Fic: Dwells the Wondrous, Sam/Dean, SPN
Title: Dwells the Wondrous
Author:: stripytights
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Wordcount: 3200
Notes: written for the prompt "all the horses". Thanks so much to the mods for running this! Unfortunately, this is not nearly as porny as it should've been, but I ran out of time.
Summary: Bobby recommends a magical herb that helps guide people through making tough decisions. Unfortunately the problem being solved is not one that Sam and Dean anticipated.
Also on AO3 here
It's Bobby's idea - most of the good ones are, and some of the bad ones. Says he's had some trips himself, and you never know what information you can pick up along the way. They're pretty desperate at this point and if there's even a chance that it'll yield an advantage, yield even the littlest shred of edge then it's worth the risk. At least that's what Sam says, and he's the one taking it. He'd insisted and though Dean isn't exactly thrilled with the idea, he acknowledges the sense of it. If anyone was going to pick up on some hippy bullshit vibrations, and get a heads up from the universe about what to do, it was going to be Sam and not Dean.
Sam's opening the packet now and tipping out the piece of greenery into his hand. It looks more like bark than a herb or root, tough and fibrous looking, and although after the African dream root business Dean's learnt to respect an unassuming plant, this whole thing still has a distinct whiff of woo to it. Sam's looking at it with a tinge of hesitation and Bobby had been pretty clear about the mood needed to run with the herb, that you got out what you put in and that any reluctance to engage fully was going to result in getting nothing. As Sam can't be both hesitant and irritatedly demonstrating his committment, Dean takes on that task for him, and he knows Sam well enough that exactly one question does the trick.
"So it's like peyote yeah? Like Mother Nature is going to come down and give you a handjob and a free can of soda as well as some life pointers?"
Sam gives him a look that says he knows Dean is messing with him but he still can't resist the bait. "It's nothing like that Dean, you heard Bobby. It taps you into things you miss, might give us some answers. It's not a drug."
"You college kid you," Dean says. "Drugs everywhere." He gets exactly the eye roll he expected, but it's also worked - Sam's already popping it into his mouth and chewing grimly with a queasy look on his face for thirty seconds before he takes it out and throws the remainder in the trash.
Dean can almost visibly see the change, a faster hit than he'd thought would happen, drug or not drug. Sam's sweating a little bit, thin layer of perspiration shining almost instantly, and he's staring at the wall like he's been knocked for six. Dean feels a surge of unease and wishes he'd thought to ask Bobby about a way to snap out of the experience, even though Bobby had sworn up and down that he'd never had a bad experience on this, just useless ones if they didn't help. He feels the cell in his pocket and fingers it, considering ringing Bobby out in the hallway so Sam didn't get worried,
"Hey," he said, fishing in his pockets for change. "I'm going to go to the vending machines for a couple of sodas. "You good for a minute?"
"Don't leave," Sam says, and there's a cracked note in his voice that runs raw along Dean's nerves, a sharp tingle he feels at the base of his neck, and he's stepping forward automatically like Sam has him on a string, leash of words looped around his neck. There's a flush of colour in Sam's face and he's not looking at Dean as though if he doesn't meet his eyes he'll be able to pretend he didn't say it. Dean's storing those words up though, somewhere inside himself where he doesn't dare look.
"Yeah, wild horses not getting me out of this room Sammy," Dean says, and it's true even though he wishes it wasn't. Sam's dazed looking now, eyes wide and dark, pupil swallowing up the colour. He looks like he's on the good kind of actual drugs, blinking slow, mouth a little open, and when Dean touches him, brushes his stupid hair away from his face where a sweaty lock of it has stuck itself to his face, he shivers, tiniest ripple across his body that Dean wouldn't even see if he wasn't watching so close. It makes something hot and uncomfortable curl in his stomach, something that has teeth and claws that hook at the end, the kind of damage Dean's intimately familiar with having in his guts. It's not the first time it's stretched out and turned over, or even the most inconvenient, and if Dean needed a better reason to hate himself every day of his life, it sits right there in his belly, a stone of a secret wedged somewhere between his kidneys and his sense of shame.
"Stupid saying," Sam says, and if Dean closed his eyes it'd be like this wasn't happening. There's nothing wavering about Sam's voice, it's strong and steady, a complete contrast to the look on his face, like he's seeing something right behind Dean, like he's looking through him at something that he wants. "Wild horses have better things to do probably." The smile on his mouth is tiny, nothing but a twitch of the lip, and Dean can't stop staring at it. He feels as high and floaty as if he's the one on a magical trip right now, spaced out and stupid. He peels his gaze away, looks at the bed where Sam's fingers are folding and unfolding the same pinch of cloth.
"How you feeling?" he says and his voice sounds strange in his own ears, too loud.
"Good," Sam says and it's kind of a whisper. "You?"
"Yeah," he tries for a laugh himself. "You sure you can't get a second hand high off this stuff?"
"Pretty sure," Sam says, and there's a wash of amusement tinting his voice now. "It's not a high and you didn't eat it."
It's a secret that he'll carry to his grave and then inevitably from grave back to life, along with the knapsack full of a ton more that Dean relaxes on hearing that. This isn't demon blood, Sam's doing this for them both, for a good reason, but the admission still makes him untense a little. "What a waste," he says instead. "Bullshit that you don't even get a free high if you're going to be fucking with the spirit world."
Sam is smiling properly now, lines smoothed out on his face, and even though he says it's not a high, it's clearly doing something because he looks happy. Like he's forgotten why he shouldn't be. "Sit down," he says and shifts over. "My neck is killing me looking up at you."
"Sauce for a goose, and sauce for a gander," Dean tells him, but sits down next to him, feels the unnatural warmth of Sam just a half inch away, stares at the sliver of space between their knees. "What you seeing?"
"Can't describe it," Sam says. "Like, everything. Everything's so clear, I can kind of look through it, and I'm here but also in like ten other places, and you're there as well. It's like everything's folded up together and rearranged but with different pieces. It should be terrible, but it isn't. Memories and thoughts jumbled together, and I don't think some of this stuff is real, a lot of it isn't mine. It's just layers upon layers, and it makes sense but only if you don't look at it too hard. Kind of like a dream I guess"
Dean doesn't remember the last time he dreamt, but he nods anyway, and Sam keeps talking, and finishes about half of his sentences with something completely different than he began with, like he kept losing his train of thought.
"Dean," Sam says and Dean almost doesn't hear it it's so quiet. He's looking at Dean again with that look, that wanting look that Dean can't place because it can't be for him. And when Sam kisses him, pulls him in with a fever hot hand on the back of his neck, rubs his fingers across the stubble on Dean's cheek, kisses him closed mouthed and chaste, puffs air against his mouth as he exhales, that's all he can think of for a second. That Sam's off in some dream world of his own, with someone who isn't Dean. Like maybe Sam's kissing Jess, thinks that he's back in college on a fucked up acid trip. Then Sam's got him by the knee, fingers closing over the patella, like he can hear inside Dean's head, and Dean's not even sure he can't. "I know it's you," Sam says, and Dean closes his eyes, because that makes it worse. Sam could've had an excuse, but he's destroying the path behind him with careful measured blows. Leaving them both stranded out here so far away from normal that Dean can't even begin to fix this, to put the dirty contents of his chest back where they belonged inside him and silent.
"Don't," he says and it's exactly as unconvincing as he knew it would be, even got out through the nausea roiling around inside him. "Don't do this to yourself." Because they can survive wanting this, Dean's lived most of his adult life scraping by like that, but Sam's going to come down from his weird semi high and he's going to realise how wrong this is, how fucked it is, going to regret stepping over the barrier and he's going to leave, and the thought is worse than anything, tears at him. Half a loaf and no loaf, and Dean is a pragmatist, a man will starve to death without bread and Dean's already tried living without Sam.
"Not doing anything," Sam says. "I'm stopping if anything. Stopping pretending anymore. You know what I'm seeing? You, everywhere. At the end of every path. I can't look for anything else, none of it made sense until I realized that I was being told the answer to a different question than the one I asked."
There's no way Dean can justify any of this and he can't even begin to try. The right thing to do would be to say no again. To let Sam come back down and add it to the pile of things they never ever talk about. But if they do that, then he doesn't get this. That door closes forever, Dean is as certain of that as he is of anything, and Dean's too selfish, too greedy and too tired to let that happen. He doesn't bother saying anything, there's nothing to say that Sam can't see. Dean can't apologise for this. and he's not going to try. He can still feel Sam on his mouth, dry bruise of a kiss like he's been imprinted, feel the weight of Sam's gaze on his skin, the heaviness and warmth of his hand on his knee. Reaches in to kiss Sam properly. He can feel the quick intake of breath and the way Sam opens to him so smoothly that Dean can barely believe how easy it is, how the mess in his head can translate to Sam kissing him back like this. Sam kisses like he does everything else, full focus, full intent, pushes back against Dean, takes control when he wants it and yields when he doesn't.
Dean can feel his bones shaking, a low constant shiver inside him as he slicks his tongue over Sam's, touches him with freedom, watches Sam move into his touch. He's starved for it, insatiable now that he has it, feels like there's a chasm inside him that only Sam is big enough to fill. Sam pulls him down on top of him, hips aligned, hard and hot through his jeans, grinds upwards, pulls Dean's hips down against him, a fragment of sex, a discarded page of a book, the weirdest barely sex Dean's ever had and he can't imagine anything more, rubs against Sam, tastes the remainder of the herb in his mouth, a sweet green taste that sharpens the edge of his vision just a little. He's on edge from it, not enough friction, surrounded by the smell of Sam, the reality of him, a surfeit with too many choices. Vaguely he can hear his cell ringing, ignores it, until Sam's rings as well - Bobby wanting details, and if he's ringing both their phones he's anxious. Reluctantly he stops, and pulls himself away, scrabbles for the cell and tosses it to Sam. Watches Sam, mussed and flushed, eyes still fixed on Dean, like he's afraid Dean will leave if he looks away for a second. He's visibly, clearly hard, thick and full in his jeans, and Dean looks at him, can hardly process it, can't reconcile it in his head.
He takes a second to slip into the bathroom, stares at himself in the mirror, doesn't know what he's looking for, whether he expects this to be written on his face, listens to Sam talk to Bobby in the background, a faded blur of voices. Before he can hesitate, let all of the reasons they shouldn't do this overwhelm him, he pulls off his t-shirt, unsurprised to see Sam pad through the door as well, barefoot now, fingers working at his belt, they've always been in sync in the important things. As Sam takes off his shirt, Dean tackles his socks, and desperately wishes that he was drunk for this. It's too real to stand there, to see Sam watching Dean watch him, to get naked with intent. When they touch this time though it's skin against skin, and Dean can feel the moment when they both realize it's happening. Sam is kissing messier now, bites down as he pants, a hand around Dean's arm like he's afraid he'll go. Dean can't stop touching him, running his hands down the solid strength of Sam's body, mapping out what makes him tick, what makes him tremble and move against Dean like he can't help it. Between the bathroom and the bed they lose the pants, and Dean's seen a dick before, touched one before, one that wasn't his own even, but this is different. It's attached to Sam.
Dean's aching already and Sam looks to be in the same way, bulge almost painful looking now, and Dean slips his hand around the length, glides his hand along, watches Sam's eyes close and his hips jerk forward into Dean's hand. There's a spreading wet patch on the fabric and Dean can hear the hitch in Sam's gasps as he pushes forward into Dean's grip, rocks against him, says things that neither of them would ever say in the light of day, and Dean kisses him in lieu of replies, bites the strong line of his neck, scrapes his nails across the dip in Sam's back where Dean knew without thinking about it that Sam would be sensitive, watches the flush that had faded after the herb wore off, return with a vengeance now.
Sam's out of it, near the edge, slick with precome, hips following the pattern that Dean's set, Dean can tell, and it's too soon, he hasn't had enough. When he stops, Sam lets out a choked sound of frustration and Dean almost feels bad, right up until he's doing the near impossible and letting Sam fuck his mouth or at least as close to that as Dean can get with his first time. It's more a shallow rocking really, and Dean swallows around Sam's cock as much as he can, takes the rest in hand, licks the precome away, chases the remainder of it, gets Sam's legs spread around him and holds him down so he doesn't choke. Seeing Sam like this, clenched tight against the pleasure is a punch to the solar plexus, Dean's barely able to handle it, can feel himself twitch in response in his underwear, works Sam through the last of it, feeling the air catch in his throat when Sam threads his fingers through Dean's hair during the final moments. Swallow or spit is not much of a choice, but on the principle that you should handle what you give out, he swallows.
The kissing afterwards should probably gross him out, but Sam does it like it's the seal on the evening, curls his fingers around Dean's cock in reciprocation as he kisses Dean. Goes down with no ceremony at all, and the thing is that Dean's had more sex than he can really remember and he's enjoyed most of it, but this feels like none of it. A hand is a hand, and a mouth is a mouth, but Sam on the other side of that was something completely different. When Sam sucks him off, slicks up one finger with spit and wriggles it inside, licks over his balls, throws everything but the kitchen sink in, Dean can barely remember his own name, can't control himself at all. Sam wants him, that's what it feels like, will go to his knees if it's what Dean wants. He can taste Sam in the back of his mouth still, throat still feels like it's stuffed full of him, and he can hear Sam now, wet sound of his mouth as he swallows around Dean, holding him down until Dean can't hold off another moment and has to come. Watches Sam through every moment of it.
There's nothing new afterwards about the way he looks at Sam. He's been looking his whole life and calling it something else. It's just different because now he can see Sam looking back.
Author:: stripytights
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Wordcount: 3200
Notes: written for the prompt "all the horses". Thanks so much to the mods for running this! Unfortunately, this is not nearly as porny as it should've been, but I ran out of time.
Summary: Bobby recommends a magical herb that helps guide people through making tough decisions. Unfortunately the problem being solved is not one that Sam and Dean anticipated.
Also on AO3 here
It's Bobby's idea - most of the good ones are, and some of the bad ones. Says he's had some trips himself, and you never know what information you can pick up along the way. They're pretty desperate at this point and if there's even a chance that it'll yield an advantage, yield even the littlest shred of edge then it's worth the risk. At least that's what Sam says, and he's the one taking it. He'd insisted and though Dean isn't exactly thrilled with the idea, he acknowledges the sense of it. If anyone was going to pick up on some hippy bullshit vibrations, and get a heads up from the universe about what to do, it was going to be Sam and not Dean.
Sam's opening the packet now and tipping out the piece of greenery into his hand. It looks more like bark than a herb or root, tough and fibrous looking, and although after the African dream root business Dean's learnt to respect an unassuming plant, this whole thing still has a distinct whiff of woo to it. Sam's looking at it with a tinge of hesitation and Bobby had been pretty clear about the mood needed to run with the herb, that you got out what you put in and that any reluctance to engage fully was going to result in getting nothing. As Sam can't be both hesitant and irritatedly demonstrating his committment, Dean takes on that task for him, and he knows Sam well enough that exactly one question does the trick.
"So it's like peyote yeah? Like Mother Nature is going to come down and give you a handjob and a free can of soda as well as some life pointers?"
Sam gives him a look that says he knows Dean is messing with him but he still can't resist the bait. "It's nothing like that Dean, you heard Bobby. It taps you into things you miss, might give us some answers. It's not a drug."
"You college kid you," Dean says. "Drugs everywhere." He gets exactly the eye roll he expected, but it's also worked - Sam's already popping it into his mouth and chewing grimly with a queasy look on his face for thirty seconds before he takes it out and throws the remainder in the trash.
Dean can almost visibly see the change, a faster hit than he'd thought would happen, drug or not drug. Sam's sweating a little bit, thin layer of perspiration shining almost instantly, and he's staring at the wall like he's been knocked for six. Dean feels a surge of unease and wishes he'd thought to ask Bobby about a way to snap out of the experience, even though Bobby had sworn up and down that he'd never had a bad experience on this, just useless ones if they didn't help. He feels the cell in his pocket and fingers it, considering ringing Bobby out in the hallway so Sam didn't get worried,
"Hey," he said, fishing in his pockets for change. "I'm going to go to the vending machines for a couple of sodas. "You good for a minute?"
"Don't leave," Sam says, and there's a cracked note in his voice that runs raw along Dean's nerves, a sharp tingle he feels at the base of his neck, and he's stepping forward automatically like Sam has him on a string, leash of words looped around his neck. There's a flush of colour in Sam's face and he's not looking at Dean as though if he doesn't meet his eyes he'll be able to pretend he didn't say it. Dean's storing those words up though, somewhere inside himself where he doesn't dare look.
"Yeah, wild horses not getting me out of this room Sammy," Dean says, and it's true even though he wishes it wasn't. Sam's dazed looking now, eyes wide and dark, pupil swallowing up the colour. He looks like he's on the good kind of actual drugs, blinking slow, mouth a little open, and when Dean touches him, brushes his stupid hair away from his face where a sweaty lock of it has stuck itself to his face, he shivers, tiniest ripple across his body that Dean wouldn't even see if he wasn't watching so close. It makes something hot and uncomfortable curl in his stomach, something that has teeth and claws that hook at the end, the kind of damage Dean's intimately familiar with having in his guts. It's not the first time it's stretched out and turned over, or even the most inconvenient, and if Dean needed a better reason to hate himself every day of his life, it sits right there in his belly, a stone of a secret wedged somewhere between his kidneys and his sense of shame.
"Stupid saying," Sam says, and if Dean closed his eyes it'd be like this wasn't happening. There's nothing wavering about Sam's voice, it's strong and steady, a complete contrast to the look on his face, like he's seeing something right behind Dean, like he's looking through him at something that he wants. "Wild horses have better things to do probably." The smile on his mouth is tiny, nothing but a twitch of the lip, and Dean can't stop staring at it. He feels as high and floaty as if he's the one on a magical trip right now, spaced out and stupid. He peels his gaze away, looks at the bed where Sam's fingers are folding and unfolding the same pinch of cloth.
"How you feeling?" he says and his voice sounds strange in his own ears, too loud.
"Good," Sam says and it's kind of a whisper. "You?"
"Yeah," he tries for a laugh himself. "You sure you can't get a second hand high off this stuff?"
"Pretty sure," Sam says, and there's a wash of amusement tinting his voice now. "It's not a high and you didn't eat it."
It's a secret that he'll carry to his grave and then inevitably from grave back to life, along with the knapsack full of a ton more that Dean relaxes on hearing that. This isn't demon blood, Sam's doing this for them both, for a good reason, but the admission still makes him untense a little. "What a waste," he says instead. "Bullshit that you don't even get a free high if you're going to be fucking with the spirit world."
Sam is smiling properly now, lines smoothed out on his face, and even though he says it's not a high, it's clearly doing something because he looks happy. Like he's forgotten why he shouldn't be. "Sit down," he says and shifts over. "My neck is killing me looking up at you."
"Sauce for a goose, and sauce for a gander," Dean tells him, but sits down next to him, feels the unnatural warmth of Sam just a half inch away, stares at the sliver of space between their knees. "What you seeing?"
"Can't describe it," Sam says. "Like, everything. Everything's so clear, I can kind of look through it, and I'm here but also in like ten other places, and you're there as well. It's like everything's folded up together and rearranged but with different pieces. It should be terrible, but it isn't. Memories and thoughts jumbled together, and I don't think some of this stuff is real, a lot of it isn't mine. It's just layers upon layers, and it makes sense but only if you don't look at it too hard. Kind of like a dream I guess"
Dean doesn't remember the last time he dreamt, but he nods anyway, and Sam keeps talking, and finishes about half of his sentences with something completely different than he began with, like he kept losing his train of thought.
"Dean," Sam says and Dean almost doesn't hear it it's so quiet. He's looking at Dean again with that look, that wanting look that Dean can't place because it can't be for him. And when Sam kisses him, pulls him in with a fever hot hand on the back of his neck, rubs his fingers across the stubble on Dean's cheek, kisses him closed mouthed and chaste, puffs air against his mouth as he exhales, that's all he can think of for a second. That Sam's off in some dream world of his own, with someone who isn't Dean. Like maybe Sam's kissing Jess, thinks that he's back in college on a fucked up acid trip. Then Sam's got him by the knee, fingers closing over the patella, like he can hear inside Dean's head, and Dean's not even sure he can't. "I know it's you," Sam says, and Dean closes his eyes, because that makes it worse. Sam could've had an excuse, but he's destroying the path behind him with careful measured blows. Leaving them both stranded out here so far away from normal that Dean can't even begin to fix this, to put the dirty contents of his chest back where they belonged inside him and silent.
"Don't," he says and it's exactly as unconvincing as he knew it would be, even got out through the nausea roiling around inside him. "Don't do this to yourself." Because they can survive wanting this, Dean's lived most of his adult life scraping by like that, but Sam's going to come down from his weird semi high and he's going to realise how wrong this is, how fucked it is, going to regret stepping over the barrier and he's going to leave, and the thought is worse than anything, tears at him. Half a loaf and no loaf, and Dean is a pragmatist, a man will starve to death without bread and Dean's already tried living without Sam.
"Not doing anything," Sam says. "I'm stopping if anything. Stopping pretending anymore. You know what I'm seeing? You, everywhere. At the end of every path. I can't look for anything else, none of it made sense until I realized that I was being told the answer to a different question than the one I asked."
There's no way Dean can justify any of this and he can't even begin to try. The right thing to do would be to say no again. To let Sam come back down and add it to the pile of things they never ever talk about. But if they do that, then he doesn't get this. That door closes forever, Dean is as certain of that as he is of anything, and Dean's too selfish, too greedy and too tired to let that happen. He doesn't bother saying anything, there's nothing to say that Sam can't see. Dean can't apologise for this. and he's not going to try. He can still feel Sam on his mouth, dry bruise of a kiss like he's been imprinted, feel the weight of Sam's gaze on his skin, the heaviness and warmth of his hand on his knee. Reaches in to kiss Sam properly. He can feel the quick intake of breath and the way Sam opens to him so smoothly that Dean can barely believe how easy it is, how the mess in his head can translate to Sam kissing him back like this. Sam kisses like he does everything else, full focus, full intent, pushes back against Dean, takes control when he wants it and yields when he doesn't.
Dean can feel his bones shaking, a low constant shiver inside him as he slicks his tongue over Sam's, touches him with freedom, watches Sam move into his touch. He's starved for it, insatiable now that he has it, feels like there's a chasm inside him that only Sam is big enough to fill. Sam pulls him down on top of him, hips aligned, hard and hot through his jeans, grinds upwards, pulls Dean's hips down against him, a fragment of sex, a discarded page of a book, the weirdest barely sex Dean's ever had and he can't imagine anything more, rubs against Sam, tastes the remainder of the herb in his mouth, a sweet green taste that sharpens the edge of his vision just a little. He's on edge from it, not enough friction, surrounded by the smell of Sam, the reality of him, a surfeit with too many choices. Vaguely he can hear his cell ringing, ignores it, until Sam's rings as well - Bobby wanting details, and if he's ringing both their phones he's anxious. Reluctantly he stops, and pulls himself away, scrabbles for the cell and tosses it to Sam. Watches Sam, mussed and flushed, eyes still fixed on Dean, like he's afraid Dean will leave if he looks away for a second. He's visibly, clearly hard, thick and full in his jeans, and Dean looks at him, can hardly process it, can't reconcile it in his head.
He takes a second to slip into the bathroom, stares at himself in the mirror, doesn't know what he's looking for, whether he expects this to be written on his face, listens to Sam talk to Bobby in the background, a faded blur of voices. Before he can hesitate, let all of the reasons they shouldn't do this overwhelm him, he pulls off his t-shirt, unsurprised to see Sam pad through the door as well, barefoot now, fingers working at his belt, they've always been in sync in the important things. As Sam takes off his shirt, Dean tackles his socks, and desperately wishes that he was drunk for this. It's too real to stand there, to see Sam watching Dean watch him, to get naked with intent. When they touch this time though it's skin against skin, and Dean can feel the moment when they both realize it's happening. Sam is kissing messier now, bites down as he pants, a hand around Dean's arm like he's afraid he'll go. Dean can't stop touching him, running his hands down the solid strength of Sam's body, mapping out what makes him tick, what makes him tremble and move against Dean like he can't help it. Between the bathroom and the bed they lose the pants, and Dean's seen a dick before, touched one before, one that wasn't his own even, but this is different. It's attached to Sam.
Dean's aching already and Sam looks to be in the same way, bulge almost painful looking now, and Dean slips his hand around the length, glides his hand along, watches Sam's eyes close and his hips jerk forward into Dean's hand. There's a spreading wet patch on the fabric and Dean can hear the hitch in Sam's gasps as he pushes forward into Dean's grip, rocks against him, says things that neither of them would ever say in the light of day, and Dean kisses him in lieu of replies, bites the strong line of his neck, scrapes his nails across the dip in Sam's back where Dean knew without thinking about it that Sam would be sensitive, watches the flush that had faded after the herb wore off, return with a vengeance now.
Sam's out of it, near the edge, slick with precome, hips following the pattern that Dean's set, Dean can tell, and it's too soon, he hasn't had enough. When he stops, Sam lets out a choked sound of frustration and Dean almost feels bad, right up until he's doing the near impossible and letting Sam fuck his mouth or at least as close to that as Dean can get with his first time. It's more a shallow rocking really, and Dean swallows around Sam's cock as much as he can, takes the rest in hand, licks the precome away, chases the remainder of it, gets Sam's legs spread around him and holds him down so he doesn't choke. Seeing Sam like this, clenched tight against the pleasure is a punch to the solar plexus, Dean's barely able to handle it, can feel himself twitch in response in his underwear, works Sam through the last of it, feeling the air catch in his throat when Sam threads his fingers through Dean's hair during the final moments. Swallow or spit is not much of a choice, but on the principle that you should handle what you give out, he swallows.
The kissing afterwards should probably gross him out, but Sam does it like it's the seal on the evening, curls his fingers around Dean's cock in reciprocation as he kisses Dean. Goes down with no ceremony at all, and the thing is that Dean's had more sex than he can really remember and he's enjoyed most of it, but this feels like none of it. A hand is a hand, and a mouth is a mouth, but Sam on the other side of that was something completely different. When Sam sucks him off, slicks up one finger with spit and wriggles it inside, licks over his balls, throws everything but the kitchen sink in, Dean can barely remember his own name, can't control himself at all. Sam wants him, that's what it feels like, will go to his knees if it's what Dean wants. He can taste Sam in the back of his mouth still, throat still feels like it's stuffed full of him, and he can hear Sam now, wet sound of his mouth as he swallows around Dean, holding him down until Dean can't hold off another moment and has to come. Watches Sam through every moment of it.
There's nothing new afterwards about the way he looks at Sam. He's been looking his whole life and calling it something else. It's just different because now he can see Sam looking back.