SPN fic: Truest Type of Love
The Truest Type of Love
SPN Sam/Dean
NC-17
2800 words
Incest warning. Obviously. No other particular warnings, but this is not fluffy.
AN: For spn_nostalgia, prompt: Sam gets Dean back for the buttslap in Bugs. I think this prompt was probably asking for cute prank-warfare stuff, but I... didn't write it that way. Sorry.
When it happened, it took Sam five solid seconds to figure out what was going on
"Let me just say, we accept homeowners of any race, religion, color, or sexual orientation."
The salesman looked not at all uncomfortable, even that rote and rehearsed spiel sounding genuine and welcoming. Sam felt an incredulous grin split his face. He managed not to laugh, distracted by the sudden worry about what Dean would do. God knows Dad hadn't raised them to hate, but he sure as hell hadn't raised them to be actively okay with things like that either. It wasn't talked about, not by their dad, not by his Marine buddies or survivalist backwoods contacts, not by the blue-collar men with engine grease or gun oil on their calloused hands who were more or less the only family friends they'd had to model themselves on. Even by age 22 Dean had been determined to be a man's man, all leather and foul language and "don't be such a pussy" and "check out the ass on that one."
So Sam found himself tensing, in that split second between amused comprehension and serious worry, wondering what he would do if Dean started swearing at the guy, choreographing his moves if Dean threw a punch. But Dean just said, "We're brothers," more brusque than hostile. Sam slid in with the cover story, and when the guy welcomed them in, Sam paused on the doorstep to flick his eyes upwards for a split second, thinking, Thank God he's not as much of a Neanderthal as he could be.
Because Sam spent four years at Stanford, and he did his dues in Gender Studies and Cultural Sensitivity Indoctrination 101 (and he was a bit embarrassed by Dean's unevolved attitudes even before that, really), so it wasn't like he would be upset. The guy didn't insult him, after all. It was just a perfectly logical mistaken assumption, and the misunderstanding had now been corrected, and it wasn't like there was any reason that assumption should bother him.
Sam realized that he'd fallen three steps behind, and hurried to catch up, nodded and smiled politely as the guy made introductions.
Not that there would be anything wrong with that. After all, the guy hadn't meant incest, couldn't possibly have meant that, since he didn't know they were brothers. That wasn't implied, that didn't even enter the picture here. It was just the assumed-gay thing. Which was fine. Unless Dean decided to get his panties in a twist over it. Which he didn't. So they were cool.
Right.
That was about when Dean slapped his ass.
***
He managed to nod and smile his way through the conversation with the realtor, stamping down all his I'm gonna kill him, all his angry thoughts about public humiliation and wedgies in fifth grade boiling over, covering up the other things he wasn't thinking about at all.
Then it was all Mr. Gay-Assuming Salesperson treating his son like he was a fucking embarrassment, and his anger was redirected enough to get his mind back on the case.
He was going to get Dean back, though. Obviously, borderline-Neanderthal Dean would be more bothered by the gay thing than he would, and that was the only way to stop this thing in its tracks now, before it ruined everything again.
***
Dean had no shame at all about squatting, less shame even than he'd had about hustling yesterday. Sam was pretty sure that they'd never resorted to squatting before he left, but then, it's not like he always quizzed dad on their rent arrangements, either. And trying to get Dean to see how far he'd fallen, all the problems with this life, really hadn't been working out too well. He knew Dean had once had dreams and ambitions apart from this life, knew the shapeshifter had been speaking the truth, but trying to get Dean to admit it was like squeezing blood from a stone.
So they stashed the car in the garage, poured the salt, spread out the queen size air mattress and the two sleeping bags on top of it right in front of the gas fireplace.
"Aw, honey," he said, letting his voice just drip with it, "how romantic."
"Hey," Dean said, "if you don't want the mattress, fine by me."
Sam spent about fifteen minutes trying to scrounge wireless from the deserted neighborhood while Dean snacked on stale chips and complained about the lack of pay-per-view. "Sorry, no gay porn fix for you!" Sam said, as chirpy as he could manage, and pretended to keep his eyes on the laptop as Dean shot him a truly baffled look.
"Huh," Dean said, and promptly started skinning off his layers of shirts. Sam nearly dropped the laptop before he realized that Dean was just getting ready for bed.
They sacked out next to each other on the air mattress, two layers of sleeping bag between them. Sam said, "Just don't try to cuddle with me or anything," because it was important for Dean to know that Sam could take a joke, sure, but it wasn't like that.
"Man, you were never this uptight before," Dean groused, and promptly fell asleep.
They came perilously close to spooning just an hour or so into the night, and Sam elbowed Dean hard in the ribs. Dean almost-woke and bitched a little as he rolled away, but didn't seem to think anything of it. Sam was finally able to convince himself it was okay, it would be different this time, it was all in the past, and drifted off to sleep.
About two hours before dawn he woke again. Dean was sprawled on his stomach, face scrunched funny against the pillow and lips slightly parted and moist. The pose was strangely childish, except for the shockingly adult outline of his raised ass beneath the sleeping bag and the fact that the hand shoved under his pillow would be clenching his knife. Dean's other arm was draped over Sam's chest, fingers curling lightly above his collarbone.
Sam froze, afraid the pounding of his pulse beneath Dean's fingers alone would be enough to wake him. He didn't dare move; he wouldn't be able to shrug Dean off casually enough.
***
Sam got up as early as he could humanly bear to and banged around a little taking his shower and changing. Dean finally gave in and woke up. He kept shooting Sam annoyed glances, like Sam was acting bizarre instead of having a perfectly normal reaction to his brother slapping his ass. At one point, it almost sounded like Dean was going to try to start talking about Dad again. Jesus, if it wasn't one thing, it was another, and the only good thing was that Dean apparently thought that was the only issue to talk about.
"As far as I can tell, we don't have anything but beef jerky and Twinkies for breakfast. You want to get food or not?"
"Okay, Sam. Imma go try that steam shower." He waggled his eyebrows then, and Sam startled, guilty and defensive. But Dean was already gone.
The call came over the police scanner fifteen minutes later, and the next twenty-four hours passed in a blinding rush.
***
They drove as far as Waurika Oklahoma, a bare stone-throw north of Texas and right at the crossroads of the 70 and the 81, a jumping off place for whatever hunt they found next. By then it was almost three in the afternoon and Sam was lolling against the passenger door, the very last of the night's crazy adrenaline gone and leaving him limp and dragging. Dean's steering-wheel drumming was starting to get erratic and manic, more to keep him awake than out of enjoyment, so Sam insisted they stop.
The motel was clean and comfortable and the rumble of freight trains through the town lulled him with just the kind of white noise he had always liked to sleep to, planes or trains or ships, humanity's lifelines working the way they should. Sam should have hit the bed and been out like a light.
But Dean bumped their shoulders together as he came in, bicep against firm, bare bicep, and Sam felt his warmth and saw the down of fine blond hair over the flexing of his forearm as Dean set their heavier bag down.
"The diner closes at eight," Dean said, "so we bought ourselves a four-hour nap." Then he reached out to ruffle Sam's hair and rub a little at the nape of his neck, and sacked out on the bed closest to the door with his shoes still on.
Sam sat on the other bed and stared at him, at the shape of his shoulders and color of his lips and the eyelashes long against his cheeks and the pattern of freckles over his nose, and thought I have to make him stop, before it ruins everything again.
***
Sam walked into the diner with his hand tucked in Dean's rear pocket. He cupped Dean's ass and hugged Dean to him and shot him the flirtiest, most obvious smiles he could possibly come up with. Then, just to top it off, he pulled Dean's chair out for him.
Dean squinched his eyebrows together and stared at Sam, then shrugged, grabbed his menu, and ordered the breakfast-all-day heart-attack special like nothing was wrong. So Sam kept it up, off and on all throughout breakfast, flirty looks and hands trailing up Dean's forearms. Dean couldn't hold out forever, and finally, with his last bite of sausage halfway to his mouth, he said, "Sam, dude. I think you've already passed your weirdness quota for the week, and it's only Monday night."
Sam pounced. "So it bothers you!"
"What, you being a freak? No, I've had twenty-two years to get used to it." Dean sopped up the last of his gravy and motioned for the check.
Sam leaned over, as far over the table as he dared, and let his lips tickle Dean's ear. "Everybody in this restaurant thinks you're gay. That pretty waitress? She thinks I'm fucking you. Right this very second, she's thinking that. Don't tell me it doesn't bother you."
Dean was staring at him like he'd grown a third head, like all of this was completely inexplicable, like Sam was speaking Sumerian or something instead of making the perfectly reasonable point that this thing between them was... it was...
"Naw. We're never gonna come through this town again, and she isn't that hot. Anyway," Dean dropped cash on the table and stood up. "I'm more worried about the fact that you've gone coo-coo for Coco Puffs. Come on."
They crossed the street and walked the two blocks back to the motel, and Sam couldn't stop watching Dean's bowlegs and the way they made his hips roll, and the turned-up collar of his jacket against his pale skin and short fuzz of hair, and -- And Dean didn't see, didn't get it, and he was just going to keep... being the way he was. And Sam couldn't run away again, had used up his one "get out of your life free" card when he went away to college and it hadn't worked, and he was so, so screwed.
Dean unlocked the motel room door and toed off his boots, dropped his jacket on the chair. "Get some sleep," he said. "You haven't slept right in 36 hours. You'll be less of a spazz in the morning." Then he reached out to give Sam a little push toward the other bed, hand right between his shoulder blades, a motion that was half a shove and half a soothing squeeze.
That undid Sam's very last shred of self-control, and he whirled on Dean with an angry growl. "Would you just stop touching me all the time!"
"What -- I don't -- I'm your brother. I'm allowed to touch you." And if only Dean wouldn't look so indignant, if only he wouldn't look so innocent and so confused and so hurt--
"Not like that."
"It's not like anything, Sam, are you crazy?"
"It is," Sam said, ducking his head and staring at the salt line in front of the window. "It is like that for me. Jesus, Dean, it always was, don't you--" But his eyes were smarting and his lungs were burning and the tightness in his throat and hitching in his chest conspired to give him away completely, destroy the entire facade of anger.
He was stripped completely bare, stripped down to years (God, years) of watching Dean's sleeping face and parted lips while he touched himself in the next bed over, of peering through barely-cracked doors at Dean and some girl making out on the couch, the bulge and wet stain on his brother's jeans while he touched and kissed and ground up against whatever girl it was this time, of having Dean touch him-- hair and shoulders and arms and casual bumps and shoves and sparring, wrestling and pinning and making crappy jokes about how Sam needed to spend more time with his right hand when Sam responded, always responded, traitorous body without any conception of sick and wrong--
I've completely lost it, thought Sam.
Dean was saying, "Sammy. Sammy," over and over again, voice low and rough. He reached out, trying to pull Sam in, instinctive and unquestioned reaction, and Sam batted his hands away furiously while he tried to breathe through hitching sobs.
Then Dean succeeded, slipped through Sam's shoving hands and wrapped him up tight and kissed him.
Just kissed him, just like that. Dean's lips were every bit as soft and full and yielding against his as Sam had always imagined they'd be. He tasted rich, all grease and salt and savor from his meal, and his mouth fell open so smoothly, so easily, that Sam had to wonder, Was that me? Did I do that, press him open, take his mouth?
All through the frantic process of pulling each other's clothes off, Dean kept talking. He was saying, "I didn't know," and, "I'm so sorry," and, "You didn't have to run away, you didn't have to go," all in tiny gasping murmurs against Sam's mouth. When their clothes were gone, Sam fell back onto the nearest bed and pulled Dean down with him, straddled his thigh and bucked up hard against it.
Dean looked-- wrecked, he looked completely wrecked, sad and terrified and desperate. Sam felt sure there were things he was supposed to be saying here, things like, You don't have to do this, or maybe better yet, Why are you doing this? But that was Dean's cock, sliding hard and hot against his, and he couldn't, he just couldn't. Instead he growled, "Suck me," because he knew Dean would, knew it from the horribly vulnerable look in his eyes, and that was just every jerk-off fantasy come true.
Dean slid down his body, cock dragging down Sam's leg and mouth dragging over his chest and stomach, then settled himself kneeling. At the first hot touch of his tongue Sam's whole body went limp and heavy on top of the quilt. This was it, irrefutable and irreversible, and all the urgency and desperation just drained out of him.
Nothing mattered any more except the fact that Dean's tongue was on him, long, sloppy, somewhat hesitant licks. When Dean finally closed his lips around the head, with a careful suck and a little bit of swirling with his tongue, Sam gave a deep groan and reached down to push his fingers through Dean's hair. Dean was soft under his fingers and hot and wet around his dick, and then Dean looked up at him, shocking green eyes and ridiculous lashes and lips wet and pink and stretched, and tried to take him deeper.
Sam didn't last long after that.
When it was over, Dean crawled his way awkwardly back up the bed and managed to pull the covers out from under Sam. He lay down tucked up against Sam's side, staring up at the ceiling.
"It's okay," he said. Hearing his voice hoarse and rough again, for an entirely different reason, was almost enough to stir Sam's cock back to life. "You don't have to leave," Dean whispered. "See? You can stay. It's okay."
Sam used the very last bit of energy he had to bring his hand up and cradle the softness of Dean's hair again. He couldn't summon more than a mumble. "Yeah. Yeah, m'stayin..."
Then he was asleep.
SPN Sam/Dean
NC-17
2800 words
Incest warning. Obviously. No other particular warnings, but this is not fluffy.
AN: For spn_nostalgia, prompt: Sam gets Dean back for the buttslap in Bugs. I think this prompt was probably asking for cute prank-warfare stuff, but I... didn't write it that way. Sorry.
When it happened, it took Sam five solid seconds to figure out what was going on
"Let me just say, we accept homeowners of any race, religion, color, or sexual orientation."
The salesman looked not at all uncomfortable, even that rote and rehearsed spiel sounding genuine and welcoming. Sam felt an incredulous grin split his face. He managed not to laugh, distracted by the sudden worry about what Dean would do. God knows Dad hadn't raised them to hate, but he sure as hell hadn't raised them to be actively okay with things like that either. It wasn't talked about, not by their dad, not by his Marine buddies or survivalist backwoods contacts, not by the blue-collar men with engine grease or gun oil on their calloused hands who were more or less the only family friends they'd had to model themselves on. Even by age 22 Dean had been determined to be a man's man, all leather and foul language and "don't be such a pussy" and "check out the ass on that one."
So Sam found himself tensing, in that split second between amused comprehension and serious worry, wondering what he would do if Dean started swearing at the guy, choreographing his moves if Dean threw a punch. But Dean just said, "We're brothers," more brusque than hostile. Sam slid in with the cover story, and when the guy welcomed them in, Sam paused on the doorstep to flick his eyes upwards for a split second, thinking, Thank God he's not as much of a Neanderthal as he could be.
Because Sam spent four years at Stanford, and he did his dues in Gender Studies and Cultural Sensitivity Indoctrination 101 (and he was a bit embarrassed by Dean's unevolved attitudes even before that, really), so it wasn't like he would be upset. The guy didn't insult him, after all. It was just a perfectly logical mistaken assumption, and the misunderstanding had now been corrected, and it wasn't like there was any reason that assumption should bother him.
Sam realized that he'd fallen three steps behind, and hurried to catch up, nodded and smiled politely as the guy made introductions.
Not that there would be anything wrong with that. After all, the guy hadn't meant incest, couldn't possibly have meant that, since he didn't know they were brothers. That wasn't implied, that didn't even enter the picture here. It was just the assumed-gay thing. Which was fine. Unless Dean decided to get his panties in a twist over it. Which he didn't. So they were cool.
Right.
That was about when Dean slapped his ass.
***
He managed to nod and smile his way through the conversation with the realtor, stamping down all his I'm gonna kill him, all his angry thoughts about public humiliation and wedgies in fifth grade boiling over, covering up the other things he wasn't thinking about at all.
Then it was all Mr. Gay-Assuming Salesperson treating his son like he was a fucking embarrassment, and his anger was redirected enough to get his mind back on the case.
He was going to get Dean back, though. Obviously, borderline-Neanderthal Dean would be more bothered by the gay thing than he would, and that was the only way to stop this thing in its tracks now, before it ruined everything again.
***
Dean had no shame at all about squatting, less shame even than he'd had about hustling yesterday. Sam was pretty sure that they'd never resorted to squatting before he left, but then, it's not like he always quizzed dad on their rent arrangements, either. And trying to get Dean to see how far he'd fallen, all the problems with this life, really hadn't been working out too well. He knew Dean had once had dreams and ambitions apart from this life, knew the shapeshifter had been speaking the truth, but trying to get Dean to admit it was like squeezing blood from a stone.
So they stashed the car in the garage, poured the salt, spread out the queen size air mattress and the two sleeping bags on top of it right in front of the gas fireplace.
"Aw, honey," he said, letting his voice just drip with it, "how romantic."
"Hey," Dean said, "if you don't want the mattress, fine by me."
Sam spent about fifteen minutes trying to scrounge wireless from the deserted neighborhood while Dean snacked on stale chips and complained about the lack of pay-per-view. "Sorry, no gay porn fix for you!" Sam said, as chirpy as he could manage, and pretended to keep his eyes on the laptop as Dean shot him a truly baffled look.
"Huh," Dean said, and promptly started skinning off his layers of shirts. Sam nearly dropped the laptop before he realized that Dean was just getting ready for bed.
They sacked out next to each other on the air mattress, two layers of sleeping bag between them. Sam said, "Just don't try to cuddle with me or anything," because it was important for Dean to know that Sam could take a joke, sure, but it wasn't like that.
"Man, you were never this uptight before," Dean groused, and promptly fell asleep.
They came perilously close to spooning just an hour or so into the night, and Sam elbowed Dean hard in the ribs. Dean almost-woke and bitched a little as he rolled away, but didn't seem to think anything of it. Sam was finally able to convince himself it was okay, it would be different this time, it was all in the past, and drifted off to sleep.
About two hours before dawn he woke again. Dean was sprawled on his stomach, face scrunched funny against the pillow and lips slightly parted and moist. The pose was strangely childish, except for the shockingly adult outline of his raised ass beneath the sleeping bag and the fact that the hand shoved under his pillow would be clenching his knife. Dean's other arm was draped over Sam's chest, fingers curling lightly above his collarbone.
Sam froze, afraid the pounding of his pulse beneath Dean's fingers alone would be enough to wake him. He didn't dare move; he wouldn't be able to shrug Dean off casually enough.
***
Sam got up as early as he could humanly bear to and banged around a little taking his shower and changing. Dean finally gave in and woke up. He kept shooting Sam annoyed glances, like Sam was acting bizarre instead of having a perfectly normal reaction to his brother slapping his ass. At one point, it almost sounded like Dean was going to try to start talking about Dad again. Jesus, if it wasn't one thing, it was another, and the only good thing was that Dean apparently thought that was the only issue to talk about.
"As far as I can tell, we don't have anything but beef jerky and Twinkies for breakfast. You want to get food or not?"
"Okay, Sam. Imma go try that steam shower." He waggled his eyebrows then, and Sam startled, guilty and defensive. But Dean was already gone.
The call came over the police scanner fifteen minutes later, and the next twenty-four hours passed in a blinding rush.
***
They drove as far as Waurika Oklahoma, a bare stone-throw north of Texas and right at the crossroads of the 70 and the 81, a jumping off place for whatever hunt they found next. By then it was almost three in the afternoon and Sam was lolling against the passenger door, the very last of the night's crazy adrenaline gone and leaving him limp and dragging. Dean's steering-wheel drumming was starting to get erratic and manic, more to keep him awake than out of enjoyment, so Sam insisted they stop.
The motel was clean and comfortable and the rumble of freight trains through the town lulled him with just the kind of white noise he had always liked to sleep to, planes or trains or ships, humanity's lifelines working the way they should. Sam should have hit the bed and been out like a light.
But Dean bumped their shoulders together as he came in, bicep against firm, bare bicep, and Sam felt his warmth and saw the down of fine blond hair over the flexing of his forearm as Dean set their heavier bag down.
"The diner closes at eight," Dean said, "so we bought ourselves a four-hour nap." Then he reached out to ruffle Sam's hair and rub a little at the nape of his neck, and sacked out on the bed closest to the door with his shoes still on.
Sam sat on the other bed and stared at him, at the shape of his shoulders and color of his lips and the eyelashes long against his cheeks and the pattern of freckles over his nose, and thought I have to make him stop, before it ruins everything again.
***
Sam walked into the diner with his hand tucked in Dean's rear pocket. He cupped Dean's ass and hugged Dean to him and shot him the flirtiest, most obvious smiles he could possibly come up with. Then, just to top it off, he pulled Dean's chair out for him.
Dean squinched his eyebrows together and stared at Sam, then shrugged, grabbed his menu, and ordered the breakfast-all-day heart-attack special like nothing was wrong. So Sam kept it up, off and on all throughout breakfast, flirty looks and hands trailing up Dean's forearms. Dean couldn't hold out forever, and finally, with his last bite of sausage halfway to his mouth, he said, "Sam, dude. I think you've already passed your weirdness quota for the week, and it's only Monday night."
Sam pounced. "So it bothers you!"
"What, you being a freak? No, I've had twenty-two years to get used to it." Dean sopped up the last of his gravy and motioned for the check.
Sam leaned over, as far over the table as he dared, and let his lips tickle Dean's ear. "Everybody in this restaurant thinks you're gay. That pretty waitress? She thinks I'm fucking you. Right this very second, she's thinking that. Don't tell me it doesn't bother you."
Dean was staring at him like he'd grown a third head, like all of this was completely inexplicable, like Sam was speaking Sumerian or something instead of making the perfectly reasonable point that this thing between them was... it was...
"Naw. We're never gonna come through this town again, and she isn't that hot. Anyway," Dean dropped cash on the table and stood up. "I'm more worried about the fact that you've gone coo-coo for Coco Puffs. Come on."
They crossed the street and walked the two blocks back to the motel, and Sam couldn't stop watching Dean's bowlegs and the way they made his hips roll, and the turned-up collar of his jacket against his pale skin and short fuzz of hair, and -- And Dean didn't see, didn't get it, and he was just going to keep... being the way he was. And Sam couldn't run away again, had used up his one "get out of your life free" card when he went away to college and it hadn't worked, and he was so, so screwed.
Dean unlocked the motel room door and toed off his boots, dropped his jacket on the chair. "Get some sleep," he said. "You haven't slept right in 36 hours. You'll be less of a spazz in the morning." Then he reached out to give Sam a little push toward the other bed, hand right between his shoulder blades, a motion that was half a shove and half a soothing squeeze.
That undid Sam's very last shred of self-control, and he whirled on Dean with an angry growl. "Would you just stop touching me all the time!"
"What -- I don't -- I'm your brother. I'm allowed to touch you." And if only Dean wouldn't look so indignant, if only he wouldn't look so innocent and so confused and so hurt--
"Not like that."
"It's not like anything, Sam, are you crazy?"
"It is," Sam said, ducking his head and staring at the salt line in front of the window. "It is like that for me. Jesus, Dean, it always was, don't you--" But his eyes were smarting and his lungs were burning and the tightness in his throat and hitching in his chest conspired to give him away completely, destroy the entire facade of anger.
He was stripped completely bare, stripped down to years (God, years) of watching Dean's sleeping face and parted lips while he touched himself in the next bed over, of peering through barely-cracked doors at Dean and some girl making out on the couch, the bulge and wet stain on his brother's jeans while he touched and kissed and ground up against whatever girl it was this time, of having Dean touch him-- hair and shoulders and arms and casual bumps and shoves and sparring, wrestling and pinning and making crappy jokes about how Sam needed to spend more time with his right hand when Sam responded, always responded, traitorous body without any conception of sick and wrong--
I've completely lost it, thought Sam.
Dean was saying, "Sammy. Sammy," over and over again, voice low and rough. He reached out, trying to pull Sam in, instinctive and unquestioned reaction, and Sam batted his hands away furiously while he tried to breathe through hitching sobs.
Then Dean succeeded, slipped through Sam's shoving hands and wrapped him up tight and kissed him.
Just kissed him, just like that. Dean's lips were every bit as soft and full and yielding against his as Sam had always imagined they'd be. He tasted rich, all grease and salt and savor from his meal, and his mouth fell open so smoothly, so easily, that Sam had to wonder, Was that me? Did I do that, press him open, take his mouth?
All through the frantic process of pulling each other's clothes off, Dean kept talking. He was saying, "I didn't know," and, "I'm so sorry," and, "You didn't have to run away, you didn't have to go," all in tiny gasping murmurs against Sam's mouth. When their clothes were gone, Sam fell back onto the nearest bed and pulled Dean down with him, straddled his thigh and bucked up hard against it.
Dean looked-- wrecked, he looked completely wrecked, sad and terrified and desperate. Sam felt sure there were things he was supposed to be saying here, things like, You don't have to do this, or maybe better yet, Why are you doing this? But that was Dean's cock, sliding hard and hot against his, and he couldn't, he just couldn't. Instead he growled, "Suck me," because he knew Dean would, knew it from the horribly vulnerable look in his eyes, and that was just every jerk-off fantasy come true.
Dean slid down his body, cock dragging down Sam's leg and mouth dragging over his chest and stomach, then settled himself kneeling. At the first hot touch of his tongue Sam's whole body went limp and heavy on top of the quilt. This was it, irrefutable and irreversible, and all the urgency and desperation just drained out of him.
Nothing mattered any more except the fact that Dean's tongue was on him, long, sloppy, somewhat hesitant licks. When Dean finally closed his lips around the head, with a careful suck and a little bit of swirling with his tongue, Sam gave a deep groan and reached down to push his fingers through Dean's hair. Dean was soft under his fingers and hot and wet around his dick, and then Dean looked up at him, shocking green eyes and ridiculous lashes and lips wet and pink and stretched, and tried to take him deeper.
Sam didn't last long after that.
When it was over, Dean crawled his way awkwardly back up the bed and managed to pull the covers out from under Sam. He lay down tucked up against Sam's side, staring up at the ceiling.
"It's okay," he said. Hearing his voice hoarse and rough again, for an entirely different reason, was almost enough to stir Sam's cock back to life. "You don't have to leave," Dean whispered. "See? You can stay. It's okay."
Sam used the very last bit of energy he had to bring his hand up and cradle the softness of Dean's hair again. He couldn't summon more than a mumble. "Yeah. Yeah, m'stayin..."
Then he was asleep.