Come pick me up (Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester)
Title: Come pick me up
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3533
Disclaimer: Tragically untrue.
Summary: Dean goes to Palo Alto.
Notes: Sequel to I get lost in my mind.
Driving when the sun comes up has always been Dean's favorite time. Everything is always still, is always drowsy from the dark. Everything always brightens slowly, dark blue turning to pale blue turning to soft, honey gold to the pale colors of sunrise and Dean watches from the driver's seat flying down I-80 toward his brother and the thoughts he has are abstract and warm, anxious and loving and sentimental and hopeful and more vulnerable than he has ever, ever been outside of his own mind. He has to get to Sam as soon as he can because he's jonesing for him now, his ear still burning from the cell phone he'd had pressed there for hours upon hours and Sam had fallen asleep, sweet and easy just like Dean had been there, like they'd stayed up all night on the couch watching bad old movies. Dean smiles to himself for no exact reason, for nothing else but the thought of Sam's lashes against his cheeks and that maddening beauty mark to the left of Sam's nose that no amount of days will let Dean forget.
He'd gotten Sam's address months ago from the school, pretending to be this or that or someone of import and he navigates the innocent streets of Palo Alto with vague distrust, judging each and every mile of it because that sidewalk or that café or that tree may have been graced with Sam's presence at any given moment in time. These are all places that Sam probably knows and that are foreign to Dean. He almost turns back every time he passes a cross street, almost turns around and heads east and east and east until he can't remember the way to California and definitely not to Emerson Street, to Sam's front door where he finds himself like he's woken up from a dream. It's just after eleven here and it's very likely that Sam is still asleep after having spent the night on the phone with him.
Picking Sam's lock is alarmingly easy and he stands back and frowns at the door, angry at it for not putting up more of a fight. It should not be this easy for someone to just. Get at his brother. He mentally jots down replacing the lock on Sam's door before he leaves no matter what happens and then he's adjusting to the darkness of the quiet apartment and that's when it hits him like a sucker punch to the throat that he's here. He can smell Sam everywhere, that infuriating, cloy scent of sweat and boy and all those little nameless, silly things that add up to the smell of his brother and tears burn in his eyes. He locks and bolts the door again behind him and makes his way through the apartment, not peeling his clothes off because he's prideful, because his hopeful heart and narcissism tells him that maybe Sam will have missed the smell of Dean too and that includes the smell of his silly leather jacket.
He opens the first door he comes to and his heart sinks when he realizes that it's empty. He takes in the messy bed, the stack of FHM and Hustler magazines, the poster for Pulp Fiction, and the Green Bay Packers t-shirt on the floor and he knows he's got the wrong room. He licks his lips in trepidation, abandoning the now worthless room and turns to face the door opposite, the one that is closed but looks important, so important, the door into Narnia or fucking Gondor or Heaven or Neverland or Sam's room and he turns the knob silently and opens the door carefully, so, so carefully.
Sam is sprawled out on his stomach in a bed that is plenty big for him, bigger than any they'd ever had growing up. He's sock-footed and wearing his jeans and a worn hoodie and his hair is stupidly long and falling over his sleep-smoothed face and Dean just. He just can't really breathe for a long moment because he's here. It's so simple, everything leading up to this moment has been so simple and yet has felt impossible up til now. He's here where Sam is and he's so close to having what he wants, what he needs, what he's been missing for nine fucking months and he makes sure to lock the door behind him again as he makes his way across the room and toward the soft sounds of Sam snoring and the rise and fall of his back. He stands beside him, useless and helpless and just watching him, memorizing the way his long fingers are clasped around his phone that is tucked to his chest like a tiny, comfortless plastic teddy bear. His bottom lip is caught ever so slightly between his teeth and his eyebrows are drawn deep and expressive in whatever dream he's caught up in.
Dean smiles, soft and vague and adoring and he crouches down until he's level with Sam and he reaches out, his fingers ghosting over his shoulder and then his arm and then his mouth before settling on a long wing of hair that is half covering Sam's face and he sweeps it back slow and gentle and tucks it behind Sam's ear. He watches those eyebrows draw even tighter, his mouth pulling into a confused frown while he slides back into consciousness. His eyes slip open lazily, a luxury given to him by civilian life, by day in and day out of monotony and normalcy and no danger and Dean savors it for him. Sam's eyes look almost brown in the grey of the room closed off from the sun thanks to some heavy blinds and he's blinking once twice three four times before he realizes what he's looking at, who he's looking at. Dean smiles at him and his fingers return with more ease now, stroking Sam's hair back from his face, thumb sliding over his eyebrow to soothe the tension out of it.
Sam sucks in a breath that seems to pull all the oxygen from the room and he sits up so fast he pauses to wait out the slight disorientation that comes from being woken from a dream to feeling like you're in yet another dream and Dean pushes up to his feet, standing over Sam who is staring up at him now, slack-jawed and eyes bright with confused, relieved tears.
"Dean?" The word is useless by all definitions, meaningless except for the weight of it, the amount of emotion he always seems to be able to pack into that single syllable and Dean knows just what he means by it every single time. This time it's 'is that really you' and 'what are you doing here' and 'I can't handle all this inside of me god please help me.' Dean reaches out again (always and again) and slides his hand over Sam's cheek, easing the edge off his features and calming him immediately.
Dean doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to charm his way to being comfortable in this situation, into being anything but the well of emotions caught in his throat and so he doesn't give Sam a dismissive 'heya, Sammy' or a 'nope, you're not still dreaming, I'm really here' or any other thing that would make Sam smile or make him relax. He doesn't want him to relax. He doesn't want the tension, this beautiful, new tension between them to burst or break or die. He wants to slip into the skin of this feeling and wear it for the rest of his life, this moment between them with their eyes locked and their chests heaving and every single unspoken word between that dusty nightmare of a day last August when Dean said goodbye and good luck and right now on a nameless Saturday in Sam's lonely room, when all of those words flow between them as easy as breathing, bringing Sam up to his feet to sway in front of Dean, to crowd in against him and Dean can hear him breathing loudly now, both of them sucking in air through their mouths and their pupils are blown and their eyes and cheeks are damp with tears and god how, how did they ever think they would survive this, would survive so many days and so many miles apart.
Sam edges closer to Dean, closer and closer until there's nowhere else to be and Dean reaches for him, fingering the fraying sleeves of Sam's hoodie and Sam is rubbing the worn leather of Dean's jacket between thumb and forefinger and their eyes are locked locked deadbolted together and their heaving chests dig together and then their foreheads and they've never done this, not ever, not ever pressed this close, not even in the deadest of nights.
"Dean," he says again and it's broken this time, it's a whisper, a fragment of something loosened inside of Sam and Dean feels the warmth of the tears that seep from Sam's eyes, feels the salt seep into his own cheek from where they're pressed, can feel one of them slide all the way down to his mouth and he can taste it, taste Sam, taste his pain and his longing and his whatever the fuck this is alive, living and breathing between their bodies now.
Dean starts edging him then, starts herding him and guiding him until Sam is up against a wall somehow, which wall Dean has no idea has never seen before but it's solid and it's something that catches Sam and gives them something to use to press even closer together, to push and push until it's painful and they can't breathe and Sam lets out a whimper that sounds hurt and the delicate bones of their ribs are bending bending together, hearts slamming trapped in their cages, so tragically close together and desperate to stay that way. Dean feels the sharp dig of Sam's hipbones, the rough unforgiving press of denim and brass buttons and he lifts his hands, slides them up until his elbows are resting on Sam's shoulders and his hands are digging into the thick wilds of Sam's dark hair and he's holding on, just fucking holding on. He feels Sam's arms come around his body, hugging him so forcefully that they both make a sound this time, a sharp release of breath that jolts them into movement and Dean slams his mouth into Sam's for the very first time, licking the taste of sleep out and loving every second of it. He feeds from Sam's mouth, drinking down his spit and giving his own to Sam in return, learning him from the inside as well as he knows the outside, his tongue mapping out the bumps of his teeth and the slick of the underside of his tongue and the ticklish hardness of the roof of his mouth. He bites at Sam's bottom lip, sucks on it, licks the tears off of Sam's cheeks for breakfast, swallows it all down, greedy, greedy. He kisses all along Sam's salty sleep soft cheeks and he can feel Sam's arms closing around him even tighter, feel his nose snuffling into his hair, his neck, his jacket and he wonders if Sam is memorizing the smell of him, if he smells like the road enough for him, if he smells like home.
He unzips Sam's hoodie slowly and kisses his way down his face and Sam is licking at his own cheeks, soft pink tongue over the rough scratch of stubble on Dean's face and Sam shoves Dean's jacket off in tandem with Dean peeling the hoodie from Sam's body, both of them in layers, always, always in layers against the world.
"Want it off, Sammy. Want it all off. Wanna feel you." His voice is gritty and wrecked like he'd gone to bed with whiskey and tears and just woken up and when Sam whimpers his heart soars, it takes off in full flight and he makes quick work of Sam's jeans, edging them down his thin hips and off and then he's working on Sam's shirt, his silly graphic tee of something clever and Dean moans when he's bare-chested, he breathes hot and hard all along Sam's chest, leaving goosebumps in his wake and he laps and sucks at one of Sam's nipples, his hands cupping and holding Sam's hips, rubbing at his hipbones with life-roughened thumbs, pulling Sam into a pretty arch off the wall and Sam is curled down and kissing at Dean's face as best as he can, mouthing at the side of Dean's nose and his temple and the jut of his jaw and Dean has never felt anything more right than this, more pure, more sure and safe.
Sam pulls and tugs and whimpers until Dean lets him tug his clothes off in return, until they're both naked and barefoot and Dean is burying his face into Sam's smooth stomach, pressing in hard, teeth nipping and biting like he's going to chew right through him, like he's going to sink right through that quivering, tender flesh and not stop until he can suck the marrow from Sam's bones. He wants it, they both want it, so stupidly desperate and painfully aware of time and reality and the inevitability of Dean leaving again. Dean opens his mouth as wide as he can, his soft swollen lips plush against Sam's skin as he sucks hard on his belly, drawing out a sharp cry from Sam's lips and a deathgrip on Dean's hair and Dean doesn't stop until he's left a perfect, deep red bruise in his wake.
He mouths at Sam's dick, as comfortable with it as he is with any part of Sam he's ever seen or known because it's Sam and Sam is his just as surely as if he'd sprung forth fully formed from Dean's brow, as if he'd been carved out of Dean's ribs. He sucks and licks until Sam is babbling and sobbing so sweetly and leaking slick all over Dean's tongue and Dean edges even further down and back and he latches onto Sam's hole, a moan rising deep and dark and starved from his chest, countering the high breathy sounds leaving Sam's mouth. Sam lifts one of his legs and presses his foot into his mattress to give Dean better access and Dean has a bruising grip on his hips and he's pressing his face up into Sam's ass, the soft skin and hair of Sam's balls rubbing over Dean's chin and he does what Dean is silently begging him to do, he rides Dean's face, he sinks down into the slurp and suck and kiss and lick of his mouth until he's shaking so badly on top of him that he's afraid he's going to collapse.
Dean knows this, always knows just what Sam needs and he lifts him up then, somehow, lifts his very long little brother up and sinks down on top of him on the bed and between his spread thighs, his fingers edging up inside of Sam's soaked, relaxed little asshole and he fucks him lazily with them as he kisses him, kisses and kisses and never ever wants to fucking stop kissing him again, not with the way it brings them together, lets them taste each other and forces them to breathe together and to feel each other's heartbeats and lets them say every single thing they've ever felt without having to find words, mediocre, stupid words that are so much less than what is happening here, now. Sam keeps petting him, adoring him, it seems, rubbing over the muscles of Dean's arms, over little snicks and scraps of scars that he knows the stories for, over Dean's long and glorious back and down between them, a wide palm and clever fingers holding onto Dean's cock and giving it much needed attention, giving it a tug and pull that has Dean shaking on top of Sam, has him gasping against his mouth and staring down into those green and brown and blue and fox eyes of his Sammy and he lines himself up and braces his knees on the bed and he pushes his way home for the first time in his life, he surrounds himself with Sam's goodness and his softness and his damp pink heat and he buries his face into Sam's neck and silently thanks him, thanks whatever gods deem him worthy of being heard, thanks all the roads that led him up to this room, thanks all of the nightmares and grit and blood and violence and pain of his life for letting him appreciate this moment to the fullest extent, letting him appreciate just how soft Sam is, how soft his skin and how slick and sweet his mouth is and how beautiful he is here under him, how full his heart is with love and how utterly perfect Sam is, flaws and all, how endless this thing is between them.
The amulet drags over Sam's chest with each thrust when Dean finally gathers himself and lifts up onto his elbows so he can watch Sam getting fucked and he knows that Sam can feel it, can feel the cold metal on his burning skin and his eyes say as much and Dean bites his own bottom lip, digging his hips in a tight circle so he can feel as much of Sam's insides as possible, feel him as deep inside as he can get.
"Yeah, Dean, yeah," Sam murmurs, the insides of his thighs pressed tight to Dean's ribs, cradling him and watching him as Dean pounds down into him, long dicking him and opening him up all around his cock, carving and carving until Sam is custom-fit only for this, for him. Sam's arms slide up around Dean's neck, pulling him in closer and slotting their mouths together again, wet and slow and in direct opposition with the fuck of Dean's hips, the relentless uh-uh-uh-uh Sam drips into his mouth, and the unmistakable, gorgeous sound of the headboard slamming against the wall. All of it is new, so new but familiar like a dream, like he's been here before, like he's dreamed about this place again and again his whole life and he's finally here, awake and here and it's so much more vivid, Sam is so much more vivid, more vital, more alive now that Dean knows what he feels like to his core, what he feels like with Sam's heart beating all around him, with his sweet insides contracting in the same rhythm.
When Sam comes he clutches at Dean, legs and arms and every muscle inside of his body holding onto him like nature made him this way, made him biologically need to grip him this tight, to keep Dean as invasive as possible for some primal reason, for something beyond both of their understanding. Dean fucks through Sam's orgasm, fucks through the suffocating tightness and the devastation of the sounds leaving Sam's mouth until Sam is boneless beneath him and smooth as silk inside, no resistance now and their eyes have found each other again, they're holding holding and Dean feels the burn all the way to his balls because Sam is watching him unravel, watching him come undone stitch by stitch and he cries out when he finally, finally comes, when he buries in as deep as their bodies will let them and his cock pumps Sam full of thick heat, creaming him all up and Sam is nearly catatonic now, he's shuddering under Dean, eyes rolled up in his head, fingers clasped at the back of Dean's sweaty neck, hanging onto him loosely.
He keeps thrusting slow, lazy, in love with the wet suck of each movement inside of Sam's body and they kiss like it's always been this way between them, like they have all the time in the world, like they're immortal or like this is the last minute left on earth and they've said and done everything else they need to do but this. His heart is racing but he feels calmer than he can ever remember, he feels drained and heavy and warm and exhausted and Sam is petting him now, easing him back to reality with kisses and licks and soft blows of cool air across his sweaty skin. They ease over onto their sides and Dean stays locked up tight inside of Sam, going soft there inside of him with big plans to sleep there, to keep Sam open and ready for him to just harden up and he's going to take him again, maybe hours later after some heavy sleep, maybe fuck Sam while he's sleeping and pliant and make him wake up coming. Dean hums in contentment and he earns a smile and a kiss to his mouth from Sam for it.
They stare into each other's eyes until Dean can't keep his open anymore, too many hours awake, too many miles until he could get to Sam and he falls asleep feeling Sam's lips on his eyebrow and feeling like he's alive for maybe the first time in his life.
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3533
Disclaimer: Tragically untrue.
Summary: Dean goes to Palo Alto.
Notes: Sequel to I get lost in my mind.
Driving when the sun comes up has always been Dean's favorite time. Everything is always still, is always drowsy from the dark. Everything always brightens slowly, dark blue turning to pale blue turning to soft, honey gold to the pale colors of sunrise and Dean watches from the driver's seat flying down I-80 toward his brother and the thoughts he has are abstract and warm, anxious and loving and sentimental and hopeful and more vulnerable than he has ever, ever been outside of his own mind. He has to get to Sam as soon as he can because he's jonesing for him now, his ear still burning from the cell phone he'd had pressed there for hours upon hours and Sam had fallen asleep, sweet and easy just like Dean had been there, like they'd stayed up all night on the couch watching bad old movies. Dean smiles to himself for no exact reason, for nothing else but the thought of Sam's lashes against his cheeks and that maddening beauty mark to the left of Sam's nose that no amount of days will let Dean forget.
He'd gotten Sam's address months ago from the school, pretending to be this or that or someone of import and he navigates the innocent streets of Palo Alto with vague distrust, judging each and every mile of it because that sidewalk or that café or that tree may have been graced with Sam's presence at any given moment in time. These are all places that Sam probably knows and that are foreign to Dean. He almost turns back every time he passes a cross street, almost turns around and heads east and east and east until he can't remember the way to California and definitely not to Emerson Street, to Sam's front door where he finds himself like he's woken up from a dream. It's just after eleven here and it's very likely that Sam is still asleep after having spent the night on the phone with him.
Picking Sam's lock is alarmingly easy and he stands back and frowns at the door, angry at it for not putting up more of a fight. It should not be this easy for someone to just. Get at his brother. He mentally jots down replacing the lock on Sam's door before he leaves no matter what happens and then he's adjusting to the darkness of the quiet apartment and that's when it hits him like a sucker punch to the throat that he's here. He can smell Sam everywhere, that infuriating, cloy scent of sweat and boy and all those little nameless, silly things that add up to the smell of his brother and tears burn in his eyes. He locks and bolts the door again behind him and makes his way through the apartment, not peeling his clothes off because he's prideful, because his hopeful heart and narcissism tells him that maybe Sam will have missed the smell of Dean too and that includes the smell of his silly leather jacket.
He opens the first door he comes to and his heart sinks when he realizes that it's empty. He takes in the messy bed, the stack of FHM and Hustler magazines, the poster for Pulp Fiction, and the Green Bay Packers t-shirt on the floor and he knows he's got the wrong room. He licks his lips in trepidation, abandoning the now worthless room and turns to face the door opposite, the one that is closed but looks important, so important, the door into Narnia or fucking Gondor or Heaven or Neverland or Sam's room and he turns the knob silently and opens the door carefully, so, so carefully.
Sam is sprawled out on his stomach in a bed that is plenty big for him, bigger than any they'd ever had growing up. He's sock-footed and wearing his jeans and a worn hoodie and his hair is stupidly long and falling over his sleep-smoothed face and Dean just. He just can't really breathe for a long moment because he's here. It's so simple, everything leading up to this moment has been so simple and yet has felt impossible up til now. He's here where Sam is and he's so close to having what he wants, what he needs, what he's been missing for nine fucking months and he makes sure to lock the door behind him again as he makes his way across the room and toward the soft sounds of Sam snoring and the rise and fall of his back. He stands beside him, useless and helpless and just watching him, memorizing the way his long fingers are clasped around his phone that is tucked to his chest like a tiny, comfortless plastic teddy bear. His bottom lip is caught ever so slightly between his teeth and his eyebrows are drawn deep and expressive in whatever dream he's caught up in.
Dean smiles, soft and vague and adoring and he crouches down until he's level with Sam and he reaches out, his fingers ghosting over his shoulder and then his arm and then his mouth before settling on a long wing of hair that is half covering Sam's face and he sweeps it back slow and gentle and tucks it behind Sam's ear. He watches those eyebrows draw even tighter, his mouth pulling into a confused frown while he slides back into consciousness. His eyes slip open lazily, a luxury given to him by civilian life, by day in and day out of monotony and normalcy and no danger and Dean savors it for him. Sam's eyes look almost brown in the grey of the room closed off from the sun thanks to some heavy blinds and he's blinking once twice three four times before he realizes what he's looking at, who he's looking at. Dean smiles at him and his fingers return with more ease now, stroking Sam's hair back from his face, thumb sliding over his eyebrow to soothe the tension out of it.
Sam sucks in a breath that seems to pull all the oxygen from the room and he sits up so fast he pauses to wait out the slight disorientation that comes from being woken from a dream to feeling like you're in yet another dream and Dean pushes up to his feet, standing over Sam who is staring up at him now, slack-jawed and eyes bright with confused, relieved tears.
"Dean?" The word is useless by all definitions, meaningless except for the weight of it, the amount of emotion he always seems to be able to pack into that single syllable and Dean knows just what he means by it every single time. This time it's 'is that really you' and 'what are you doing here' and 'I can't handle all this inside of me god please help me.' Dean reaches out again (always and again) and slides his hand over Sam's cheek, easing the edge off his features and calming him immediately.
Dean doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to charm his way to being comfortable in this situation, into being anything but the well of emotions caught in his throat and so he doesn't give Sam a dismissive 'heya, Sammy' or a 'nope, you're not still dreaming, I'm really here' or any other thing that would make Sam smile or make him relax. He doesn't want him to relax. He doesn't want the tension, this beautiful, new tension between them to burst or break or die. He wants to slip into the skin of this feeling and wear it for the rest of his life, this moment between them with their eyes locked and their chests heaving and every single unspoken word between that dusty nightmare of a day last August when Dean said goodbye and good luck and right now on a nameless Saturday in Sam's lonely room, when all of those words flow between them as easy as breathing, bringing Sam up to his feet to sway in front of Dean, to crowd in against him and Dean can hear him breathing loudly now, both of them sucking in air through their mouths and their pupils are blown and their eyes and cheeks are damp with tears and god how, how did they ever think they would survive this, would survive so many days and so many miles apart.
Sam edges closer to Dean, closer and closer until there's nowhere else to be and Dean reaches for him, fingering the fraying sleeves of Sam's hoodie and Sam is rubbing the worn leather of Dean's jacket between thumb and forefinger and their eyes are locked locked deadbolted together and their heaving chests dig together and then their foreheads and they've never done this, not ever, not ever pressed this close, not even in the deadest of nights.
"Dean," he says again and it's broken this time, it's a whisper, a fragment of something loosened inside of Sam and Dean feels the warmth of the tears that seep from Sam's eyes, feels the salt seep into his own cheek from where they're pressed, can feel one of them slide all the way down to his mouth and he can taste it, taste Sam, taste his pain and his longing and his whatever the fuck this is alive, living and breathing between their bodies now.
Dean starts edging him then, starts herding him and guiding him until Sam is up against a wall somehow, which wall Dean has no idea has never seen before but it's solid and it's something that catches Sam and gives them something to use to press even closer together, to push and push until it's painful and they can't breathe and Sam lets out a whimper that sounds hurt and the delicate bones of their ribs are bending bending together, hearts slamming trapped in their cages, so tragically close together and desperate to stay that way. Dean feels the sharp dig of Sam's hipbones, the rough unforgiving press of denim and brass buttons and he lifts his hands, slides them up until his elbows are resting on Sam's shoulders and his hands are digging into the thick wilds of Sam's dark hair and he's holding on, just fucking holding on. He feels Sam's arms come around his body, hugging him so forcefully that they both make a sound this time, a sharp release of breath that jolts them into movement and Dean slams his mouth into Sam's for the very first time, licking the taste of sleep out and loving every second of it. He feeds from Sam's mouth, drinking down his spit and giving his own to Sam in return, learning him from the inside as well as he knows the outside, his tongue mapping out the bumps of his teeth and the slick of the underside of his tongue and the ticklish hardness of the roof of his mouth. He bites at Sam's bottom lip, sucks on it, licks the tears off of Sam's cheeks for breakfast, swallows it all down, greedy, greedy. He kisses all along Sam's salty sleep soft cheeks and he can feel Sam's arms closing around him even tighter, feel his nose snuffling into his hair, his neck, his jacket and he wonders if Sam is memorizing the smell of him, if he smells like the road enough for him, if he smells like home.
He unzips Sam's hoodie slowly and kisses his way down his face and Sam is licking at his own cheeks, soft pink tongue over the rough scratch of stubble on Dean's face and Sam shoves Dean's jacket off in tandem with Dean peeling the hoodie from Sam's body, both of them in layers, always, always in layers against the world.
"Want it off, Sammy. Want it all off. Wanna feel you." His voice is gritty and wrecked like he'd gone to bed with whiskey and tears and just woken up and when Sam whimpers his heart soars, it takes off in full flight and he makes quick work of Sam's jeans, edging them down his thin hips and off and then he's working on Sam's shirt, his silly graphic tee of something clever and Dean moans when he's bare-chested, he breathes hot and hard all along Sam's chest, leaving goosebumps in his wake and he laps and sucks at one of Sam's nipples, his hands cupping and holding Sam's hips, rubbing at his hipbones with life-roughened thumbs, pulling Sam into a pretty arch off the wall and Sam is curled down and kissing at Dean's face as best as he can, mouthing at the side of Dean's nose and his temple and the jut of his jaw and Dean has never felt anything more right than this, more pure, more sure and safe.
Sam pulls and tugs and whimpers until Dean lets him tug his clothes off in return, until they're both naked and barefoot and Dean is burying his face into Sam's smooth stomach, pressing in hard, teeth nipping and biting like he's going to chew right through him, like he's going to sink right through that quivering, tender flesh and not stop until he can suck the marrow from Sam's bones. He wants it, they both want it, so stupidly desperate and painfully aware of time and reality and the inevitability of Dean leaving again. Dean opens his mouth as wide as he can, his soft swollen lips plush against Sam's skin as he sucks hard on his belly, drawing out a sharp cry from Sam's lips and a deathgrip on Dean's hair and Dean doesn't stop until he's left a perfect, deep red bruise in his wake.
He mouths at Sam's dick, as comfortable with it as he is with any part of Sam he's ever seen or known because it's Sam and Sam is his just as surely as if he'd sprung forth fully formed from Dean's brow, as if he'd been carved out of Dean's ribs. He sucks and licks until Sam is babbling and sobbing so sweetly and leaking slick all over Dean's tongue and Dean edges even further down and back and he latches onto Sam's hole, a moan rising deep and dark and starved from his chest, countering the high breathy sounds leaving Sam's mouth. Sam lifts one of his legs and presses his foot into his mattress to give Dean better access and Dean has a bruising grip on his hips and he's pressing his face up into Sam's ass, the soft skin and hair of Sam's balls rubbing over Dean's chin and he does what Dean is silently begging him to do, he rides Dean's face, he sinks down into the slurp and suck and kiss and lick of his mouth until he's shaking so badly on top of him that he's afraid he's going to collapse.
Dean knows this, always knows just what Sam needs and he lifts him up then, somehow, lifts his very long little brother up and sinks down on top of him on the bed and between his spread thighs, his fingers edging up inside of Sam's soaked, relaxed little asshole and he fucks him lazily with them as he kisses him, kisses and kisses and never ever wants to fucking stop kissing him again, not with the way it brings them together, lets them taste each other and forces them to breathe together and to feel each other's heartbeats and lets them say every single thing they've ever felt without having to find words, mediocre, stupid words that are so much less than what is happening here, now. Sam keeps petting him, adoring him, it seems, rubbing over the muscles of Dean's arms, over little snicks and scraps of scars that he knows the stories for, over Dean's long and glorious back and down between them, a wide palm and clever fingers holding onto Dean's cock and giving it much needed attention, giving it a tug and pull that has Dean shaking on top of Sam, has him gasping against his mouth and staring down into those green and brown and blue and fox eyes of his Sammy and he lines himself up and braces his knees on the bed and he pushes his way home for the first time in his life, he surrounds himself with Sam's goodness and his softness and his damp pink heat and he buries his face into Sam's neck and silently thanks him, thanks whatever gods deem him worthy of being heard, thanks all the roads that led him up to this room, thanks all of the nightmares and grit and blood and violence and pain of his life for letting him appreciate this moment to the fullest extent, letting him appreciate just how soft Sam is, how soft his skin and how slick and sweet his mouth is and how beautiful he is here under him, how full his heart is with love and how utterly perfect Sam is, flaws and all, how endless this thing is between them.
The amulet drags over Sam's chest with each thrust when Dean finally gathers himself and lifts up onto his elbows so he can watch Sam getting fucked and he knows that Sam can feel it, can feel the cold metal on his burning skin and his eyes say as much and Dean bites his own bottom lip, digging his hips in a tight circle so he can feel as much of Sam's insides as possible, feel him as deep inside as he can get.
"Yeah, Dean, yeah," Sam murmurs, the insides of his thighs pressed tight to Dean's ribs, cradling him and watching him as Dean pounds down into him, long dicking him and opening him up all around his cock, carving and carving until Sam is custom-fit only for this, for him. Sam's arms slide up around Dean's neck, pulling him in closer and slotting their mouths together again, wet and slow and in direct opposition with the fuck of Dean's hips, the relentless uh-uh-uh-uh Sam drips into his mouth, and the unmistakable, gorgeous sound of the headboard slamming against the wall. All of it is new, so new but familiar like a dream, like he's been here before, like he's dreamed about this place again and again his whole life and he's finally here, awake and here and it's so much more vivid, Sam is so much more vivid, more vital, more alive now that Dean knows what he feels like to his core, what he feels like with Sam's heart beating all around him, with his sweet insides contracting in the same rhythm.
When Sam comes he clutches at Dean, legs and arms and every muscle inside of his body holding onto him like nature made him this way, made him biologically need to grip him this tight, to keep Dean as invasive as possible for some primal reason, for something beyond both of their understanding. Dean fucks through Sam's orgasm, fucks through the suffocating tightness and the devastation of the sounds leaving Sam's mouth until Sam is boneless beneath him and smooth as silk inside, no resistance now and their eyes have found each other again, they're holding holding and Dean feels the burn all the way to his balls because Sam is watching him unravel, watching him come undone stitch by stitch and he cries out when he finally, finally comes, when he buries in as deep as their bodies will let them and his cock pumps Sam full of thick heat, creaming him all up and Sam is nearly catatonic now, he's shuddering under Dean, eyes rolled up in his head, fingers clasped at the back of Dean's sweaty neck, hanging onto him loosely.
He keeps thrusting slow, lazy, in love with the wet suck of each movement inside of Sam's body and they kiss like it's always been this way between them, like they have all the time in the world, like they're immortal or like this is the last minute left on earth and they've said and done everything else they need to do but this. His heart is racing but he feels calmer than he can ever remember, he feels drained and heavy and warm and exhausted and Sam is petting him now, easing him back to reality with kisses and licks and soft blows of cool air across his sweaty skin. They ease over onto their sides and Dean stays locked up tight inside of Sam, going soft there inside of him with big plans to sleep there, to keep Sam open and ready for him to just harden up and he's going to take him again, maybe hours later after some heavy sleep, maybe fuck Sam while he's sleeping and pliant and make him wake up coming. Dean hums in contentment and he earns a smile and a kiss to his mouth from Sam for it.
They stare into each other's eyes until Dean can't keep his open anymore, too many hours awake, too many miles until he could get to Sam and he falls asleep feeling Sam's lips on his eyebrow and feeling like he's alive for maybe the first time in his life.