Wide Open (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
Title: Wide Open
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: With Jess dead, Sam's been distant. Dean tries to help him take his mind off it it in every way possible.
It’s been a week since Jess died, and it’s no secret that Sam’s acting different. He’s been living in a part of his head that Dean, no matter how hard he tried, just couldn’t reach. A dark place that kept him silent, distant, and everything in between. He hasn’t slept, not through the whole night, since the night he and Dean drove away from Stanford at midnight. But, Dean can see how tired he is. He can see it right in his eyes, the way he talks, the way he walks. Sam’s tired. Tired of everything.
He says he fine, just like Dean knew he would. They haven’t been apart for that long, though. Dean can still see right though every lie Sam tells -- though he’s not trying to hide it much. You can’t hide not sleeping and not talking for too long. He’s like a poor imitation of his former self, and it’s driving Dean up the wall because he wants to help. He wants Sam to feel better; but he just doesn’t know how.
Right now it’s almost eleven o’clock, and they’re both sitting up, half paying attention to the boring romantic comedy on the television screen. Dean keeps shooting glances at Sam, taking in his blank stare, weary eyes, and sluggish movements. He blinks at the television almost absently, before running his hand over his eyes and then through his hair.
Dean sits up a little, scratches behind his ear before saying, “Sammy?”
But it’s like Sam’s in a trance. He doesn’t acknowledge Dean’s call, but instead continues to blindly watch the movie. His face is clearly uninterested, but his eyes are sad, and moist. He’s thinking about Jess again, Dean thinks.
So he calls again, this time with a little more order in his voice than question. “Sam.”
And he sees Sam’s eyes twitch, pulling himself out of whatever thought he was in before blinking once, twice, that the bed sheets below him. He swallows, eyebrows rise, and he blinks again. His head swivels toward Dean, but his eyes are locked on something unreal below Dean’s bed.
“Uh -- yeah?,” he says, shaking his head. And Dean can see how he’s mentally talking himself though responding to Dean.-- the way he squints at the floor and shakes his head again. “What?”
“You all right?”
Sam’s quick to nod and attempt to ward off Dean’s concerns; but they’re too deeply embedded into Dean just stop trying that easily.
“’M fine, Dean.” He twists his finger into the sheet, curls it around his finger until it turns his finger white. He cricks his neck, settles his eyes back onto the bed, and breathes in deeply.
Dean shakes his head and rolls his eyes just a little. He throws his legs over the side of his bed and moves over to the side of Sam’s. He takes his shoulder, and when he doesn’t look up, he takes his chin and makes him. Sam’s eyes are big, and when his eyebrows scrunched inward he looks at Dean with impatience.
“I just miss her, okay,” he mumbles and then jerks his head away from Dean’s hand.
Sam drops his head and Dean follows with his eyes. He reaches his hand out and rubs small circles on Sam’s back until he looks up again.
“I know you do, Sammy. And I understand that. But--,” he halts his hand, but keeps it on Sam’s back. “you can’t just shut everything out like this. And I know it’s hard, I know it’s easier to pretend like life doesn’t even matter anymore… but you gotta let me help you, Sammy. You gotta let me in.”
Sam’s silent for a moment, processing Dean’s words. And when he looks up, he finds Dean’s eyes and stares right into them. And he doesn’t know how, and doesn’t even remember doing it, but now they’re only inches apart. Dean’s hand has slid from Sam’s back, to the side of his face, and there’s a slight, ghost-like push from his hand that lines both their faces up perfectly. Sam’s hand transitions from the bed to Dean’s knee, and then his thigh.
With lips apart Sam breathes out shakily, and they’re both timid -- but they never look away. Dean’s eyes search Sam’s for something that buried so deep into him, that it’s almost impossible to find. Sam’s blinks, breathes in Dean, and exhales. His breath brushes Dean’s lips and his tongue pushes against the back of his bottom teeth.
Dean’s dips first and it makes his lips brush Sam’s, and for a second they both freeze. Both stay still until Sam slides his hand up Dean’s leg and tilts his head inward, pressing his lips to Dean’s. He works Sam’s mouth open, traces his bottom lip with his tongue, and leans in more.
Sam comes alive and gets to his knees without breaking the kiss. He throws one leg over Dean, straddles him, and repositions his hands on either side of Dean’s face. Sam kisses him, wet and sloppy, with hitching breath.
Dean’s hand slides up the front of Sam’s shirt, tracing his muscles with his fingers. His hands slide down, settle on Sam’s hips, and fall into the rhythm Sam’s grinding in. But when Dean stops thinking with his cock and with his heart, he presses down on Sam’s hips and forces him to stop moving.
“Sammy --”
“Dean, c’mon.” Sam’s voice is light, feathery, and almost desperate. He thumbs across his cheek and dips down again in attempt to make his mouth meet Dean's again.
Dean turns his head slightly.
He reasons, “You’re upset, Sam. You’re not thinking strai--.” but Sam cuts him off.
“I know what I want Dean.”
And almost hesitantly, Dean lifts his chin and reconnects with Sam. And Sam’s lips taste like tears, take like pain and uncertainty, takes like desperation. Dean licks at it, tries to take it away -- wants to take it away from Sam and absorb it himself because he’d rather suffer than watch Sam suffer.
Sam pushes him flat on his back, chases his mouth, and kisses him deeply.
But just as soon as Sam gets settled, Dean bucks, turns, and flips Sam onto his back. He runs his hand up Sam’s side and all the way into his hair. He takes a hand full, holds him steady, as he works at his mouth. Dean flattens himself against Sam, cock to cock, and pushes downward into him.
Sam huffs, mouth wide open. He closes his eyes and lets Dean kiss his way to his neck. His lips are soft, full, and busy. He tongues just under his chin and kisses forcefully against his pulse. Dean grabs the end of Sam’s shirt and rides it up until his stomach is exposed, and then hooks his fingers into the lining of his boxers.
Dean slides down Sam’s body, halts at his naval, and ghosts his lips over it. He feels Sam tense up a little, clenching his stomach, and exhaling sharply. It makes Dean smirk. He sits back a little and lifts Sam’s shirt over his head and throws it carelessly onto the ground before dropping his head back to Sam’s abs and trails his mouth further south.
He pushes Sam’s legs apart and massages up his things and tugs at his boxers.
Dean’s mouth his warm and vibrating on Sam’s cock through the cotton layer. He pulls down the fabric, exposing Sam slowly -- inch by inch -- until he’s able to wrap his lips around Sam’s dick. With his hand, he stokes Sam slowly and licks at the head teasingly. Sam pushes his lips up, trying to get more pleasure, but Dean holds him still and whispers, “Not yet.”
Sam pulls him back up, and in one swift motion, lifts Dean's shirt over his head. Sam pulls him by the shoulder, so that they’re only centimeters apart and whispers slowly and barely audible, “I want you to fuck me.”
Sam tangles his fingers in Dean’s short-chopped hair and guides him lower.
--- --- ---
--- --- ---
Dean bites down hard on Sam’s neck, hard enough to bruise and listens to him hiss and moan under him. Sam’s hands take hold of Dean’s waist and squeezes tighter as he flip-flops between pleasure and pain.
He sits back, panting and out of breath. Sam follows him with his eyes, licks his lips almost seductively at Dean, and grips the base of his cock, and waits.
A second later, Dean lifts Sam’s legs, wraps them loosely around his waist. With the head of his cock he teases Sam. He bites his lip at Dean, presses his head into the pillow. Dean pushes in a little, watches Sam’s mouth drop open with a huff -- and the pulls out a second later. Sam groans impatiently, needingly.
Dean makes a deep, approving sound and does it again. He pushes a little deeper this time and watches Sam push backward wanting more. Dean holds Sam’s hips strongly, forming fingerprint bruises just over the bone.
Dean fucks Sam quickly, pushing in as far as he could go, and then a little more. He’s got a solid grip on Sam’s hips and pulls him backward onto himself. He watches Sam’s eyes close tightly, biting the inside of his lip to keep from calling out, and his hair bounce in his eyes -- in a way that was so unnaturally perfect, that if he wasn’t so horny he’d take a minute, or maybe a lifetime, to just stare at him.
“Fuck, Dean -- faster, oh --.”
But opposite to Sam’s pleas, he slows down. Goes almost painfully slow and watches Sam’s stomach expand and concave in a quick fashion as he tries to catch his breath. His fingers dig into the mattress, moans breathily with each stroke, and knows that Dean’s getting satisfaction out of seeing him like this.
Dean leans in, wraps his lips around Sam’s and swallows his moans. He bites on Sam’s bottom lip, a little harder than he should. Sam pushes up into Dean -- sliding abs over abs, lips over lips, skin on skin.
Breaking the kiss, Dean sits back again. He pulls out all the way and then slides back in, making Sam feel every inch of him.
“Oh, God,” Dean groans. Sam tightens his legs behind Dean, pulls him in closer. He drops his head, kisses aimlessly at Sam’s neck and chest, and picks up speed again; thrusting into Sam quicker and quicker and leaving Sam gasping for breath.
--- --- ---
Sam pulls back and forces Dean to turn over. He instructs for Dean to sit up, and Sam climbs over him. Sam kisses him slowly, cleanly, before reaching one-handedly for Dean’s dick. Dean holds Sam’s waist, gives him leverage, as he sits back on his cock.
Like this, Sam feels like he’s taken to a whole other level entirely and he falls forward, drapes his arms around Dean’s shoulders, and breathes heavily against Dean’s neck. With hips moving erratically, Dean fucks into Sam, rocking their bodies together, and kissing at Sam’s chest.
“God, you’re so big,” Sam whispers with his head buried in the crook of Dean’s neck, and Dean thinks that maybe he didn’t mean to say that out loud, like it was meant to be a thought that escaped his lips.
Dean goes faster.
Sam jumps in his lap, vibrating almost. Sam’s cock slides against Dean’s stomach, and every time Dean pushes into him, he thinks he’s closer and closer to coming.
Sam’s nails dig into Dean’s back, leaving red lines over his shoulder blades. Then he sits back, steadies himself by gripping Dean’s thighs. He rocks on Dean, bouncing and grinding his hips, trying to take Dean as far as he could take. Dean’s head falls forward onto Sam’s stomach, bites and licks at his skin. He squeezes his eyes shut, moans Sam’s name and tells him over and over not to stop.
Sam didn’t plan on it.
Dean, using the hand that’s not stabilizing Sam, takes hold of Sam’s cock and jerks him almost as fast as he’s moving on to of him and watches Sam’s face go through about five motions. Sam’s mouth drops open, lips red and used, moaning nonsense and damn near begging.
--- --- ---
Then minutes later and Sam’s on his back again, bracing himself against the head board and watching Dean kiss down his body all the way to his inner thighs. He breathes in sharply when Dean takes hold of his dick, strokes him rhythmically and upbeat. Sam bucks his hips, fucking into Dean’s hand, as he bites small, quick-vanishing marks onto his torso.
“Right there -- oh fuck, right there,” Sam's whispering five minutes later with Dean back on top of him, thrusting down into him, mixing raw pleasure and intensity, hitting Sam deeper and deeper with each stroke.
Dean’s losing himself somewhere in Sam and he’s fucking into Sam faster and faster and Sam feels like he might explode. But it’s a good feeling, one that keeps his head spinning, almost light-headed, and unthinking. Sam cries out, loud and blustering.
Dean eats up Sam’s needy noises like fuel. It powers him, and he closes his eyes, and listens to Sam’s breathing, and Sam’s racing heartbeat, and the sound of his body against his. And he bites down on Sam’s neck, already sensitive and marked, and Sam hisses and pulls away impulsively.
“Ow,” he breathes, eyes squeezing shut and pushing on Dean’s shoulder softly.
A second later, Dean’s mouth is over his, kissing him deeply, passionately-- apologetically, mumbling, “’M sorry, ‘m sorry,“ against his lips until Sam nods and kisses him back.
A familiar feeling boils in the pit of Sam’s stomach and he flicks his writs as he jerks himself faster and faster until he comes between his and Dean’s stomachs. He calls out Dean’s name, pushes, lifts himself up. Dean still hard inside of him, fucking him through his orgasm and the aftershocks of it.
He kisses down Sam’s jaw line, hushes his moans, and finds his way to his ear. “Breathe, Sammy, shhh breathe,” Dean coaches lightly, running his hand through the side of Sam’s hair.
But a second later, he’s the one hunching forward, shoulders tight and shaking. He comes inside Sam, slowing his strokes down until he finally comes to a stop and pulls out slowly. He falls to his side against Sam, and throws and arm over him pulls him closer.
Sam pushes his head under Dean’s chin like he’s five years old again. Dean’s arm drapes around his waist and, with the other hand, pets his back soothingly.
He feels Sam reach up and take hold of his necklace like a security blanket. Sam looks up at Dean for a second, kisses him, and then settles in his arms again.
--- --- ---
Sam wakes up the next morning to Dean’s hand around his waist and his lips against his shoulder, kissing him awake. He blinks once, twice, before smiling just slightly. He looks up over his shoulder and says , “G’morning to you, too,” groggily, voice deep and sleepy.
Dean presses on his shoulder and rolls Sam over on to his back. He pets his hair back off of Sam’s forehead and kisses him.
“’Morning.”
Sam looks up, notices that the sun’s just barely in the sky and asks, “What time is it?”
Dean shrugs, and before either of them have a chance to look, he blindly knocks the digital bedside clock on to the ground. “Doesn’t matter.”
Sam smiles. And it’s the first time Dean'ss seen a genuine smile on him in a while, and that’s an accomplishment all on it’s own.
Dean’s hand runs over Sam’s neck and then down to his stomach, tracing over his forming bruises. He leans down, kisses them softly and then asks, “Did I hurt you?”
Shaking his head, Sam says, “’M fine, Dean,” and rests his head back on Dean’s arm again. He closes his eyes and lets out a breath.
Dean knows that Sam’s still a little screwed up -- and no one can blame him for that. Losing someone his never easy, they both know that. But at least Dean got him to sleep through the night, at least it’s a start.
Replacing his arm around Sam’s midsection, he kisses his forehead lightly, and he can’t help but see his baby brother all over again when he’s like this. Dean pulls him closer, says to him, “Go back to sleep, Sammy. We’ll get back on the road tomorrow.”
It’s no secret that they both need a day off.
Maybe they just need to lay there, and let the world fix itself.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: With Jess dead, Sam's been distant. Dean tries to help him take his mind off it it in every way possible.
It’s been a week since Jess died, and it’s no secret that Sam’s acting different. He’s been living in a part of his head that Dean, no matter how hard he tried, just couldn’t reach. A dark place that kept him silent, distant, and everything in between. He hasn’t slept, not through the whole night, since the night he and Dean drove away from Stanford at midnight. But, Dean can see how tired he is. He can see it right in his eyes, the way he talks, the way he walks. Sam’s tired. Tired of everything.
He says he fine, just like Dean knew he would. They haven’t been apart for that long, though. Dean can still see right though every lie Sam tells -- though he’s not trying to hide it much. You can’t hide not sleeping and not talking for too long. He’s like a poor imitation of his former self, and it’s driving Dean up the wall because he wants to help. He wants Sam to feel better; but he just doesn’t know how.
Right now it’s almost eleven o’clock, and they’re both sitting up, half paying attention to the boring romantic comedy on the television screen. Dean keeps shooting glances at Sam, taking in his blank stare, weary eyes, and sluggish movements. He blinks at the television almost absently, before running his hand over his eyes and then through his hair.
Dean sits up a little, scratches behind his ear before saying, “Sammy?”
But it’s like Sam’s in a trance. He doesn’t acknowledge Dean’s call, but instead continues to blindly watch the movie. His face is clearly uninterested, but his eyes are sad, and moist. He’s thinking about Jess again, Dean thinks.
So he calls again, this time with a little more order in his voice than question. “Sam.”
And he sees Sam’s eyes twitch, pulling himself out of whatever thought he was in before blinking once, twice, that the bed sheets below him. He swallows, eyebrows rise, and he blinks again. His head swivels toward Dean, but his eyes are locked on something unreal below Dean’s bed.
“Uh -- yeah?,” he says, shaking his head. And Dean can see how he’s mentally talking himself though responding to Dean.-- the way he squints at the floor and shakes his head again. “What?”
“You all right?”
Sam’s quick to nod and attempt to ward off Dean’s concerns; but they’re too deeply embedded into Dean just stop trying that easily.
“’M fine, Dean.” He twists his finger into the sheet, curls it around his finger until it turns his finger white. He cricks his neck, settles his eyes back onto the bed, and breathes in deeply.
Dean shakes his head and rolls his eyes just a little. He throws his legs over the side of his bed and moves over to the side of Sam’s. He takes his shoulder, and when he doesn’t look up, he takes his chin and makes him. Sam’s eyes are big, and when his eyebrows scrunched inward he looks at Dean with impatience.
“I just miss her, okay,” he mumbles and then jerks his head away from Dean’s hand.
Sam drops his head and Dean follows with his eyes. He reaches his hand out and rubs small circles on Sam’s back until he looks up again.
“I know you do, Sammy. And I understand that. But--,” he halts his hand, but keeps it on Sam’s back. “you can’t just shut everything out like this. And I know it’s hard, I know it’s easier to pretend like life doesn’t even matter anymore… but you gotta let me help you, Sammy. You gotta let me in.”
Sam’s silent for a moment, processing Dean’s words. And when he looks up, he finds Dean’s eyes and stares right into them. And he doesn’t know how, and doesn’t even remember doing it, but now they’re only inches apart. Dean’s hand has slid from Sam’s back, to the side of his face, and there’s a slight, ghost-like push from his hand that lines both their faces up perfectly. Sam’s hand transitions from the bed to Dean’s knee, and then his thigh.
With lips apart Sam breathes out shakily, and they’re both timid -- but they never look away. Dean’s eyes search Sam’s for something that buried so deep into him, that it’s almost impossible to find. Sam’s blinks, breathes in Dean, and exhales. His breath brushes Dean’s lips and his tongue pushes against the back of his bottom teeth.
Dean’s dips first and it makes his lips brush Sam’s, and for a second they both freeze. Both stay still until Sam slides his hand up Dean’s leg and tilts his head inward, pressing his lips to Dean’s. He works Sam’s mouth open, traces his bottom lip with his tongue, and leans in more.
Sam comes alive and gets to his knees without breaking the kiss. He throws one leg over Dean, straddles him, and repositions his hands on either side of Dean’s face. Sam kisses him, wet and sloppy, with hitching breath.
Dean’s hand slides up the front of Sam’s shirt, tracing his muscles with his fingers. His hands slide down, settle on Sam’s hips, and fall into the rhythm Sam’s grinding in. But when Dean stops thinking with his cock and with his heart, he presses down on Sam’s hips and forces him to stop moving.
“Sammy --”
“Dean, c’mon.” Sam’s voice is light, feathery, and almost desperate. He thumbs across his cheek and dips down again in attempt to make his mouth meet Dean's again.
Dean turns his head slightly.
He reasons, “You’re upset, Sam. You’re not thinking strai--.” but Sam cuts him off.
“I know what I want Dean.”
And almost hesitantly, Dean lifts his chin and reconnects with Sam. And Sam’s lips taste like tears, take like pain and uncertainty, takes like desperation. Dean licks at it, tries to take it away -- wants to take it away from Sam and absorb it himself because he’d rather suffer than watch Sam suffer.
Sam pushes him flat on his back, chases his mouth, and kisses him deeply.
But just as soon as Sam gets settled, Dean bucks, turns, and flips Sam onto his back. He runs his hand up Sam’s side and all the way into his hair. He takes a hand full, holds him steady, as he works at his mouth. Dean flattens himself against Sam, cock to cock, and pushes downward into him.
Sam huffs, mouth wide open. He closes his eyes and lets Dean kiss his way to his neck. His lips are soft, full, and busy. He tongues just under his chin and kisses forcefully against his pulse. Dean grabs the end of Sam’s shirt and rides it up until his stomach is exposed, and then hooks his fingers into the lining of his boxers.
Dean slides down Sam’s body, halts at his naval, and ghosts his lips over it. He feels Sam tense up a little, clenching his stomach, and exhaling sharply. It makes Dean smirk. He sits back a little and lifts Sam’s shirt over his head and throws it carelessly onto the ground before dropping his head back to Sam’s abs and trails his mouth further south.
He pushes Sam’s legs apart and massages up his things and tugs at his boxers.
Dean’s mouth his warm and vibrating on Sam’s cock through the cotton layer. He pulls down the fabric, exposing Sam slowly -- inch by inch -- until he’s able to wrap his lips around Sam’s dick. With his hand, he stokes Sam slowly and licks at the head teasingly. Sam pushes his lips up, trying to get more pleasure, but Dean holds him still and whispers, “Not yet.”
Sam pulls him back up, and in one swift motion, lifts Dean's shirt over his head. Sam pulls him by the shoulder, so that they’re only centimeters apart and whispers slowly and barely audible, “I want you to fuck me.”
Sam tangles his fingers in Dean’s short-chopped hair and guides him lower.
--- --- ---
--- --- ---
Dean bites down hard on Sam’s neck, hard enough to bruise and listens to him hiss and moan under him. Sam’s hands take hold of Dean’s waist and squeezes tighter as he flip-flops between pleasure and pain.
He sits back, panting and out of breath. Sam follows him with his eyes, licks his lips almost seductively at Dean, and grips the base of his cock, and waits.
A second later, Dean lifts Sam’s legs, wraps them loosely around his waist. With the head of his cock he teases Sam. He bites his lip at Dean, presses his head into the pillow. Dean pushes in a little, watches Sam’s mouth drop open with a huff -- and the pulls out a second later. Sam groans impatiently, needingly.
Dean makes a deep, approving sound and does it again. He pushes a little deeper this time and watches Sam push backward wanting more. Dean holds Sam’s hips strongly, forming fingerprint bruises just over the bone.
Dean fucks Sam quickly, pushing in as far as he could go, and then a little more. He’s got a solid grip on Sam’s hips and pulls him backward onto himself. He watches Sam’s eyes close tightly, biting the inside of his lip to keep from calling out, and his hair bounce in his eyes -- in a way that was so unnaturally perfect, that if he wasn’t so horny he’d take a minute, or maybe a lifetime, to just stare at him.
“Fuck, Dean -- faster, oh --.”
But opposite to Sam’s pleas, he slows down. Goes almost painfully slow and watches Sam’s stomach expand and concave in a quick fashion as he tries to catch his breath. His fingers dig into the mattress, moans breathily with each stroke, and knows that Dean’s getting satisfaction out of seeing him like this.
Dean leans in, wraps his lips around Sam’s and swallows his moans. He bites on Sam’s bottom lip, a little harder than he should. Sam pushes up into Dean -- sliding abs over abs, lips over lips, skin on skin.
Breaking the kiss, Dean sits back again. He pulls out all the way and then slides back in, making Sam feel every inch of him.
“Oh, God,” Dean groans. Sam tightens his legs behind Dean, pulls him in closer. He drops his head, kisses aimlessly at Sam’s neck and chest, and picks up speed again; thrusting into Sam quicker and quicker and leaving Sam gasping for breath.
--- --- ---
Sam pulls back and forces Dean to turn over. He instructs for Dean to sit up, and Sam climbs over him. Sam kisses him slowly, cleanly, before reaching one-handedly for Dean’s dick. Dean holds Sam’s waist, gives him leverage, as he sits back on his cock.
Like this, Sam feels like he’s taken to a whole other level entirely and he falls forward, drapes his arms around Dean’s shoulders, and breathes heavily against Dean’s neck. With hips moving erratically, Dean fucks into Sam, rocking their bodies together, and kissing at Sam’s chest.
“God, you’re so big,” Sam whispers with his head buried in the crook of Dean’s neck, and Dean thinks that maybe he didn’t mean to say that out loud, like it was meant to be a thought that escaped his lips.
Dean goes faster.
Sam jumps in his lap, vibrating almost. Sam’s cock slides against Dean’s stomach, and every time Dean pushes into him, he thinks he’s closer and closer to coming.
Sam’s nails dig into Dean’s back, leaving red lines over his shoulder blades. Then he sits back, steadies himself by gripping Dean’s thighs. He rocks on Dean, bouncing and grinding his hips, trying to take Dean as far as he could take. Dean’s head falls forward onto Sam’s stomach, bites and licks at his skin. He squeezes his eyes shut, moans Sam’s name and tells him over and over not to stop.
Sam didn’t plan on it.
Dean, using the hand that’s not stabilizing Sam, takes hold of Sam’s cock and jerks him almost as fast as he’s moving on to of him and watches Sam’s face go through about five motions. Sam’s mouth drops open, lips red and used, moaning nonsense and damn near begging.
--- --- ---
Then minutes later and Sam’s on his back again, bracing himself against the head board and watching Dean kiss down his body all the way to his inner thighs. He breathes in sharply when Dean takes hold of his dick, strokes him rhythmically and upbeat. Sam bucks his hips, fucking into Dean’s hand, as he bites small, quick-vanishing marks onto his torso.
“Right there -- oh fuck, right there,” Sam's whispering five minutes later with Dean back on top of him, thrusting down into him, mixing raw pleasure and intensity, hitting Sam deeper and deeper with each stroke.
Dean’s losing himself somewhere in Sam and he’s fucking into Sam faster and faster and Sam feels like he might explode. But it’s a good feeling, one that keeps his head spinning, almost light-headed, and unthinking. Sam cries out, loud and blustering.
Dean eats up Sam’s needy noises like fuel. It powers him, and he closes his eyes, and listens to Sam’s breathing, and Sam’s racing heartbeat, and the sound of his body against his. And he bites down on Sam’s neck, already sensitive and marked, and Sam hisses and pulls away impulsively.
“Ow,” he breathes, eyes squeezing shut and pushing on Dean’s shoulder softly.
A second later, Dean’s mouth is over his, kissing him deeply, passionately-- apologetically, mumbling, “’M sorry, ‘m sorry,“ against his lips until Sam nods and kisses him back.
A familiar feeling boils in the pit of Sam’s stomach and he flicks his writs as he jerks himself faster and faster until he comes between his and Dean’s stomachs. He calls out Dean’s name, pushes, lifts himself up. Dean still hard inside of him, fucking him through his orgasm and the aftershocks of it.
He kisses down Sam’s jaw line, hushes his moans, and finds his way to his ear. “Breathe, Sammy, shhh breathe,” Dean coaches lightly, running his hand through the side of Sam’s hair.
But a second later, he’s the one hunching forward, shoulders tight and shaking. He comes inside Sam, slowing his strokes down until he finally comes to a stop and pulls out slowly. He falls to his side against Sam, and throws and arm over him pulls him closer.
Sam pushes his head under Dean’s chin like he’s five years old again. Dean’s arm drapes around his waist and, with the other hand, pets his back soothingly.
He feels Sam reach up and take hold of his necklace like a security blanket. Sam looks up at Dean for a second, kisses him, and then settles in his arms again.
--- --- ---
Sam wakes up the next morning to Dean’s hand around his waist and his lips against his shoulder, kissing him awake. He blinks once, twice, before smiling just slightly. He looks up over his shoulder and says , “G’morning to you, too,” groggily, voice deep and sleepy.
Dean presses on his shoulder and rolls Sam over on to his back. He pets his hair back off of Sam’s forehead and kisses him.
“’Morning.”
Sam looks up, notices that the sun’s just barely in the sky and asks, “What time is it?”
Dean shrugs, and before either of them have a chance to look, he blindly knocks the digital bedside clock on to the ground. “Doesn’t matter.”
Sam smiles. And it’s the first time Dean'ss seen a genuine smile on him in a while, and that’s an accomplishment all on it’s own.
Dean’s hand runs over Sam’s neck and then down to his stomach, tracing over his forming bruises. He leans down, kisses them softly and then asks, “Did I hurt you?”
Shaking his head, Sam says, “’M fine, Dean,” and rests his head back on Dean’s arm again. He closes his eyes and lets out a breath.
Dean knows that Sam’s still a little screwed up -- and no one can blame him for that. Losing someone his never easy, they both know that. But at least Dean got him to sleep through the night, at least it’s a start.
Replacing his arm around Sam’s midsection, he kisses his forehead lightly, and he can’t help but see his baby brother all over again when he’s like this. Dean pulls him closer, says to him, “Go back to sleep, Sammy. We’ll get back on the road tomorrow.”
It’s no secret that they both need a day off.
Maybe they just need to lay there, and let the world fix itself.