasant contrast, and his tugs are short and steady.
“A little faster,” breathes Dean, voice gone low and rough. “Twist your wrist more.”
The air’s beginning to get thick and humid, and a sheen of sweat’s broken over Dean’s skin. He and Sam rock into each other, and Dean realigns himself so that his cock is pressed sidelong against Sam’s. Sam moans and Dean thumbs hard against his slit, trying to drag the moan out, and it works, Sam’s mouth stretched wide and shapeless. And then Sam does the same thing to Dean, but harder, just like he’s been doing since he was a kid, copying whatever Dean does and trying to do it better. Dean hisses with pleasure.
“Always were a quick learner,” he says appreciatively.
“Top of my class,” says Sam, mouth quirking up into a smirk.
“Cocky son of a bitch,” laughs Dean, and he grips Sam tighter, quickens his pace, and Sam gasps and copies Dean again. They’re both panting, thrusting into the other’s fist, and strokes getting quicker and dirtier. Sam’s got this expression on his face, mouth serious and eyebrows drawn tight, and it’s the same expression he always wears when he’s concentrating hard on something, tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, the very picture of determination.
And fuck. Dean’s fucked, he’s so fucked. He wants to wipe that expression off his Sam’s face and keep it there forever, just him and Sam rutting against each other, dicks slipping slick and hot against each other, and he wants to kiss his brother and fuck his brother, suck his brother off and bite at the crease of his thigh, the deadly angles of his hipbones. And Dean’s never been more thankful that he doesn’t believe in God, cuz there’s no way he wouldn’t go to Hell for this.
He scrapes his teeth against Sam’s nipple again and follows it up with one last sharp tug on Sam’s dick, and the two in combination have the desired effect. Sam swears loudly and fluently and bucks and shudders against Dean, falling to pieces, and he comes all over himself, sends thick white ropes of come over his stomach and chest. The look on his face, wide-eyed and wondrous, mouth slack, sends Dean over the edge, and he rides his orgasm out just as Sam ends his own, marks his brother filthier with his own come. When he’s done, he collapses on top of Sam, and he lies there for a moment, the both of them breathing loudly, and Dean’s mind fizzed to a warm blankness.
Then Dean pulls himself off, grimacing at the wet smacking sound as his chest peels off Sam’s. Sam stares at the mess of semen on his torso, and Dean expects to hear a whine or complaint. But Sam just smiles, dark, sensual edge to it, and slides a finger through the mess. He sticks his finger in his mouth with a pop, and his cheeks indent around it as his eyelashes flutter, and he arcs up, sticking a second finger into his mouth, and there’s a flash of pink as his tongue flicks at the juncture between the two.
“Dean,” moans Sam around his fingers, and he writhes some more. Dean’s still straddling Sam, and it’s too soon for another round, but Dean’s cock still twitches with interest. And if Sam doesn’t stop his moaning and sucking soon, it’s only gonna be another minute before Dean’s got him on his stomach and is fucking him open.
Dean closes his eyes, and leans back. “Jesus Christ,” he says, voice completely wrecked. “You’re gonna be the death of me Sammy.”
He edges off his brother and gets out of the car; Sam half sits up in attempt to follow.
“Where are you going?” he asks plaintively, and Dean shakes his head.
“Just getting into the driver’s seat,” he explains. “We gotta go get cleaned up Sammy. Can’t go back to Dad looking like that.”
And oh shit, he thinks, Dad. He pushes the thought firmly out of his head. First things first, he’s gotta get Sammy cleaned up. He frowns down at his own bare chest. He could probably use a wash too.
Dean slides into the driver’s seat, trying to think of someplace he and Sam can rinse down. His mind flashes to the river he and Sam went swimming in a few days ago. It’s placid and fairly shallow where they swam, and Dean spent the afternoon half hard and on edge, watching Sam splash golden and happy through the water. It only got worse when Sam got out, trunks hanging baggily off his wiry frame, showing off his hipbones and the trail of hair that ran from his bellybutton down. It would have been everything Dean wanted to just push his brother down into the pebbly shore and...
The river, he thinks giddily. They can go to the river.
The drive to the river is murder. Dean keeps glancing in the rearview mirror to see Sam staring back at him, eyes dark and hooded. Sam’s still got his fingers in his mouth, sucking on them slowly and sliding his tongue in and out. His other hand trails down his chest and down into his pants.
“So fucking good Dean,” he moans, stroking himself slowly and tilting his head back to show off the line of his neck. Dean glances at the road, then back at Sam. His mouth is dry.
“I’ve been jacking off to you for ages,” says Sam dreamily, still touching himself. “I’m so fucked up over you Dean, you know that?”
Dean doesn’t say anything. He looks at the road. Sam’s fucking with him, the little bastard. Dean should’ve expected his brother’d be a complete cocktease. He ignores the moans Sam keeps making, these exaggerated pornographic ones. But then Sam makes this high-pitched whimper that actually sounds real and Dean hears a soft, “Oh,” from the back of the car.
He looks back at the rearview mirror. Sam’s hand has dropped from his mouth, but the other’s still pushed down into his pants, but it doesn’t look like he’s got his hand around his dick anymore. So Dean doesn’t… Oh, he thinks suddenly. Sam’s eyes are huge with pleasure and surprise, and he tilts his hips up, making another high-pitched whimper that goes straight to Dean’s cock.
“Are you,” Dean’s voice cracks. “Are you fingering yourself?” he asks.
Sam catches his eye in the mirror, and his smile is all teeth and shadows.
“Yeah,” he slurs. “S’good.” He closes his eyes and presses down onto his hand, groaning and shuddering. “God Dean,” he says. “I want you to fuck me.”
Dean jerks the steering wheel and nearly sends them into a ditch. He swerves away last minute and says, “Jesus Christ Sammy, you can’t… you can’t say that.”
“Please Dean,” says Sam, and it would sound like he was begging, but there’s a smirk wound up tight in his words, goading Dean and laughing at him.
“You got any idea what you do to me?” demands Dean, and Sam’s answering smile in the mirror says he does.
They reach the river then, and Dean gets out of the car with quick, jerky movements. He pulls open Sam’s door with a harsh tug, then reaches in and pulls Sam out of the car and onto his feet. Sam makes a confused noise and tries to cling to him, and Dean shoves him away. The sun’s beginning to come up, the sky pale and pearl-gray.
“You need to get yourself cleaned up,” Dean says roughly.
“Dean,” whines Sam, and Dean ignores him in favor of checking out the backseat.
“Jesus Christ,” he says. “I gotta fucking clean up here too.”
Sam huffs indignantly, but he doesn’t try to get Dean to pay attention to him again. Dean hears Sam stripping off his jeans as Dean goes back around to the front of the car and finds some napkins stuffed into the glove department. A moment later, he hears the splash that means Sam’s gotten into the river.
He uses the napkins to wipe up the mess in the back, though Sam really did catch the most of it, and then he drops the napkins on the ground for some poor schmuck to find later and goes to take his shoes off.
He steadies himself against the hood of the car and stands on one foot, taking the boot off his other foot. He switches feet, and when he’s done, he turns around to go join Sam in the water, but Sam’s right there in front of him, dripping wet and smiling like the cat who ate the canary. Dean didn’t even hear him get out of the water.
“Nearly gave me a heart attack there,” jokes Dean weakly.
Sam ignores the comment in favor of pushing Dean against the car, and then he drops to his knees in front of him. Dean never bothered to zip his pants back up, and it’s a second’s work for Sam to tug Dean’s dick out of his boxers and lay his mouth to it.
“Sa-a-mmy,” chokes out Dean, and he’s been half-hard since his dick was first able to sit back up and take notice of the proceedings, but he’s instantly, blindingly hard as soon as Sam gets his mouth on him, all wet, sweet heat. Dean flails and tries to get a grip on Sam’s hair, but Sam’s hair is water slick, and Dean’s hands slide through it. He sets them against the Impala instead, bracing himself as Sam goes to town.
It’s clear that Sam’s never given a blowjob before. He’s all mouth and tongue, the painful scrape of teeth, enthusiasm and no finesse. Dean grips him by the back of his head and jerks him back a little.
“Easy tiger,” he says, and Sam nods, goes back to it and does a better job at keeping the teeth to himself. Dean tries hard not to think about how hot it is that is little brother’s never given a blowjob before, and he feels a flash of jealous rage like a lightning storm at the thought of Sammy doing this to someone else, kneeling in some alley and opening his pretty mouth for a stranger.
Dean thrusts into Sam’s mouth then, and it’s hot and soft and silky. Sam chokes then readjusts his position, slurps at Dean’s cock, tongue pressed to the tip and greedily licking at the precome, and then he’s licking along the underside, probing at the thick vein there.
“So fucking gorgeous,” groans Dean, and he realizes he’s babbling. “Sucking my cock Sammy. No idea. You drive me fucking crazy, all the damn time.”
Sam glances up at him from between his bangs, cheeks hollowed and eyes smirking. He’s beautiful and it’s perfect and this hot, tight feeling hits Dean in the chest and spreads out in a wave of warmth and ecstasy. His brother, his fucking little brother, and Dean lays a hand against the side of Sam’s face, stroking at his cheekbone with his thumb.
“Love you,” he sighs. “Love you so fucking much.” And then Sam hums around his dick and Dean’s coming, jerking into Sam’s mouth, shouting out God and Jesus and his little brother’s name. Sam tries to swallow, then gags.
“Gross,” he laughs, voice a little hoarse. There’s come on his chin and lips, and he wipes at it, manages to only spread it across his face. His mouth is red and swollen, and he smiles slyly up at Dean, fucking pleased with himself.
Dean leans down and scoops Sam up, slams him onto the hood of the Impala in one smooth motion. Sam yelps in pain as his back hits the metal, but it turns into a thready gasp when Dean licks his face, broad swipes of his tongue starting at Sam’s chin and following the path Sam’s hand made earlier. He tastes the bitter-salt of his own come and the taste of river water and Sam’s skin beneath that.
“F-fuck Dean,” stutters Sam, arcing up against Dean like he’s trying to push him off, fighting against Dean even now. Dean reaches down and grabs Sam’s dick, and it’s hard and warm in his hand. His grip is on the painful side of tight and he jerks his brother off with short, brutal strokes.
“You like that?” he hisses into Sam’s ear. “Next time I’m not just gonna jerk you off Sammy. I’m gonna bend you over the car and scissor you open, fuck you raw. Bet you’re looking forward to that.” He chuckles darkly and twists his upstroke, and Sam slams his head against the car and thrashes wildly. “Tell me you want it,” he orders.
Sam lifts his head back up, eyes glazed and irises eaten black. “Dean, fuck,” he says.
“Say it,” presses Dean, tightening his grip and Sam hisses in pleasure-pain. “Didn’t have any trouble saying it in the car you little bitch.”
“I want you to fuck me,” whines Sam, pleading and honest, and Dean slips the thumb of his free hand into Sam’s mouth. Sam’s lips instantly close around it, tongue swirling along the pad and then probing at the base. It’s almost as good as having his cock back in that wet-hot suction. Dean fucking loves his brother’s mouth.
“That’s what I thought you slut,” says Dean fondly, and he loosens his grips, turns the strokes longer and smoother, drags it out for Sam. “So fucking desperate for it. Can’t wait to spread your legs for me, can you Sammy?”
Sam groans deep in the back of his throat, and Dean knows his baby brother’s not gonna last much longer. He takes his thumb out of Sam’s mouth and kisses him, tongue-fucks him and swallows his moan, then twists his upstroke again, and Sam’s gone. He keens, high and loud, and his whole body trembles and shakes with the shock of his orgasm, and he shoots his wad like a champ.
He collapses, limp, and Dean takes a step back. Except for Sam’s come on his hand, he’s clean, but he knows they both smell of sex, and Dad’ll be able to tell.
“Come on Sammy,” he says, hooking his clean hand under Sam’s arm and dragging him to his feet. “Need to get you cleaned up again.”
Sam’s head lolls forward, and the poor kid’s dazed and fucked-out. Dean sighs, adjusting his stance so he’s supporting most of Sam’s, and he starts walking them back toward the river. Dean’s not in great shape himself, trembling from the after effects of the hunt and his second orgasm of the night. His mind keeps sparking with half-formed thoughts, and he’s sated and he’s guilty and he really wants to do this again.
“It’s all right Sammy,” he says, stroking his thumb against Sam’s neck. “I gotchya.”
Sam sighs and mumbles something incoherent, and they walk into the river together.
AN: Damn, I think this is the fastest I've ever written 4000 words. So anyway, I've never written porn before, and I never read weecest. So I'm really not sure where this came from. I blame insomnia, but regardless, I'm pretty sure this confirms my seat in a very special hell.
Feedback is good karma. Thanks for reading.