FIC, and in this way we say goodbye, Sam/Dean, NC-17
Title: and in this way we say goodbye
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It’s their last night together.
Word count: 664 words
Spoilers: 2x22 (AHBL2)
Warnings: Size-kink, first-time, barebacking, sort of angsty, bottom!Dean.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural.
Your hands span almost the entirety of his ribcage, long fingers and broad palms stretched out over the infinitely fragile construct of blood and flesh and bone, of soft scarred skin and brother (oh, oh, so remarkable; you can’t believe that he’s real, that he’s yours).
When you run your hands down the sides of his stomach he flinches, ticklish, and when you put your hands on his waist they fit beautifully into the natural cut of his body: its jutted angles, the slight, provocative curves, the ridges of dense muscle. Your fingers notch in so seamless and easy that it’s like your bodies were made for this, for the sole purpose of having this.
He tilts his hips up for you without being asked, shifts his knees out wide and readjusts his grip on the headboard and then you’re breaching him, sweet burn of friction and you both shudder and you should be using more lube but you’re not.
You want to feel this. You want him to feel this.
He leans forward (involuntary) when you enter him, arm jerking up to brace himself against the wall while his other hand keeps holding on, white-knuckled, to the headboard, and he says, “Sam,” short punch of breath (a warning, an imploration) as you force him open on your cock-your long, thick, unyielding cock, and you make yourself remember that he’s never done this before, that he doesn’t know what to do with all of you inside him.
“Sam-” he says again when the bristly scratch of your pubes rub coarse and intimate (strange) against him; you’ve pushed in everything there was to push and he’s so full of you that he could come apart; he could burst open like a star.
“Okay?” you say, and it takes him a minute but he nods, says, “Yeah, I’m alright, c’mon already,” and you roll your hips out and then in, faltering at first until you get a good rhythm, slip-slide-smack of your cock in his ass and your thumbs pressed into the hollow of his back, his forehead heavy on his wrist against the wall and he’s saying, “Jesus, Jesus, fuck-” and it feels so good that you might never stop.
You wrap your arm around his middle and hold him close; your hand goes to his hip and he is pulling, pulling, pulling at his dick and someone’s swearing but you know it can’t be you because your teeth are digging into the back of his neck: not enough make him bleed, but enough to make him bruise.
His breath hitches when you flip him over: soft stutter of breath and then he’s on his back on the bed and you’re pushing up his thighs, pushing in.
You kiss and kiss the lush curl of his cupid-bow mouth, tuck your hands up under both his shoulders and groan when his legs lift up to clutch at your hips, his ankles locking behind the backs of your thighs.
“Sam, Sammy, fuck,” he murmurs, scritch-scratch of blunt nails on your back and his palm on the scar on your spine, protective, and you’ve never been adored this way before by anybody, by anybody but him.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re gonna come like this, just like this baby, c’mon,” you say and hit that sweet spot inside him again and again, let him feel the hot drag of your dick against it while you whisper in his ear-dirty, filthy things, wonderful things, things like, “Jesus Christ, Dean, sogood, sotight,” and “Goddamn, you’re gorgeous, love this, gonna do you all night,” and “Ohfuck, you don’t even know what you do to me, do you? Never fucking know what you do to me, do you-” and when you tell him, “Come for me, do it now, Dean,” he clenches up right on cue for you, sobbing as his orgasm punches through his body and his dick spurts pearly globs of come all over both your chests.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It’s their last night together.
Word count: 664 words
Spoilers: 2x22 (AHBL2)
Warnings: Size-kink, first-time, barebacking, sort of angsty, bottom!Dean.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural.
Your hands span almost the entirety of his ribcage, long fingers and broad palms stretched out over the infinitely fragile construct of blood and flesh and bone, of soft scarred skin and brother (oh, oh, so remarkable; you can’t believe that he’s real, that he’s yours).
When you run your hands down the sides of his stomach he flinches, ticklish, and when you put your hands on his waist they fit beautifully into the natural cut of his body: its jutted angles, the slight, provocative curves, the ridges of dense muscle. Your fingers notch in so seamless and easy that it’s like your bodies were made for this, for the sole purpose of having this.
He tilts his hips up for you without being asked, shifts his knees out wide and readjusts his grip on the headboard and then you’re breaching him, sweet burn of friction and you both shudder and you should be using more lube but you’re not.
You want to feel this. You want him to feel this.
He leans forward (involuntary) when you enter him, arm jerking up to brace himself against the wall while his other hand keeps holding on, white-knuckled, to the headboard, and he says, “Sam,” short punch of breath (a warning, an imploration) as you force him open on your cock-your long, thick, unyielding cock, and you make yourself remember that he’s never done this before, that he doesn’t know what to do with all of you inside him.
“Sam-” he says again when the bristly scratch of your pubes rub coarse and intimate (strange) against him; you’ve pushed in everything there was to push and he’s so full of you that he could come apart; he could burst open like a star.
“Okay?” you say, and it takes him a minute but he nods, says, “Yeah, I’m alright, c’mon already,” and you roll your hips out and then in, faltering at first until you get a good rhythm, slip-slide-smack of your cock in his ass and your thumbs pressed into the hollow of his back, his forehead heavy on his wrist against the wall and he’s saying, “Jesus, Jesus, fuck-” and it feels so good that you might never stop.
You wrap your arm around his middle and hold him close; your hand goes to his hip and he is pulling, pulling, pulling at his dick and someone’s swearing but you know it can’t be you because your teeth are digging into the back of his neck: not enough make him bleed, but enough to make him bruise.
His breath hitches when you flip him over: soft stutter of breath and then he’s on his back on the bed and you’re pushing up his thighs, pushing in.
You kiss and kiss the lush curl of his cupid-bow mouth, tuck your hands up under both his shoulders and groan when his legs lift up to clutch at your hips, his ankles locking behind the backs of your thighs.
“Sam, Sammy, fuck,” he murmurs, scritch-scratch of blunt nails on your back and his palm on the scar on your spine, protective, and you’ve never been adored this way before by anybody, by anybody but him.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re gonna come like this, just like this baby, c’mon,” you say and hit that sweet spot inside him again and again, let him feel the hot drag of your dick against it while you whisper in his ear-dirty, filthy things, wonderful things, things like, “Jesus Christ, Dean, sogood, sotight,” and “Goddamn, you’re gorgeous, love this, gonna do you all night,” and “Ohfuck, you don’t even know what you do to me, do you? Never fucking know what you do to me, do you-” and when you tell him, “Come for me, do it now, Dean,” he clenches up right on cue for you, sobbing as his orgasm punches through his body and his dick spurts pearly globs of come all over both your chests.