Fic: All you need is (Sam/Dean, R)
Title: All you need is
Characters: Dean/Sam
Rating: R
Words: 1.3k
Contains: A bit of rimming. Very mild D/s and barely-there breathplay.
Summary: It’s something he’s come to appreciate, recently: just how unguarded Dean is during sex, his laughter honest, echoed by the warmth in his eyes.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
‘Dean.’
A cheap, generic print of a framed landscape on the wall is upside-down above Sam’s head, because his neck is arched back on the pillow. He doesn’t have much choice about where to look, really, since Dean’s hand is in his hair, keeping his head pulled back and his throat exposed. It’s not uncomfortable in the least. Dean’s fingertips massage his scalp in slow, firm circles, and if this weren’t a prelude to more, he could fall asleep to the rhythmic movement.
‘Dean,’ Sam says again, trailing a hand up Dean’s chest to touch his face, draw his attention away from his current task, which is apparently to lick and bite at every single visible patch of skin on Sam’s throat.
‘Mm?’
‘You’re... um, caressing. My tie.’
He feels Dean grin against his throat. ‘So?’ Dean’s fingers glide across the gleaming dark silk of Sam’s FBI tie, only peripherally visible to Sam because his head is still thrown back. He lifts his head up a little so he can see better, and Dean’s hand moves with his head as though they were part of the same body.
Dean’s hand moves up Sam’s chest, traces the edge of the silk where it’s bound around Sam’s throat, presses down gently against his windpipe. His hand slides up Sam’s neck, fingertips tracing the curve of Sam’s jawline, before sliding back down over his throat. He repeats the movement several times, and Sam’s neck arches into the maddeningly light touch.
‘Fuck, Dean. Just take off the damned tie.’
‘Nope. You’re going to keep it on.’
‘I am?’
‘Yep.’ Dean slides gracefully down Sam’s body until he’s at the foot of the bed, sweetly compliant on his knees. Sam’s eyes follow the movement of Dean’s lips as they curve into a guileless smile, and then press a kiss against Sam’s knee. They move lower, orchestrating a series of tiny kisses down Sam’s leg, Dean’s fingers echoing the path of his lips on Sam’s calf, kneading gently.
Dean reaches Sam’s ankle, nosing between Sam’s trouser leg and the arch of his shoe to lick delicately at his ankle-bone, tracing the whorl of it with the tip of his tongue, spreading warmth and wetness over the thin wool of Sam’s black sock. He keeps firm hold of Sam’s foot with one hand, stroking intermittently. His other hand encircles Sam’s ankle, trapping it briefly before sliding upward along the sock and encountering bare skin. Sam’s leg jerks at the sensation of skin on skin, suddenly ticklish, but Dean’s hands hold his foot firmly in place.
Sam props himself up on his elbows and watches as Dean slips off his shoes. Once his feet are bare, Dean insinuates his elbows on either side of Sam’s hips and begins to unbutton Sam’s shirt. His fingers tug the cloth aside and he nuzzles in to lick into Sam’s navel, tracing the rim of it with his tongue, and Sam knows what this is a prelude to. The thought makes his legs shudder in anticipation. Dean grins, dropping a quick kiss on to Sam’s stomach before busying himself with undoing Sam’s trousers. He tugs them down Sam’s legs along with his underwear.
Sam repositions his legs over Dean’s shoulders and runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, and Dean hums with pleasure as Sam’s fingers scratch at his scalp. Sam locks his ankles behind Dean’s neck, and Dean turns his face into Sam’s leg, pressing briefly against the bare skin. ‘Good boy,’ he praises, reaching back and squeezing an ankle. ‘Keep them like that, yeah?’
Dean’s tone would be patronising in any other context, but these are words of approval meant to carry their play forward, as is Sam’s heartfelt ‘Yes, sir’.
‘You’re fucking perfect,’ Dean groans, pushing his hands up Sam’s chest in a quick, gliding movement, giving his shoulders a quick squeeze, then moving upward to cup his face. ‘I’m going to fuck you with my tongue until you beg for my cock,’ he says conversationally, thumbs caressing Sam’s cheekbones.
Sam’s eyes squeeze shut as Dean carries on with a stream of filthy promises, and he focuses on the sound of Dean’s voice as much as on his words: Dean’s gorgeous voice, hoarse with lust, with tiredness. It’s almost four in the morning, and they’ve only been back in the motel room for about twenty minutes. Sam is starting to love the quietness of these late, late nights when they’re alone again after hunts, when nothing much is spoken and some of the fantasies that have been playing in their heads are acted out.
‘You,’ Dean complains, laughing, ‘are not allowed to think while I’m doing this to you.’ He presses a tiny kiss to the head of Sam’s cock, pulling back with a grin as Sam’s hips arch up.
‘I was thinking about you, if that counts,’ Sam grins back, completely guilt-free. It’s something he’s come to appreciate, recently: just how unguarded Dean is during sex, his laughter honest, echoed by the warmth in his eyes.
Dean nuzzles lower, parting Sam’s thighs further with his hands. Strong hands cup Sam’s ass and tug him closer, hitching his legs up higher over Dean’s shoulders and exposing him completely. He can't help a small gasp as Dean’s thumbs slide between his cheeks, parting them even more, and Dean’s tongue flicks out gently in a barely-there touch. Sam knows only too well that squirming, arching and pleading for more will have no effect, that Dean will take his time and do this as thoroughly as he does everything else.
‘Tell me later,’ Dean grins, and gives Sam a frustratingly tentative lick. ‘’Cause I don’t think you’re going to be able to speak in a minute.’
‘Arrogant jerk,’ Sam manages to say before Dean gets to work in earnest.
--
Later, after they have driven each other to the point of desperation and Dean is fucking him into the bed, Sam raises his right leg higher over Dean’s hip, angling his foot so his heel drags over the crack of Dean’s ass. Dean moans against his shoulder, his hand wrapped around Sam’s tie and tugging it tight, almost-but-not-quite making it difficult for Sam to breathe, his face fitted sweat-slickly into the curve of Sam’s neck. ‘Oh fucking Christ do that again,’ he says, and they trade control as easily as passing a basketball back and forth. Sam gasps his assent, obliges, his heel rough against yielding flesh, stroking in time with Dean’s thrusts. ‘Fuck. Sammy.’ Dean gasps his name as though it’s the only word left that he can remember. ‘Sammy. Sammy. Don’t you dare fucking stop, don’t ever-’ Sam silences him with a kiss, sucking Dean’s tongue into his mouth, reducing them both to frantic breaths and pleading moans.
--
Still later, he lies almost pinned beneath Dean’s warm, heavy weight, Dean’s foot lazily gliding against his calf. One narrow motel-room bed is not nearly enough space for two tall men to lie comfortably, but neither is capable of much movement at the moment.
‘This okay?’ Dean asks anyway, always attentive, and Sam smiles against his shoulder. ‘’S good.’
‘Good,’ Dean echoes, kissing Sam’s cheek. It’s the only part of him, Sam supposes, that Dean’s lips can reach without too much difficulty. The need to look at Dean’s face, ascertain for himself that all is indeed good, wins out over the need to remain boneless. He lifts his head, props it up on an elbow, and looks down at Dean’s features, softer now, sleepy, satiated.
‘What?’ Dean murmurs without opening his eyes.
‘Nothing.’ Sam snuggles back down.
‘You were doing that thing again, weren’t you.’
‘Hm?’
‘That thing where you check if I’m thinking.’
‘You know about that thing?’ Sam says, too sleepy to be surprised. ‘I thought it was a secret.’
Dean mumbles something about no secrets, and that is the last thing either of them hears for the next few hours.
Characters: Dean/Sam
Rating: R
Words: 1.3k
Contains: A bit of rimming. Very mild D/s and barely-there breathplay.
Summary: It’s something he’s come to appreciate, recently: just how unguarded Dean is during sex, his laughter honest, echoed by the warmth in his eyes.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
‘Dean.’
A cheap, generic print of a framed landscape on the wall is upside-down above Sam’s head, because his neck is arched back on the pillow. He doesn’t have much choice about where to look, really, since Dean’s hand is in his hair, keeping his head pulled back and his throat exposed. It’s not uncomfortable in the least. Dean’s fingertips massage his scalp in slow, firm circles, and if this weren’t a prelude to more, he could fall asleep to the rhythmic movement.
‘Dean,’ Sam says again, trailing a hand up Dean’s chest to touch his face, draw his attention away from his current task, which is apparently to lick and bite at every single visible patch of skin on Sam’s throat.
‘Mm?’
‘You’re... um, caressing. My tie.’
He feels Dean grin against his throat. ‘So?’ Dean’s fingers glide across the gleaming dark silk of Sam’s FBI tie, only peripherally visible to Sam because his head is still thrown back. He lifts his head up a little so he can see better, and Dean’s hand moves with his head as though they were part of the same body.
Dean’s hand moves up Sam’s chest, traces the edge of the silk where it’s bound around Sam’s throat, presses down gently against his windpipe. His hand slides up Sam’s neck, fingertips tracing the curve of Sam’s jawline, before sliding back down over his throat. He repeats the movement several times, and Sam’s neck arches into the maddeningly light touch.
‘Fuck, Dean. Just take off the damned tie.’
‘Nope. You’re going to keep it on.’
‘I am?’
‘Yep.’ Dean slides gracefully down Sam’s body until he’s at the foot of the bed, sweetly compliant on his knees. Sam’s eyes follow the movement of Dean’s lips as they curve into a guileless smile, and then press a kiss against Sam’s knee. They move lower, orchestrating a series of tiny kisses down Sam’s leg, Dean’s fingers echoing the path of his lips on Sam’s calf, kneading gently.
Dean reaches Sam’s ankle, nosing between Sam’s trouser leg and the arch of his shoe to lick delicately at his ankle-bone, tracing the whorl of it with the tip of his tongue, spreading warmth and wetness over the thin wool of Sam’s black sock. He keeps firm hold of Sam’s foot with one hand, stroking intermittently. His other hand encircles Sam’s ankle, trapping it briefly before sliding upward along the sock and encountering bare skin. Sam’s leg jerks at the sensation of skin on skin, suddenly ticklish, but Dean’s hands hold his foot firmly in place.
Sam props himself up on his elbows and watches as Dean slips off his shoes. Once his feet are bare, Dean insinuates his elbows on either side of Sam’s hips and begins to unbutton Sam’s shirt. His fingers tug the cloth aside and he nuzzles in to lick into Sam’s navel, tracing the rim of it with his tongue, and Sam knows what this is a prelude to. The thought makes his legs shudder in anticipation. Dean grins, dropping a quick kiss on to Sam’s stomach before busying himself with undoing Sam’s trousers. He tugs them down Sam’s legs along with his underwear.
Sam repositions his legs over Dean’s shoulders and runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, and Dean hums with pleasure as Sam’s fingers scratch at his scalp. Sam locks his ankles behind Dean’s neck, and Dean turns his face into Sam’s leg, pressing briefly against the bare skin. ‘Good boy,’ he praises, reaching back and squeezing an ankle. ‘Keep them like that, yeah?’
Dean’s tone would be patronising in any other context, but these are words of approval meant to carry their play forward, as is Sam’s heartfelt ‘Yes, sir’.
‘You’re fucking perfect,’ Dean groans, pushing his hands up Sam’s chest in a quick, gliding movement, giving his shoulders a quick squeeze, then moving upward to cup his face. ‘I’m going to fuck you with my tongue until you beg for my cock,’ he says conversationally, thumbs caressing Sam’s cheekbones.
Sam’s eyes squeeze shut as Dean carries on with a stream of filthy promises, and he focuses on the sound of Dean’s voice as much as on his words: Dean’s gorgeous voice, hoarse with lust, with tiredness. It’s almost four in the morning, and they’ve only been back in the motel room for about twenty minutes. Sam is starting to love the quietness of these late, late nights when they’re alone again after hunts, when nothing much is spoken and some of the fantasies that have been playing in their heads are acted out.
‘You,’ Dean complains, laughing, ‘are not allowed to think while I’m doing this to you.’ He presses a tiny kiss to the head of Sam’s cock, pulling back with a grin as Sam’s hips arch up.
‘I was thinking about you, if that counts,’ Sam grins back, completely guilt-free. It’s something he’s come to appreciate, recently: just how unguarded Dean is during sex, his laughter honest, echoed by the warmth in his eyes.
Dean nuzzles lower, parting Sam’s thighs further with his hands. Strong hands cup Sam’s ass and tug him closer, hitching his legs up higher over Dean’s shoulders and exposing him completely. He can't help a small gasp as Dean’s thumbs slide between his cheeks, parting them even more, and Dean’s tongue flicks out gently in a barely-there touch. Sam knows only too well that squirming, arching and pleading for more will have no effect, that Dean will take his time and do this as thoroughly as he does everything else.
‘Tell me later,’ Dean grins, and gives Sam a frustratingly tentative lick. ‘’Cause I don’t think you’re going to be able to speak in a minute.’
‘Arrogant jerk,’ Sam manages to say before Dean gets to work in earnest.
--
Later, after they have driven each other to the point of desperation and Dean is fucking him into the bed, Sam raises his right leg higher over Dean’s hip, angling his foot so his heel drags over the crack of Dean’s ass. Dean moans against his shoulder, his hand wrapped around Sam’s tie and tugging it tight, almost-but-not-quite making it difficult for Sam to breathe, his face fitted sweat-slickly into the curve of Sam’s neck. ‘Oh fucking Christ do that again,’ he says, and they trade control as easily as passing a basketball back and forth. Sam gasps his assent, obliges, his heel rough against yielding flesh, stroking in time with Dean’s thrusts. ‘Fuck. Sammy.’ Dean gasps his name as though it’s the only word left that he can remember. ‘Sammy. Sammy. Don’t you dare fucking stop, don’t ever-’ Sam silences him with a kiss, sucking Dean’s tongue into his mouth, reducing them both to frantic breaths and pleading moans.
--
Still later, he lies almost pinned beneath Dean’s warm, heavy weight, Dean’s foot lazily gliding against his calf. One narrow motel-room bed is not nearly enough space for two tall men to lie comfortably, but neither is capable of much movement at the moment.
‘This okay?’ Dean asks anyway, always attentive, and Sam smiles against his shoulder. ‘’S good.’
‘Good,’ Dean echoes, kissing Sam’s cheek. It’s the only part of him, Sam supposes, that Dean’s lips can reach without too much difficulty. The need to look at Dean’s face, ascertain for himself that all is indeed good, wins out over the need to remain boneless. He lifts his head, props it up on an elbow, and looks down at Dean’s features, softer now, sleepy, satiated.
‘What?’ Dean murmurs without opening his eyes.
‘Nothing.’ Sam snuggles back down.
‘You were doing that thing again, weren’t you.’
‘Hm?’
‘That thing where you check if I’m thinking.’
‘You know about that thing?’ Sam says, too sleepy to be surprised. ‘I thought it was a secret.’
Dean mumbles something about no secrets, and that is the last thing either of them hears for the next few hours.