Fic: Wailing Like a Cat in Heat
title. Wailing Like a Cat in Heat
rating. NC-17
pairing. Sam/Dean
word count. ~1300 words
warnings/enticements. A little bit of pain-play, a little bit of bondage. Mostly the boys goofing off and being stupid together.
notes. Written for riyku's prompt keep it quiet for salt_burn_porn. Set in season six, but no spoilers.
Dean slammed Sam against the wall, and Sam laughed breathlessly. God, it was already turning him on. Dean was just wonderfully, deliciously easy to rile.
“Problem?” he asked too-innocently, egging him on.
With a low, angry rumble, Dean shoved him up against the motel room wall one more time. He pressed his body against Sam's back, made Sam feel all the close, hard heat of him. Dean's body was a startling contrast to the air-conditioned chill of the wall, and Sam found himself rubbing his face against its textured paint in a moment of pure, stupid bliss.
It was just perfect. Dean was twisting his arm up behind his back, straining his shoulder, and holding him just on the verge of pain. Actually, no, Dean was crossing the line into pain itself. Fuck, yes.
“You’re a sick, sick puppy," Dean said, noticing his reaction, but he didn't slacken his grip. Sam wriggled against Dean's hold, not-so-incidentally rubbing his ass over Dean's hardening cock, and he laughed when Dean thrust against him instinctively.
"Sure, Dean," Sam said, grinning. "Look who’s talking."
Dean inched closer, hot air washing over Sam as Dean began to breath against his neck, and Sam knew what Dean was trying to do--his actions were meant as an invasion, a marking of property. Sam wanted to be able to laugh at him, to smirk and push Dean away, but god, Sam was easy when it came to Dean, or maybe Dean had just learned to push all of his buttons. Sam whimpered at the heat that suddenly rushed through him.
“The things I do for you," Dean said then, his voice amused. He rocked forward, sliding the jean-covered bulge of his cock between Sam's legs, and Sam bit down hard on his own tongue.
“Uh, uh,” Dean chastised him. He buried a hand in Sam's hair, petting softly, while the hand holding Sam's arm painfully contorted remained rock steady. “Wanna hear you, buddy.”
Fucking tease, Sam thought. He rubbed his head back against Dean's hand.
"Is there something you want?" Dean said lightly.
Sam shook his head again, not sure if he was arguing or agreeing; he couldn't plan that far ahead anymore. Not that it made a damned bit of difference. Dean had all the control here, had Sam on the knife's edge of pain and whining for more, and Sam could do nothing, think of nothing, could only pant against the wall. There was no getting away.
Dean twirled the strands of Sam's hair around his fingers once, a tease of soft and subtle pulls. Then he looped them through his grasping hand one more time, and Sam knew it was coming, wanted it so bad--
And there it was: Pain, sharp and exquisite.
Dean wrenched Sam’s head back, straining his neck, and Sam couldn't help it at all--he let out a long, loud moan, the sound obnoxiously filling the room. He couldn't even feel embarrassed, because there was no fighting it. Pinned against the wall with one arm on the verge of breaking, with his head extended back as far as it would go, Dean knew how to get under Sam's skin, knew how to do that to him.
“Yeah,” Dean whispered. He kissed Sam's neck, his ear. “Give it up, Sammy.”
Sam closed his eyes, tried to regain control, tried to think, but Dean's hunting-trained strength was breaking him; Dean knew how to hold bigger things than Sam in place. Dean could control monsters with his hands, lash beasts to rage with nothing more than the harsh amusement of his voice. What hope did Sam have against all that? With a quiet, patiently slow, always-possessive movement closer, Dean licked a long wet stripe along his neck, and Sam couldn't help but shiver.
“Used to drive me crazy, you know," Dean murmured, and oh great, now Dean was talking. "Dad right next door, and you being so damned loud--should've shut you up, but god," Dean slammed them both forward again with an almost brutal thrust of his hips, "I love hearing you like this.”
Sam writhed against Dean's grip in protest.
Dean pulled his hair back in reprimand, the move pulling Sam's hair taut along his scalp. The sharp flare of pain made air escape Sam's lungs in short, sharp bursts, his mouth wide and open. He couldn't get enough air, not in this position. He could hear the obscene sounds he was making, those goddamned stupid noises filling the room.
“That’s the way,” Dean said, his voice smug. Approving. “That’s what I like to hear.”
There was no stopping him--Dean inhaled against Sam's neck, along the join between neck and shoulder, smelling him, and god, the thought of Dean all covered up in his scent was intoxicating.
“Goddamnit, Dean-“
Dean bit him hard.
“Dean,” Sam cried out again. There were no other words, there was nothing else to say. Dean’s name was his first language, his default. It meant plea, demand, promise and everything in-between, and Dean knew every definition, every subtle technicality. His name in Sam’s voice--Sam knew that Dean could read it all.
“Yeah,” Dean told him, and he sucked the wound on Sam's neck. Then Sam felt him move away, just long enough to yank his jeans open and get out his cock, and then he had his hands back on Sam's body. He pulled Sam’s shirt over his head, shoved Sam's pants down to his ankles. “Hold on, yeah.”
Sam collapsed against the wall, trembling at the ever-present chill; it was twice as shocking without the comforting heat of Dean's body. Then the lonely feeling was gone, and the scratchy-smooth plane of Dean's hips, the blunt fullness of his exposed cock, was pushing against him. Dean's length was sliding along the crack of his ass--
But it wasn't enough. Sam could feel Dean's thighs trapped within his own jeans, pushed down only far enough to get to the business at hand. Sam was the one who had to accommodate him, who had to spread his legs and bend his knees, and he did so, wanting Dean to be closer, tighter, inside of him already. He begged loudly, not even caring about the scene he made, urging Dean on.
”Fuck, Sam,” Dean growled, fumbling around with something in his hands--lube, Sam thought. And then Dean was there. He pressed home in a long, slow, possessive slide, inch by painful inch, refusing to let Sam ease into it. It was perfect, it was just what Sam wanted.
After ten years of brother-fucking, Sam thought a little hysterically, Dean had better fucking know what he wanted. Sam let out a few low, happy sounds, wanting Dean to know just how good it felt, how badly he needed more.
“Sammy, damn it,” Dean groaned, shaking against him. Trying to regain control.
Sam let himself moan a little louder, begging, pleading--Dean needed his encouragement, Dean wasn't fucking moving. His cock was snug in Sam's ass, twitching away happily in its tight new home, and it was too big, hurt too much, for Sam to bring himself to thrust against it. Sam needed Dean to do it for him.
He moaned loudly, his whole body arched in supplication.
But Dean refused to move. Sam trembled there against the wall, pinned on his brother's cock, and Dean only kissed Sam's neck, his mouth and tongue tracing sloppily over Sam's ear. He slid a sticky, lube-smothered hand over Sam’s mouth. “Fuck, Sammy, you’re fucking wailing like a cat, goddamnit.”
“Dean,” Sam moaned back, his lips sliding over Dean's palm. He was shaking, twisting apart. “Can't help it," he tried to say. "Your fault.”
Dean laughed against his neck. He withdrew slowly, Sam feeling every inch leave his body, felt the flared head of Dean's cock stretch apart his opening--and then Dean thrust in again, his whole body shuddering with the force he used to push forward. Sam practically screamed at the move, and Dean wrapped his arms around Sam’s body, holding him close, holding him still, because Sam was fighting his grip. It hurt, it hurt like hell, but it was also a trained response to Dean invading him--Sam needed the confinement, needed to feel Dean's refusal to let him go. Anchoring him, Sam thought, keeping him safe.
Sam wailed out again. Happy, he was telling Dean wordlessly. Fulfilled.
“You freak,” Dean whispered affectionately.
And he shoved his fingers in Sam’s mouth.
They were wet and slimy. They were sticky with lube. They had definitely been near Sam's ass. It was gross--it was fucking disgusting. It was so fucking awesome, Sam thought he was going to explode.
And maybe it was predictable: Dean moved his hand away. Sam's groans escaped, so loud he was sure whatever neighbors they had would start banging on the wall, and Dean fucked him harder, faster, his laughter loud in Sam’s ears.
“Not that funny,” Sam protested weakly, finally able to find his words again. He brought his fists up against the sheetrock--he wasn’t really going to pound on it, Dean was having hysterics as it was--but he needed the support. Seriously, the support, that was all it was. “Jackass.”
“You love it,” Dean told him, kissing his neck again. He was always that way, full of stupid, tender gestures in the middle of everything. He moved to grip Sam’s hands, holding them in place against the wall, and Sam wondered why on earth he’d ever let his sneaky bastard of a brother know about that particular turn-on. Dean held him captive with legs and arms, his body a cage pressing against him with denim, cotton, and leather, and his hips worked against Sam furiously, spearing his cock into Sam again and again. It was so unbearably stupid, Sam thought, but then he was too busy coming to care.
“Sammy,” Dean moaned, still laughing into his shoulder. His thrusts slowed as Sam shook against him, but he kept on laughing as he wrestled Sam over, as he pushed Sam onto the bed. Sam let himself be manhandled into a new position, Dean moving his arms and legs this way and that, and when Dean finally settled back down, pushed back in, Dean was still grinning at him.
Your turn, Sam thought hazily, meeting his eyes.
And he smiled against Dean's lips when Dean kissed him.
rating. NC-17
pairing. Sam/Dean
word count. ~1300 words
warnings/enticements. A little bit of pain-play, a little bit of bondage. Mostly the boys goofing off and being stupid together.
notes. Written for riyku's prompt keep it quiet for salt_burn_porn. Set in season six, but no spoilers.
Dean slammed Sam against the wall, and Sam laughed breathlessly. God, it was already turning him on. Dean was just wonderfully, deliciously easy to rile.
“Problem?” he asked too-innocently, egging him on.
With a low, angry rumble, Dean shoved him up against the motel room wall one more time. He pressed his body against Sam's back, made Sam feel all the close, hard heat of him. Dean's body was a startling contrast to the air-conditioned chill of the wall, and Sam found himself rubbing his face against its textured paint in a moment of pure, stupid bliss.
It was just perfect. Dean was twisting his arm up behind his back, straining his shoulder, and holding him just on the verge of pain. Actually, no, Dean was crossing the line into pain itself. Fuck, yes.
“You’re a sick, sick puppy," Dean said, noticing his reaction, but he didn't slacken his grip. Sam wriggled against Dean's hold, not-so-incidentally rubbing his ass over Dean's hardening cock, and he laughed when Dean thrust against him instinctively.
"Sure, Dean," Sam said, grinning. "Look who’s talking."
Dean inched closer, hot air washing over Sam as Dean began to breath against his neck, and Sam knew what Dean was trying to do--his actions were meant as an invasion, a marking of property. Sam wanted to be able to laugh at him, to smirk and push Dean away, but god, Sam was easy when it came to Dean, or maybe Dean had just learned to push all of his buttons. Sam whimpered at the heat that suddenly rushed through him.
“The things I do for you," Dean said then, his voice amused. He rocked forward, sliding the jean-covered bulge of his cock between Sam's legs, and Sam bit down hard on his own tongue.
“Uh, uh,” Dean chastised him. He buried a hand in Sam's hair, petting softly, while the hand holding Sam's arm painfully contorted remained rock steady. “Wanna hear you, buddy.”
Fucking tease, Sam thought. He rubbed his head back against Dean's hand.
"Is there something you want?" Dean said lightly.
Sam shook his head again, not sure if he was arguing or agreeing; he couldn't plan that far ahead anymore. Not that it made a damned bit of difference. Dean had all the control here, had Sam on the knife's edge of pain and whining for more, and Sam could do nothing, think of nothing, could only pant against the wall. There was no getting away.
Dean twirled the strands of Sam's hair around his fingers once, a tease of soft and subtle pulls. Then he looped them through his grasping hand one more time, and Sam knew it was coming, wanted it so bad--
And there it was: Pain, sharp and exquisite.
Dean wrenched Sam’s head back, straining his neck, and Sam couldn't help it at all--he let out a long, loud moan, the sound obnoxiously filling the room. He couldn't even feel embarrassed, because there was no fighting it. Pinned against the wall with one arm on the verge of breaking, with his head extended back as far as it would go, Dean knew how to get under Sam's skin, knew how to do that to him.
“Yeah,” Dean whispered. He kissed Sam's neck, his ear. “Give it up, Sammy.”
Sam closed his eyes, tried to regain control, tried to think, but Dean's hunting-trained strength was breaking him; Dean knew how to hold bigger things than Sam in place. Dean could control monsters with his hands, lash beasts to rage with nothing more than the harsh amusement of his voice. What hope did Sam have against all that? With a quiet, patiently slow, always-possessive movement closer, Dean licked a long wet stripe along his neck, and Sam couldn't help but shiver.
“Used to drive me crazy, you know," Dean murmured, and oh great, now Dean was talking. "Dad right next door, and you being so damned loud--should've shut you up, but god," Dean slammed them both forward again with an almost brutal thrust of his hips, "I love hearing you like this.”
Sam writhed against Dean's grip in protest.
Dean pulled his hair back in reprimand, the move pulling Sam's hair taut along his scalp. The sharp flare of pain made air escape Sam's lungs in short, sharp bursts, his mouth wide and open. He couldn't get enough air, not in this position. He could hear the obscene sounds he was making, those goddamned stupid noises filling the room.
“That’s the way,” Dean said, his voice smug. Approving. “That’s what I like to hear.”
There was no stopping him--Dean inhaled against Sam's neck, along the join between neck and shoulder, smelling him, and god, the thought of Dean all covered up in his scent was intoxicating.
“Goddamnit, Dean-“
Dean bit him hard.
“Dean,” Sam cried out again. There were no other words, there was nothing else to say. Dean’s name was his first language, his default. It meant plea, demand, promise and everything in-between, and Dean knew every definition, every subtle technicality. His name in Sam’s voice--Sam knew that Dean could read it all.
“Yeah,” Dean told him, and he sucked the wound on Sam's neck. Then Sam felt him move away, just long enough to yank his jeans open and get out his cock, and then he had his hands back on Sam's body. He pulled Sam’s shirt over his head, shoved Sam's pants down to his ankles. “Hold on, yeah.”
Sam collapsed against the wall, trembling at the ever-present chill; it was twice as shocking without the comforting heat of Dean's body. Then the lonely feeling was gone, and the scratchy-smooth plane of Dean's hips, the blunt fullness of his exposed cock, was pushing against him. Dean's length was sliding along the crack of his ass--
But it wasn't enough. Sam could feel Dean's thighs trapped within his own jeans, pushed down only far enough to get to the business at hand. Sam was the one who had to accommodate him, who had to spread his legs and bend his knees, and he did so, wanting Dean to be closer, tighter, inside of him already. He begged loudly, not even caring about the scene he made, urging Dean on.
”Fuck, Sam,” Dean growled, fumbling around with something in his hands--lube, Sam thought. And then Dean was there. He pressed home in a long, slow, possessive slide, inch by painful inch, refusing to let Sam ease into it. It was perfect, it was just what Sam wanted.
After ten years of brother-fucking, Sam thought a little hysterically, Dean had better fucking know what he wanted. Sam let out a few low, happy sounds, wanting Dean to know just how good it felt, how badly he needed more.
“Sammy, damn it,” Dean groaned, shaking against him. Trying to regain control.
Sam let himself moan a little louder, begging, pleading--Dean needed his encouragement, Dean wasn't fucking moving. His cock was snug in Sam's ass, twitching away happily in its tight new home, and it was too big, hurt too much, for Sam to bring himself to thrust against it. Sam needed Dean to do it for him.
He moaned loudly, his whole body arched in supplication.
But Dean refused to move. Sam trembled there against the wall, pinned on his brother's cock, and Dean only kissed Sam's neck, his mouth and tongue tracing sloppily over Sam's ear. He slid a sticky, lube-smothered hand over Sam’s mouth. “Fuck, Sammy, you’re fucking wailing like a cat, goddamnit.”
“Dean,” Sam moaned back, his lips sliding over Dean's palm. He was shaking, twisting apart. “Can't help it," he tried to say. "Your fault.”
Dean laughed against his neck. He withdrew slowly, Sam feeling every inch leave his body, felt the flared head of Dean's cock stretch apart his opening--and then Dean thrust in again, his whole body shuddering with the force he used to push forward. Sam practically screamed at the move, and Dean wrapped his arms around Sam’s body, holding him close, holding him still, because Sam was fighting his grip. It hurt, it hurt like hell, but it was also a trained response to Dean invading him--Sam needed the confinement, needed to feel Dean's refusal to let him go. Anchoring him, Sam thought, keeping him safe.
Sam wailed out again. Happy, he was telling Dean wordlessly. Fulfilled.
“You freak,” Dean whispered affectionately.
And he shoved his fingers in Sam’s mouth.
They were wet and slimy. They were sticky with lube. They had definitely been near Sam's ass. It was gross--it was fucking disgusting. It was so fucking awesome, Sam thought he was going to explode.
And maybe it was predictable: Dean moved his hand away. Sam's groans escaped, so loud he was sure whatever neighbors they had would start banging on the wall, and Dean fucked him harder, faster, his laughter loud in Sam’s ears.
“Not that funny,” Sam protested weakly, finally able to find his words again. He brought his fists up against the sheetrock--he wasn’t really going to pound on it, Dean was having hysterics as it was--but he needed the support. Seriously, the support, that was all it was. “Jackass.”
“You love it,” Dean told him, kissing his neck again. He was always that way, full of stupid, tender gestures in the middle of everything. He moved to grip Sam’s hands, holding them in place against the wall, and Sam wondered why on earth he’d ever let his sneaky bastard of a brother know about that particular turn-on. Dean held him captive with legs and arms, his body a cage pressing against him with denim, cotton, and leather, and his hips worked against Sam furiously, spearing his cock into Sam again and again. It was so unbearably stupid, Sam thought, but then he was too busy coming to care.
“Sammy,” Dean moaned, still laughing into his shoulder. His thrusts slowed as Sam shook against him, but he kept on laughing as he wrestled Sam over, as he pushed Sam onto the bed. Sam let himself be manhandled into a new position, Dean moving his arms and legs this way and that, and when Dean finally settled back down, pushed back in, Dean was still grinning at him.
Your turn, Sam thought hazily, meeting his eyes.
And he smiled against Dean's lips when Dean kissed him.