Winner Takes
Written for the prompt: Winner Takes All
Note: I AM AN EMBARRASSMENT and definitely just chose to interpret the word "take" in the more adult sense.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1.3k
Summary: They have a system for deciding who's gonna top and who's gonna bottom. Aka, the Winchesters are both bottoms and bad at communication? I guess?
When Dean slaps their worn, partly disintegrated pack of cards down on the motel table with an arch of his eyebrow, heat flares in Sam's belly, his cock already thickening in his jeans. He knows what that challenge in Dean's eyes means.
They have a system. It took them two years of fucking before they realized they needed one, and another year before they worked out something fair. It's embarrassingly simple for something that took three years to figure out, but hey, they're Winchesters - not exactly known for their communication skills.
The bet always changes. Sometimes it's about the case - who can get in the killing shot, who can find the haunted object, who can get the witness to spill. Sometimes it's a dumb guess - how many hours until the next Motel 6, or how many songs until Dean puts on Zeppelin again. Some nights they just flip for it.
The stakes, though, those never change. Winner gets what they both crave - winner takes all.
It's supposed to be fair and square - no cheating, no losing on purpose, no changing the rules, but sometimes, like tonight, Sam gets a vibe from Dean. It's in the tension in his shoulders, the fine tremble in his fingertips, the sweat beading at his temple - every inch of Dean screaming desperation.
So Sam doesn't call Dean on it when he blatantly cheats, when cards appear out of nowhere and disappear just as easily. Sam plays it off, gracefully loses more and more points, and watches Dean's cheeks flush deeper pink with every round. By the time Sam finally loses the game, Dean's squirming in his seat, and Sam's so hard he has to grip the table to stop keep his hands off himself.
They don't waste any time once the game's over - Sam has Dean backed against the table in seconds, and they strip as efficiently as possible while stubbornly refusing to take their hands off each other. Sam gets his hands on Dean's waist and guides them both back over to the bed, topples Dean onto it and grabs the lube out of his bag before following.
They end up with Dean on his back and Sam bracing himself on one elbow as he trails his fingers down Dean's body, pressing kisses to Dean's lips, his jaw, his temple. He's not sure what has Dean so shaken up - it happens sometimes, usually after a close call, a hunt that separates them, or a fight that goes too far - but it doesn't matter, not really. Sam's here now, pressing at the soft inner part of Dean's thigh, pushing, spreading Dean wide open.
And maybe Sam usually likes it best when Dean holds him down, pins him to the mattress and fucks him through it like he's trying to find God, but this - having Dean trembling and sighing under him as he takes Sam's fingers so easily it makes Sam's head spin - this isn't so bad.
Sam fingers Dean until he's wet and open and nearly sobbing, hips twisting up to take Sam deeper, tremors running up and down his body like he's already close. His cock is flushed pink, darkest at the tip where precome pulses out to puddle on his stomach.
Sam pulls back, kneeling to free his clean hand so he can drag a finger through the mess on Dean's belly and bring it up to Dean's mouth. Dean whines when Sam only paints the wetness over his lips, so Sam gives him two fingers to suck on while he pumps two more into Dean's ass. Dean looks so good like this, filled up everywhere, licking and sucking at Sam's fingers while he spreads his thighs wider, arches his back, body begging for more.
Sam doesn't make him wait long, couldn't if he wanted to, his own cock aching to be inside. He drags his fingers out slow, makes sure Dean feels every inch, before slicking up his cock and bracing himself over Dean. Dean's eyes flutter shut and his teeth close on his lower lip as he whines eagerly - so ready, so desperate for it. Sam tells him so, murmurs it in Dean's ear as he rubs the head of his cock against Dean's hole, just for a few breathless seconds until Dean finally whimpers please like he's gonna die if Sam doesn't just fuck him.
So Sam does, feeding inch after inch of his cock into Dean, slow but unrelenting as Dean squirms and pants. Sam's not small, and no amount of prep ever seems to stop that small frown from appearing on Dean's face, but Sam knows better than to stop.
If he stops, Dean's eyes will snap open and he'll demand to know what Sam's waiting for, and Sam doesn't want Dean coherent enough for full sentences right now. He wants Dean like this, breathing hard and focused and lost to the world except for Sam.
When Sam finally bottoms out, he only gives Dean a couple of seconds to adjust before he's pulling almost all the way out and slamming back in. It pushes a noise out of Dean that sounds almost pained - he sounds raw, open, and he looks it too, eyes startled wide open and fixed on Sam.
Sam fights back the toe-curling pleasure threatening to overwhelm him and fucks into Dean with long, steady strokes that deliberately miss Dean's prostate. Dean's got a hair trigger when he's getting fucked, and Sam wants to make this last, wants to push Dean as far as he can before they both shake apart.
It could be moments, or it could be hours, Sam doesn't know, time stretching out between them as he wraps himself up in Dean, runs his hands all over his brother's soft, freckled skin, stops to rub at a nipple or tug at his hair or grip his hips hard enough to bruise. All he knows is Dean, his voice begging for more, harder, his strong thighs wrapped around Sam's waist, the feel of him tight and warm around Sam's cock, taking him so well, always. Sam doesn't open his eyes until Dean's voice turns shaky and strained, until his begging is so desperate it lights a fire in Sam's belly, has him slamming into Dean as he shoves a hand between them.
Dean squeezes around Sam so tight it's nearly painful, body shaking jerkily under Sam the space between them turns wet and slippery. Sam jerks him through it until Dean's whining, doesn't stop until there are tears in Dean's eyes and his nails are digging into Sam's shoulders, bright pinpricks of pain that just serve to push Sam closer to the edge.
Sam lets go of Dean's cock when Dean pushes his hand away, Dean's own fingers slipping through the mess on his belly only to reach behind Sam and press hot and wet between his cheeks until his fingers push inside Sam, so accurate Sam would be impressed if there were space left for anything aside from blinding pleasure. He comes so hard he loses time, comes back to himself with his knees shaking and his chest heaving, collapsed onto Dean with Dean's fingers still crooked inside him.
Dean lets him recover for a few moments before shoving him off with a grunt, and then they're both stumbling, shaky-legged and giddy, to crowd into the tiny shower stall. Sam couldn't care less if they wake up sticky and covered in come, but Dean refuses to sleep unless he's showered off the mess, and Sam can never really resist a wet, slippery Dean, even when the shower is barely big enough for one normal-sized man.
Later, when they're clean and wrapped around each other, the last of Dean's edginess slipping away as Sam runs his fingers through Dean's hair, Sam has to wonder if maybe their system's a little outdated. They're not teenagers anymore, and maybe it'd be easier to just ask - skip the bet, the cheating, and just treat the subject like the adults they are. But then again, Sam thinks, pulling Dean closer, letting satisfaction and exhaustion pull him under, this works for them. Hell, it's practically open, honest communication, for them.
Note: I AM AN EMBARRASSMENT and definitely just chose to interpret the word "take" in the more adult sense.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1.3k
Summary: They have a system for deciding who's gonna top and who's gonna bottom. Aka, the Winchesters are both bottoms and bad at communication? I guess?
When Dean slaps their worn, partly disintegrated pack of cards down on the motel table with an arch of his eyebrow, heat flares in Sam's belly, his cock already thickening in his jeans. He knows what that challenge in Dean's eyes means.
They have a system. It took them two years of fucking before they realized they needed one, and another year before they worked out something fair. It's embarrassingly simple for something that took three years to figure out, but hey, they're Winchesters - not exactly known for their communication skills.
The bet always changes. Sometimes it's about the case - who can get in the killing shot, who can find the haunted object, who can get the witness to spill. Sometimes it's a dumb guess - how many hours until the next Motel 6, or how many songs until Dean puts on Zeppelin again. Some nights they just flip for it.
The stakes, though, those never change. Winner gets what they both crave - winner takes all.
It's supposed to be fair and square - no cheating, no losing on purpose, no changing the rules, but sometimes, like tonight, Sam gets a vibe from Dean. It's in the tension in his shoulders, the fine tremble in his fingertips, the sweat beading at his temple - every inch of Dean screaming desperation.
So Sam doesn't call Dean on it when he blatantly cheats, when cards appear out of nowhere and disappear just as easily. Sam plays it off, gracefully loses more and more points, and watches Dean's cheeks flush deeper pink with every round. By the time Sam finally loses the game, Dean's squirming in his seat, and Sam's so hard he has to grip the table to stop keep his hands off himself.
They don't waste any time once the game's over - Sam has Dean backed against the table in seconds, and they strip as efficiently as possible while stubbornly refusing to take their hands off each other. Sam gets his hands on Dean's waist and guides them both back over to the bed, topples Dean onto it and grabs the lube out of his bag before following.
They end up with Dean on his back and Sam bracing himself on one elbow as he trails his fingers down Dean's body, pressing kisses to Dean's lips, his jaw, his temple. He's not sure what has Dean so shaken up - it happens sometimes, usually after a close call, a hunt that separates them, or a fight that goes too far - but it doesn't matter, not really. Sam's here now, pressing at the soft inner part of Dean's thigh, pushing, spreading Dean wide open.
And maybe Sam usually likes it best when Dean holds him down, pins him to the mattress and fucks him through it like he's trying to find God, but this - having Dean trembling and sighing under him as he takes Sam's fingers so easily it makes Sam's head spin - this isn't so bad.
Sam fingers Dean until he's wet and open and nearly sobbing, hips twisting up to take Sam deeper, tremors running up and down his body like he's already close. His cock is flushed pink, darkest at the tip where precome pulses out to puddle on his stomach.
Sam pulls back, kneeling to free his clean hand so he can drag a finger through the mess on Dean's belly and bring it up to Dean's mouth. Dean whines when Sam only paints the wetness over his lips, so Sam gives him two fingers to suck on while he pumps two more into Dean's ass. Dean looks so good like this, filled up everywhere, licking and sucking at Sam's fingers while he spreads his thighs wider, arches his back, body begging for more.
Sam doesn't make him wait long, couldn't if he wanted to, his own cock aching to be inside. He drags his fingers out slow, makes sure Dean feels every inch, before slicking up his cock and bracing himself over Dean. Dean's eyes flutter shut and his teeth close on his lower lip as he whines eagerly - so ready, so desperate for it. Sam tells him so, murmurs it in Dean's ear as he rubs the head of his cock against Dean's hole, just for a few breathless seconds until Dean finally whimpers please like he's gonna die if Sam doesn't just fuck him.
So Sam does, feeding inch after inch of his cock into Dean, slow but unrelenting as Dean squirms and pants. Sam's not small, and no amount of prep ever seems to stop that small frown from appearing on Dean's face, but Sam knows better than to stop.
If he stops, Dean's eyes will snap open and he'll demand to know what Sam's waiting for, and Sam doesn't want Dean coherent enough for full sentences right now. He wants Dean like this, breathing hard and focused and lost to the world except for Sam.
When Sam finally bottoms out, he only gives Dean a couple of seconds to adjust before he's pulling almost all the way out and slamming back in. It pushes a noise out of Dean that sounds almost pained - he sounds raw, open, and he looks it too, eyes startled wide open and fixed on Sam.
Sam fights back the toe-curling pleasure threatening to overwhelm him and fucks into Dean with long, steady strokes that deliberately miss Dean's prostate. Dean's got a hair trigger when he's getting fucked, and Sam wants to make this last, wants to push Dean as far as he can before they both shake apart.
It could be moments, or it could be hours, Sam doesn't know, time stretching out between them as he wraps himself up in Dean, runs his hands all over his brother's soft, freckled skin, stops to rub at a nipple or tug at his hair or grip his hips hard enough to bruise. All he knows is Dean, his voice begging for more, harder, his strong thighs wrapped around Sam's waist, the feel of him tight and warm around Sam's cock, taking him so well, always. Sam doesn't open his eyes until Dean's voice turns shaky and strained, until his begging is so desperate it lights a fire in Sam's belly, has him slamming into Dean as he shoves a hand between them.
Dean squeezes around Sam so tight it's nearly painful, body shaking jerkily under Sam the space between them turns wet and slippery. Sam jerks him through it until Dean's whining, doesn't stop until there are tears in Dean's eyes and his nails are digging into Sam's shoulders, bright pinpricks of pain that just serve to push Sam closer to the edge.
Sam lets go of Dean's cock when Dean pushes his hand away, Dean's own fingers slipping through the mess on his belly only to reach behind Sam and press hot and wet between his cheeks until his fingers push inside Sam, so accurate Sam would be impressed if there were space left for anything aside from blinding pleasure. He comes so hard he loses time, comes back to himself with his knees shaking and his chest heaving, collapsed onto Dean with Dean's fingers still crooked inside him.
Dean lets him recover for a few moments before shoving him off with a grunt, and then they're both stumbling, shaky-legged and giddy, to crowd into the tiny shower stall. Sam couldn't care less if they wake up sticky and covered in come, but Dean refuses to sleep unless he's showered off the mess, and Sam can never really resist a wet, slippery Dean, even when the shower is barely big enough for one normal-sized man.
Later, when they're clean and wrapped around each other, the last of Dean's edginess slipping away as Sam runs his fingers through Dean's hair, Sam has to wonder if maybe their system's a little outdated. They're not teenagers anymore, and maybe it'd be easier to just ask - skip the bet, the cheating, and just treat the subject like the adults they are. But then again, Sam thinks, pulling Dean closer, letting satisfaction and exhaustion pull him under, this works for them. Hell, it's practically open, honest communication, for them.