Waiting | NC-17 PWP | Sam/Dean
Waiting. NC-17 PWP. Sam/Dean wincest. Carpet-burn. 2000 words. Originally prompted by wendy and continued on for jellybean_slash.
Sam collapsed on to the bed with a sigh, sitting down and rubbing his knees. Dean sat down next to him, took his gun out from the back of his jeans and pushed it under the pillow. "Seriously, Dean. Next time, we're fucking on the bed or we aren't fucking at all."
Dean snorted, said, "I still can't believe it. You were supposed to be the bait, man, not a sitting duck. Or giant, standing-there-like-an-idiot duck, whatever," he added.
"It's hard to run when your knees are peeling. I'd like to see you try it!"
"Oh, would you?" Dean asked, turning to Sam with a sly little grin. Sam rolled his eyes, stood up much too fast, and swore under his breath as the motion pulled the skin still healing on his knees. Not that it ever would heal at this rate.
"What is it about the carpet?" Sam asked. "I mean, come on. There has to be a reason. Fetish, kink, something. Even you aren't that cruel without a reason."
Dean stretched, let his legs fall apart, letting Sam see that he was hard. When he looked up at Sam, Dean licked his lips, eyes dark and glittering, and said, "Ever think that maybe, just maybe, I do it because I like seeing you on your knees?"
Sam froze at that, nearly as much as he'd done earlier, when that spirit had been running at him. He stared at Dean, then closed his mouth and tilted his head.
Despite the gottafuckhimfuckhimnowmineminemine running through Dean's head, he paused at that look. It was never a good one, especially when all he wanted to do was get inside Sam's pants. Well, Sam, really, but still. It was that look, the one that meant Sam was thinking too hard about something stupid and they'd end up having some girly chick-flick moment complete with 'talking' and 'sharing' and Dean was so not in the mood for that crap.
Needless to say, it came as a complete surprise when Sam crossed the distance separating them, stood between Dean's spread legs, and then slowly, achingly slowly, dropped to his knees without even a wince.
"You like seeing me on my knees?" he asked, and Dean couldn't really answer, not with Sam actually on his knees, resting slightly on his heels, legs spread just enough and palms resting on his thighs. That had to be hurting Sam like a bitch, and yet Sam was just, just kneeling there, like some sort of, some sort of--
Dean's brain shorted out. The noise that came out of his mouth was not his fault. Not when Sam was sitting there--no, kneeling there, waiting. Waiting for him.
When Dean hadn't said anything, Sam's eyebrows drew together, and he frowned, shifted a bit on his knees and bit back a grimace. He didn't say anything, though, and that was--
Dean was so used to hearing Sam talk. Everywhere, about anything, to anyone. The only time Sam was quiet was when he was sleeping, and not even then. He talked in his sleep, sometimes, and made noises when he dreamed, when he had his visions. Hell, even when he flopped over, like it was Dean's elbow poking up his nose, instead of the other way 'round. This silence, this stillness, was just not like Sam, and Dean was beginning to get a really, really funny feeling about this.
"Christo," he said, and Sam's lips stretched into the beginnings of a laugh before he caught it, held it back, and merely shook his head once before falling solemnly still.
Okay. Not possessed. That meant that. Oh. Fuck. Who had-- No. Dean didn't want to know. Which meant he had to say something. Do something. Fuck. Sam was not supposed to surprise Dean like this, not ever.
Dean's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then he let the smirk from before come back and spread his legs a little wider, smirk growing even more as Sam had to forcibly and obviously keep his eyes on Dean's, not let them trail downwards.
"Suck me," Dean said, and Sam licked his lips. He lifted his hands off of his thighs and then stopped, looked at Dean, eyebrow cocked. Yeah, good question, way to go, Sam. "No hands," Dean answered, breathed, somehow, and Sam leaned forward.
Sam's mouth closed around the button, and Dean had to look up at the ceiling, not think about what was happening. Except, Sam's mouth had these amazing powers to undo buttons in seconds, and then his teeth started drawing down the zipper, and it was--
"Fuck, Sam," Dean said, hands sliding into Sam's hair as his brother -- still on his knees, still quiet -- nuzzled Dean's cock through a thin layer of cotton.
As hard as it was to admit, Dean was not going to last long at this rate.
"Stop," he said, and yanked Sam's head back, hands clenching Sam's hair and pulling it tight. Sam watched him, wary but still trusting, and fuck if that wasn't hotter, somehow, Sam just kneeling there, waiting, still. Dean let go of Sam's hair, fingers absently rubbing Sam's scalp before unwinding and moving, shucking off his jeans and boxers entirely.
There was no missing it now, the way Sam's eyes dropped to Dean's cock, hard and aching, and Dean saw Sam's hands press into his thighs, fingertips turning white with the pressure. It hit Dean, in that moment, just how much this cost Sam, how hard this was for him, and fuck, if that didn't want to make him come right then and there, all over his brother's face, hair, lips.
He swallowed, met Sam's eyes, and said it again, softer this time but still as much a command.
"Suck me."
For a moment it seemed like Sam wouldn't do it, wouldn't move, but then he leaned forward again, stretching out that long, long neck, and licked a stripe up one side of Dean's cock and down the other. Dean tangled one hand in the motel bedspread, clenching hard, and gripped strands of Sam's hair with the other. A too-faint whisper of pressure, and Dean growled, yanking on Sam's hair.
"I said suck," he said, low and soft, and Sam looked at him, pupils dilated, lips already red and swollen. With another tug, Dean relaxed his grip on Sam's hair, and let Sam move. This time, his brother opened his mouth and sucked Dean in, teeth gently scraping, tongue tracing out patterns.
A moan escaped Dean's lips, and he arched his back, his hips, pressing deeper into the wet heat of Sam's mouth. Normally, Sam would back off a little, slow down, but this time he didn't move, just opened his mouth wider, relaxed his throat, and took Dean in as far as Dean's thrusts pushed.
It was-- fuck, Dean had never seen his brother like this, so submissive, so willing to take and take and take, and Dean couldn't stop as his hips moved almost without him realising it. Sam wasn't sucking him, blowing him, going down on him. Sam was kneeling there, letting Dean fuck his mouth. And fuck if it wasn't the hottest thing Dean had ever seen. Ever done.
Dean moved, hips pushing his cock deeper and deeper into Sam's throat with every thrust, until he had to be choking Sam, had to be practically killing him. And Sam knelt there, taking it. Fuck. Just knelt there, eyes open just enough for Dean to see how dark the green in them could get, how wide Sam's pupils could get, how brilliantly blinding the whites of Sam's eyes could get.
Faint tear-tracks stretched from the corners of Sam's eyes down his cheeks, but Sam's cock was a hard line under his jeans, his hands were digging into his thighs in an effort not to move, to sit there. It was good, it was so far beyond good, and Dean was close, speeding up, couldn't stop. But--
He pulled out of Sam's mouth with a groan, and Sam licked his lips, and that was enough. With a strangled cry, biting his lower lip until blood filled his mouth, Dean came, and covered Sam's face, lips, hair. Sam closed his eyes, licked what he could, and sat there. Knelt there. Fucking waited.
When Dean finally caught his breath, he reached forward, wiped a smear of his come off of Sam's cheekbones -- off of his brother's face -- and held the finger in front of Sam's lips, just barely touching. Sam held his gaze, then opened his mouth, and Dean pressed his finger in, watching as Sam closed his eyes, swirled his tongue, licked Dean's finger clean.
It was quiet, fuck, it was quiet; all Dean could hear was his own ragged breathing and the quiet sound of tongue-on-skin, the catch of Sam's nails on his jeans, the sound of traffic outside.
"Sam," Dean said, and Sam opened his eyes instantly, focused them on Dean. It was--seeing Sam like that, focused, concentrating, but with Dean's come drying on his eyelashes, in his hair, mineminemine, it was unreal. Abso-fucking-lutely unreal.
"Sam, you," Dean said, and then he stopped, because he didn't know, at all, how to finish that sentence. If it even was a sentence. It sounded more like a prayer, like reverence. Worship. "You," he said, and Sam shook his head, smiled, cast his eyes down to the floor.
Okay, no, fuck that. Fuck that. Dean reached down, grabbed Sam's dick through the jeans and rubbed. "Do you have any idea how insanely fucking hot you are?" Dean asked, stroking Sam, watching as Sam tried not to move, not to react, muscles all over his body tensing and relaxing over and over again. "Covered in my fucking come, Sam. And you liked it, didn't you? You wanted it. Didn't you? Didn't you?" he asked, roughly, and he felt Sam shudder, a full-body shiver that preceded the smell of Sam's orgasm, the growing spot on Sam's jeans.
Dean sat back up, straight, legs still obscenely spread wide as he looked at Sam. Sam, who was still kneeling on the floor, not moving, despite everything, still looking up at Dean, waiting. For what, Dean had no clue, it was like some kind of test, but fuck if he knew what the question was. They'd dug up a grave, trapped a spirit, burned the body, and filled the grave back up, finishing up not even an hour ago, and Sam had let him fuck Sam's mouth, and Dean was supposed to be able to think? No fucking way.
Rolling his eyes, Dean scrambled back on the bed, pulling the covers down and getting rid of his shirt, socks before sliding under the sheet. "Get those clothes off and get in the fucking bed, Sam," he said, not a command, too tired for that, and he closed his eyes and listened. It took a few seconds for Sam to move, but soon Dean could hear him stripping, wiping off, kicking jeans and shirts away, and then Sam crawled into bed, pulled the covers up around his waist, and curled into Dean.
It was almost automatic, putting an arm around Sam, pulling him closer, and Sam sighed, nuzzled Dean's skin.
"We're going to talk about this," Dean said, and after a yawn, added, "Tomorrow."
Sam snorted, muttered something about chick-flick moments, and Dean didn't have it in him to argue back. Because, really? He needed to find out just who had-- who Sam had been doing this with before, find whoever it was and thank them. Thank them, and then fucking kill them.
"Possessive, much?" Sam asked, and Dean realised he must have said that last part out loud. Well, all right. Nothing to do but own up to it.
"Damn fucking right I am."
Sam collapsed on to the bed with a sigh, sitting down and rubbing his knees. Dean sat down next to him, took his gun out from the back of his jeans and pushed it under the pillow. "Seriously, Dean. Next time, we're fucking on the bed or we aren't fucking at all."
Dean snorted, said, "I still can't believe it. You were supposed to be the bait, man, not a sitting duck. Or giant, standing-there-like-an-idiot duck, whatever," he added.
"It's hard to run when your knees are peeling. I'd like to see you try it!"
"Oh, would you?" Dean asked, turning to Sam with a sly little grin. Sam rolled his eyes, stood up much too fast, and swore under his breath as the motion pulled the skin still healing on his knees. Not that it ever would heal at this rate.
"What is it about the carpet?" Sam asked. "I mean, come on. There has to be a reason. Fetish, kink, something. Even you aren't that cruel without a reason."
Dean stretched, let his legs fall apart, letting Sam see that he was hard. When he looked up at Sam, Dean licked his lips, eyes dark and glittering, and said, "Ever think that maybe, just maybe, I do it because I like seeing you on your knees?"
Sam froze at that, nearly as much as he'd done earlier, when that spirit had been running at him. He stared at Dean, then closed his mouth and tilted his head.
Despite the gottafuckhimfuckhimnowmineminemine running through Dean's head, he paused at that look. It was never a good one, especially when all he wanted to do was get inside Sam's pants. Well, Sam, really, but still. It was that look, the one that meant Sam was thinking too hard about something stupid and they'd end up having some girly chick-flick moment complete with 'talking' and 'sharing' and Dean was so not in the mood for that crap.
Needless to say, it came as a complete surprise when Sam crossed the distance separating them, stood between Dean's spread legs, and then slowly, achingly slowly, dropped to his knees without even a wince.
"You like seeing me on my knees?" he asked, and Dean couldn't really answer, not with Sam actually on his knees, resting slightly on his heels, legs spread just enough and palms resting on his thighs. That had to be hurting Sam like a bitch, and yet Sam was just, just kneeling there, like some sort of, some sort of--
Dean's brain shorted out. The noise that came out of his mouth was not his fault. Not when Sam was sitting there--no, kneeling there, waiting. Waiting for him.
When Dean hadn't said anything, Sam's eyebrows drew together, and he frowned, shifted a bit on his knees and bit back a grimace. He didn't say anything, though, and that was--
Dean was so used to hearing Sam talk. Everywhere, about anything, to anyone. The only time Sam was quiet was when he was sleeping, and not even then. He talked in his sleep, sometimes, and made noises when he dreamed, when he had his visions. Hell, even when he flopped over, like it was Dean's elbow poking up his nose, instead of the other way 'round. This silence, this stillness, was just not like Sam, and Dean was beginning to get a really, really funny feeling about this.
"Christo," he said, and Sam's lips stretched into the beginnings of a laugh before he caught it, held it back, and merely shook his head once before falling solemnly still.
Okay. Not possessed. That meant that. Oh. Fuck. Who had-- No. Dean didn't want to know. Which meant he had to say something. Do something. Fuck. Sam was not supposed to surprise Dean like this, not ever.
Dean's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then he let the smirk from before come back and spread his legs a little wider, smirk growing even more as Sam had to forcibly and obviously keep his eyes on Dean's, not let them trail downwards.
"Suck me," Dean said, and Sam licked his lips. He lifted his hands off of his thighs and then stopped, looked at Dean, eyebrow cocked. Yeah, good question, way to go, Sam. "No hands," Dean answered, breathed, somehow, and Sam leaned forward.
Sam's mouth closed around the button, and Dean had to look up at the ceiling, not think about what was happening. Except, Sam's mouth had these amazing powers to undo buttons in seconds, and then his teeth started drawing down the zipper, and it was--
"Fuck, Sam," Dean said, hands sliding into Sam's hair as his brother -- still on his knees, still quiet -- nuzzled Dean's cock through a thin layer of cotton.
As hard as it was to admit, Dean was not going to last long at this rate.
"Stop," he said, and yanked Sam's head back, hands clenching Sam's hair and pulling it tight. Sam watched him, wary but still trusting, and fuck if that wasn't hotter, somehow, Sam just kneeling there, waiting, still. Dean let go of Sam's hair, fingers absently rubbing Sam's scalp before unwinding and moving, shucking off his jeans and boxers entirely.
There was no missing it now, the way Sam's eyes dropped to Dean's cock, hard and aching, and Dean saw Sam's hands press into his thighs, fingertips turning white with the pressure. It hit Dean, in that moment, just how much this cost Sam, how hard this was for him, and fuck, if that didn't want to make him come right then and there, all over his brother's face, hair, lips.
He swallowed, met Sam's eyes, and said it again, softer this time but still as much a command.
"Suck me."
For a moment it seemed like Sam wouldn't do it, wouldn't move, but then he leaned forward again, stretching out that long, long neck, and licked a stripe up one side of Dean's cock and down the other. Dean tangled one hand in the motel bedspread, clenching hard, and gripped strands of Sam's hair with the other. A too-faint whisper of pressure, and Dean growled, yanking on Sam's hair.
"I said suck," he said, low and soft, and Sam looked at him, pupils dilated, lips already red and swollen. With another tug, Dean relaxed his grip on Sam's hair, and let Sam move. This time, his brother opened his mouth and sucked Dean in, teeth gently scraping, tongue tracing out patterns.
A moan escaped Dean's lips, and he arched his back, his hips, pressing deeper into the wet heat of Sam's mouth. Normally, Sam would back off a little, slow down, but this time he didn't move, just opened his mouth wider, relaxed his throat, and took Dean in as far as Dean's thrusts pushed.
It was-- fuck, Dean had never seen his brother like this, so submissive, so willing to take and take and take, and Dean couldn't stop as his hips moved almost without him realising it. Sam wasn't sucking him, blowing him, going down on him. Sam was kneeling there, letting Dean fuck his mouth. And fuck if it wasn't the hottest thing Dean had ever seen. Ever done.
Dean moved, hips pushing his cock deeper and deeper into Sam's throat with every thrust, until he had to be choking Sam, had to be practically killing him. And Sam knelt there, taking it. Fuck. Just knelt there, eyes open just enough for Dean to see how dark the green in them could get, how wide Sam's pupils could get, how brilliantly blinding the whites of Sam's eyes could get.
Faint tear-tracks stretched from the corners of Sam's eyes down his cheeks, but Sam's cock was a hard line under his jeans, his hands were digging into his thighs in an effort not to move, to sit there. It was good, it was so far beyond good, and Dean was close, speeding up, couldn't stop. But--
He pulled out of Sam's mouth with a groan, and Sam licked his lips, and that was enough. With a strangled cry, biting his lower lip until blood filled his mouth, Dean came, and covered Sam's face, lips, hair. Sam closed his eyes, licked what he could, and sat there. Knelt there. Fucking waited.
When Dean finally caught his breath, he reached forward, wiped a smear of his come off of Sam's cheekbones -- off of his brother's face -- and held the finger in front of Sam's lips, just barely touching. Sam held his gaze, then opened his mouth, and Dean pressed his finger in, watching as Sam closed his eyes, swirled his tongue, licked Dean's finger clean.
It was quiet, fuck, it was quiet; all Dean could hear was his own ragged breathing and the quiet sound of tongue-on-skin, the catch of Sam's nails on his jeans, the sound of traffic outside.
"Sam," Dean said, and Sam opened his eyes instantly, focused them on Dean. It was--seeing Sam like that, focused, concentrating, but with Dean's come drying on his eyelashes, in his hair, mineminemine, it was unreal. Abso-fucking-lutely unreal.
"Sam, you," Dean said, and then he stopped, because he didn't know, at all, how to finish that sentence. If it even was a sentence. It sounded more like a prayer, like reverence. Worship. "You," he said, and Sam shook his head, smiled, cast his eyes down to the floor.
Okay, no, fuck that. Fuck that. Dean reached down, grabbed Sam's dick through the jeans and rubbed. "Do you have any idea how insanely fucking hot you are?" Dean asked, stroking Sam, watching as Sam tried not to move, not to react, muscles all over his body tensing and relaxing over and over again. "Covered in my fucking come, Sam. And you liked it, didn't you? You wanted it. Didn't you? Didn't you?" he asked, roughly, and he felt Sam shudder, a full-body shiver that preceded the smell of Sam's orgasm, the growing spot on Sam's jeans.
Dean sat back up, straight, legs still obscenely spread wide as he looked at Sam. Sam, who was still kneeling on the floor, not moving, despite everything, still looking up at Dean, waiting. For what, Dean had no clue, it was like some kind of test, but fuck if he knew what the question was. They'd dug up a grave, trapped a spirit, burned the body, and filled the grave back up, finishing up not even an hour ago, and Sam had let him fuck Sam's mouth, and Dean was supposed to be able to think? No fucking way.
Rolling his eyes, Dean scrambled back on the bed, pulling the covers down and getting rid of his shirt, socks before sliding under the sheet. "Get those clothes off and get in the fucking bed, Sam," he said, not a command, too tired for that, and he closed his eyes and listened. It took a few seconds for Sam to move, but soon Dean could hear him stripping, wiping off, kicking jeans and shirts away, and then Sam crawled into bed, pulled the covers up around his waist, and curled into Dean.
It was almost automatic, putting an arm around Sam, pulling him closer, and Sam sighed, nuzzled Dean's skin.
"We're going to talk about this," Dean said, and after a yawn, added, "Tomorrow."
Sam snorted, muttered something about chick-flick moments, and Dean didn't have it in him to argue back. Because, really? He needed to find out just who had-- who Sam had been doing this with before, find whoever it was and thank them. Thank them, and then fucking kill them.
"Possessive, much?" Sam asked, and Dean realised he must have said that last part out loud. Well, all right. Nothing to do but own up to it.
"Damn fucking right I am."