Prompt 15 from the table "Dean Winchester: A Year to Survive" for spn_30snapshots
Title: "when I'm with you I leave reality"
Authorthe_milky_way
Character(s)/Pairing: Dean Winchester (Sam/Dean)
Theme: Dean Winchester: A Year to Survive
Prompt(s): 15. midnight
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~ 3000
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Kripke and Warner. I don't own anything.
Warnings:coda 6.18, spoilers for this episode
Beta: Thanks for the beta reading and suggestions, parka_girl
Notes: This is for akintay and silverraven, who both wanted porn something about Sam and Dean in cowboy gear.
Summary: Apparently Dean's not alone with his cowboy fetish.
It’s close to midnight when they leave Bobby to his books again. Leave him staring at the bottle of ashes that’s over a hundred years old and bears the handwriting of one of their heroes. Castiel’s long gone, off to fight a war they know almost nothing about.
They climb the stairs like old men, Dean following Sam slowly up, still wearing his coat and boots, hat in his hand and eyes on Sam - eyes always on Sam these days. The hat feels surreal in his hand, like the Colt did, like bottle just had.
Boots thump on the hardwood floor and creaky steps, making hollow sounds that echo around them. It’s never quiet anymore and Dean can’t quite get himself to miss it. At Lisa’s everything was somehow subdued, numb. Now he’s got Sam stumbling around, mumbling into books, snorting at Dean’s deadpan words or just breathing, right next to him.
He doesn’t know why he allows Sam to be out of his sight these days, even for just a second. So far nothing's happened but Dean feels it in his gut that this - whatever it is that lies before them - has just started. The ashes are just one step in the right direction and he hopes luck will be on their side again.
The bottle feels cold against his hand. He doesn’t know why he took it with them, Bobby is perfectly able to watch it, keep it safe. But they risked so much for it that Dean just couldn’t let go of it.
This whole day is burned into his memory as something he’d never thought he’d see. He can still taste the dust in his mouth; can still feel the cold wind on his skin, still feels Sam’s eyes burning into his back ashe stood out there, on that street.
Sam’s been quiet for a while now, hat still on, where Dean placed it some hours ago. It kind of makes him proud that Sam left it on, didn’t protest or roll his eyes. It looks good on Sam, fits him, and surrounds him with an aura of authority. Dean almost snorts at that, thinks he’s losing his mind. And now Sam’s just standing in the middle of the room, almost helpless, dead tired and slightly swaying on his feet.
The old cell phone and Colt’s letter clutched in one hand, a bottle of half finished whiskey on the other. It’s what they’ve been doing for the last two or so hours, toasting each other for surviving the suicide mission - again.
Dean’s tired, too. Bone deep tired and wary.
This day has been so surreal, that his mind, despite his obvious glee and giddiness about the whole situation, still has trouble processing. The fact that he's not dead, that he got through a showdown with a Phoenix in the middle of a freaking western town, still hasn’t settled completely into his head. What has taken residence, though, is the fact that Sam’s obvious hero-worship of a hunting legend and his freaking cell phone might save the world in the end.
Sam’s about to take the hat off, when Dean closes the door to their room. It’s the first time that they're sharing again since Sam has become Sam. It’s the first time that it feels like they both wanted to.
Dean’s not crashing on the couch due to exhaustion or too much beer, nor is Sam holed up between books or strapped down in the panic room. Dean’s not sure why he followed Sam but Sam hasn’t said a word to discourage him, hasn’t stopped him and even now, he looks relieved more than anything.
Bottles are placed carefully on tables, cell phones and keys dropped beside them. The only sounds in the otherwise quiet room, glass against wood, metal against. Dean switches the main light off, for a second there's just the moon and one lonely security lamp shining through the window. Bedside lamps are switched on then, enough to see but not too bright. They both turn at the same time, standing there, in the middle of the room. Neither of them move, just looks and small, hitched breaths from Sam.
Dean’s not sure what he’s supposed to do now, what to say. He only knows what he’d really like to do to Sam while he wears that hat. And when Sam sighs, wary and almost a little sad, it seems so far off that Dean's surprised how much it effects him
Sam’s hand is on the brim of the hat, about to take it off. Something makes Dean reach out and stop him.
“Leave it.” It comes out more an order and not so much a request. It carries so much more meaning this way and Dean sees it in Sam’s eyes.
He sees Sam swallow, but after a second or two he lowers his hand, hat still firmly placed on his dark, unruly hair. The air is charged now, tension thick and neither move. It’s like they're back in that street, now facing each other down instead of Sam having Dean’s back.
The old clock down in Bobby’s study strikes. Midnight. A new day. A new chance to either live or fuck it all over again.
Dean’s not sure what to do now, why he stopped Sam. It’s more than just the fact that Sam looks good like this, way more. Just as he’s about to take his coat off, Sam steps closer, not much but enough to make Dean have to look up.
Sam's hazel eyes, ablaze with want, meet his, making him swallow and freeze. There's so much he could do, should do, but nothing seems as important as moving closer to Sam.The want in his brother's eyes, it's drawing him in -- the way Sam looks at him without saying a word, he doesn't think he can fight it.
Dean blinks, sees the man in front of him and not the brother. Just the man who's been getting under his skin for longer than Dean cares to admit. Dark hat pushed back a little, his eyes focused on nothing but Dean, breath hitching, chest rising under the pristine white shirt. It’s really too clean, Dean thinks almost hysterically. Too clean, too white and looking very, very good on Sam.
There's a second when everything seems to stand still. Time, the universe, life itself. Everything. Just one second, one held breath, one blink of an eye. Then everything is in motion again, almost uncontrolled, pushing toward wild and without boundaries.
They move. Dean toward Sam, Sam reaching out. They move in sync, like a dance they choreographed years ago and are only now able to perfect. Sam whimpers when his fingers touch the leather of the coat, Dean just closes his eyes. Sam’s touching him now, him and no one else.
Strong hands suddenly yank him close, clutching the coat hard and not letting go. They're so close now that Dean can feel Sam’s breath on his skin. Their lips crash together with a force that makes Dean’s breath catch in the back of his throat.
It’s almost primal; the way Sam’s devouring him. Dean finds he's not holding back either.
It’s a surprise how well they fit like this again, but then they have been practicing for years. It should feel weird, too fast, too soon, too wrong. Every time this happens, Dean waits for the feelings that remind him of what he’s doing. And yet they never come, never show. Have never been there before and were never needed.
It feels like they’ve taken another step, it feels different, feels even more right than it ever has. This feels like how it should, like what he’s been missing for a while - over a year. This feels like coming home and it shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does.
There's no real regret, except for the lost time. And he has no dark thoughts or questions. Only his need for Sam exists. It’s all he needs.
Dean feels Sam’s heartbeat through the skin under his fingers where he’s clutching Sam’s waist equally hard. Dean doesn’t know how Sam’s shirt got untucked or how his fingers got under it. And Sam’s right there with him, moves his hips, tries to get Dean closer.
Hands leave clothing and find skin, find hair under hats to tug at. Dean moans, a low, deep growl that vibrates through them. It’s like breathing freely for the first time in years, so that’s what Dean does. He takes deep breaths, takes Sam in and savors the taste, the warmth that comes with it.
“God, Dean… Dean.” Sam’s moving along his cheekbone now, little nips and kisses, hands grabbing, clutching; feet shuffling, moving them toward one of the beds. Dean has a second where he thinks they should close the door but then remembers that he already did that.
“Fucking coat ‘n hat. God, so hot.” Sam’s grumbling against his ear and Dean shivers, at the words and the lips moving against his skin. “Wanted you when I saw you like this. God, can you even imagine?”
And that’s the thing, Dean absolutely can.
“Sam… Sammy.” It’s all he needs to say for Sam to smile, bright and knowing.
Dean’s hands on Sam’s belt buckle, lips pressed against Sam’s skin, that’s how they fall. That’s how they tumble to the floor, stumbling over discarded boots Dean barely remembers taking off. They crash down, heavy and loud, groan at the impact and the pressure, moan at the feeling of being pressed so close together.
They roll, lose clothes, lose words, along the way.
They kiss and suck and lick; hands roaming, wandering, clutching tightly. They move and never stay still until Sam has him pinned down, keeps him there with a growl and bite. They are naked, heaving, struggling for control.
Dean’s chest moves fast, breath hitching, eyes rolling back into his head when Sam’s thigh puts the just right amount of pressure on his groin. He needs friction, more of it, so much more of it
Sam’s hat is still on, Dean’s left lying on the floor. And then Sam starts to spread him out, right there on the floor, on Dean’s coat. They never stop kissing, never stop touching. It’s them and Dean wants it to stay like that. Attached, close, just them.
Dean’s not willing to let go even if Sam needs room to move. He doesn’t say a single word. Lets Sam dictate the pace because Dean’s not sure he could do it right now. Overwhelmed with Sam flooding his senses, pressed down against the floor, his coat cold and warm against his skin.
He lets Sam press even closer, lets hot breath touch his skin. Sam’s just licking now, has slowed down a little now that he has Dean naked beneath him. Dean allows himself to shudder, to tremble at the sight above him. Powerful, strong Sam so close, so desperate. It spikes something inside of Dean, makes him roll his hips and smirk at the groan Sam can’t suppress.
Sam retaliates, bites just hard enough to make Dean arch into it, to make it all the more about want, lust and desperate desire. Almost unconsciously, Dean spreads his legs, lets Sam settle even closer.
The leather of the coat feels smooth against his naked skin, makes him writhe just a fraction more, a fraction that is enough to bring him ever closer to Sam. Dean almost hurts with want now, can’t wait any longer, needs Sam to move more, to just do something. Feels hot and sweaty, feels like Sam’s holding back to tease and he doesn’t want that, can’t stand it.
“Sam… come on. Come on.”
He wants it. He needs it. Now. All of a sudden it’s there, burning inside of him, the need to be Sam’s, the need to feel, to be alive, to just goddamn fuck. It’s hit him too much too fast and Dean feels helpless for a second. When he looks up, he can see Sam’s feeling the same, eyes wide, mouth open, panting Dean’s name over and over again.
How they went from ogling each other in cowboy gear to kissing, to practically fucking on the floor, is beyond him right now. All Dean knows is that he either needs Sam inside of him or to be inside Sam. Doesn’t matter which, as long as it happens.
Sam’s hat slips, just a bit but enough to cast a shadow over both their faces. The feeling of being trapped becomes almost too overwhelming, almost enough to make him struggle for real. He's close but not close enough. Dean’s so overwhelmed by sensation that he can’t seem to predict Sam’s actions anymore and it makes his even needier. It aches deep inside, making him feel hot and dizzy. But also elated in a way. It’s like a current he can’t fight against, like a wave surging and ebbing with every touch of Sam’s fingers on his skin.
He moans, doesn’t hold back anymore, not caring if Bobby can hear them or about anything else in the world. Only Sam matters now, only the two of them. Slick fingers, and Dean doesn’t even care how that happened, ease in, slow at first then more demanding. It’s a temporary relief because it’s not enough.
He needs more.
Heat shoots through him, muscles twitching and straining but then Sam’s mouth is on his neck again. Sucking blood to the surface, making him dizzy, making him moan. Fingers and nails scratch along his side, hands tugging at his hair, tugging so much that it almost hurts.
They kiss, hungrily and without holding back. They kiss like the world's ending, as if they'll never do it again. And then they kiss like they just survived the end of the world and this is the only way to prove they're still alive. It’s frantic. Minds clouded with lust, hands grabbing, pushing and then soothing gently over scratches. Lips smooth over bites and nips, then crashing together when they can’t stand being apart any longer. They move together in a desperate rhythm that turns it all into something fast and hungry.
Sam’s there suddenly with quick, hard thrusts. More, so much more, and Dean can’t demand it, is stunned for a second and then just lets go He shifts, wrapping his legs around Sam’s waist and closes his eyes. This is what he wanted, what he needs right now, Sam letting go, Sam helping him to do the same.
Dean arches away from the ground, the coat, toward Sam, meets him halfway through a thrust and groans out loud. The wave builds inside of him, he can feel it throbbing through his veins. All he can think is how he needs to come, needs friction, needs lose himself against Sam. He clutches at Sam’s shoulder, fingers almost tugging too hard at his hair peaking out from under the hat. But he doesn’t care.
Sam moves with him, the same hard rhythm Dean’s hips have somehow caught. He’s close, they both are, and Dean can feel it vibrating through them.
With a bite against his neck and a vicious twist of Sam’s hips, it crashes through him. White and hot, almost painful. Splatters of come land on his stomach, next to him on the coat. His cock twitches and Sam’s fingers curl loosely around it. Dean moans, clenches hard around Sam, feels the answering groan against his neck and the hotness within him. They ride it out, still hard and fast, rhythm never faltering.
Lips are back on his and Dean sucks greedily at them, feeling only slightly slutty. Spread out on the floor clad in only a leather coat, with Sam above him, wearing nothing but a cowboy hat. His hips are still moving, Sam shudders against him, once, twice, three times and then just flops down, boneless and breathing hard.
Dean can only groan and, even in his daze, thinks how unsexy this leather coat feels now. Then he feels the brim of Sam’s hat poking him in the cheek and he can’t help but wonder why he wanted Sam to keep it on. He flips it off, makes it sail across the room and land right next to his own discarded one.
Sam groans as well but doesn’t move and, for once, Dean doesn’t mind. He just lowers his legs while keeping Sam close, arms wrapped around him. It's so unexpected that Dean doesn’t really know what to say, so he keeps quiet. It’s Sam who breaks the silence and Dean shouldn’t really be as surprised about it as he is.
“You really do have a fetish, huh?” Sam mumbles against his neck, moves so that they are both spread out on the coat but are still wrapped around each other. Dean silently curses the fact that Sam didn’t use a condom. It’ll be a bitch to clean the coat now.
“Look who’s talking. Spreading me out on the coat like this. There somethin’ you wanna tell me?”
Sam snorts, but moves closer and kisses Dean deep and thorough. “Ride’ em, cowboy.” He mumbles into Dean's mouth.
It makes Dean laugh, loud and long, has Sam grinning against his skin after a second. It feels good to be like this. To be able to touch and feel, to laugh and joke, to be together and alive.
“Later, Sammy. Later.”
The clock strikes again and it’s well past midnight when Dean closes his eyes and finally settles down.
If Sam pulls a blanket over them and doesn’t move from the coat or the floor, Dean doesn’t say anything. He’s already asleep, plastered against Sam and a small smile on his lips. If his hand moves out to grab Sam’s hat during the night neither of them says anything the next morning.
And neither of them acknowledge the fact that hat and coat take up a permanent residence in the Impala’s trunk.
Authorthe_milky_way
Character(s)/Pairing: Dean Winchester (Sam/Dean)
Theme: Dean Winchester: A Year to Survive
Prompt(s): 15. midnight
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~ 3000
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Kripke and Warner. I don't own anything.
Warnings:coda 6.18, spoilers for this episode
Beta: Thanks for the beta reading and suggestions, parka_girl
Notes: This is for akintay and silverraven, who both wanted porn something about Sam and Dean in cowboy gear.
Summary: Apparently Dean's not alone with his cowboy fetish.
It’s close to midnight when they leave Bobby to his books again. Leave him staring at the bottle of ashes that’s over a hundred years old and bears the handwriting of one of their heroes. Castiel’s long gone, off to fight a war they know almost nothing about.
They climb the stairs like old men, Dean following Sam slowly up, still wearing his coat and boots, hat in his hand and eyes on Sam - eyes always on Sam these days. The hat feels surreal in his hand, like the Colt did, like bottle just had.
Boots thump on the hardwood floor and creaky steps, making hollow sounds that echo around them. It’s never quiet anymore and Dean can’t quite get himself to miss it. At Lisa’s everything was somehow subdued, numb. Now he’s got Sam stumbling around, mumbling into books, snorting at Dean’s deadpan words or just breathing, right next to him.
He doesn’t know why he allows Sam to be out of his sight these days, even for just a second. So far nothing's happened but Dean feels it in his gut that this - whatever it is that lies before them - has just started. The ashes are just one step in the right direction and he hopes luck will be on their side again.
The bottle feels cold against his hand. He doesn’t know why he took it with them, Bobby is perfectly able to watch it, keep it safe. But they risked so much for it that Dean just couldn’t let go of it.
This whole day is burned into his memory as something he’d never thought he’d see. He can still taste the dust in his mouth; can still feel the cold wind on his skin, still feels Sam’s eyes burning into his back ashe stood out there, on that street.
Sam’s been quiet for a while now, hat still on, where Dean placed it some hours ago. It kind of makes him proud that Sam left it on, didn’t protest or roll his eyes. It looks good on Sam, fits him, and surrounds him with an aura of authority. Dean almost snorts at that, thinks he’s losing his mind. And now Sam’s just standing in the middle of the room, almost helpless, dead tired and slightly swaying on his feet.
The old cell phone and Colt’s letter clutched in one hand, a bottle of half finished whiskey on the other. It’s what they’ve been doing for the last two or so hours, toasting each other for surviving the suicide mission - again.
Dean’s tired, too. Bone deep tired and wary.
This day has been so surreal, that his mind, despite his obvious glee and giddiness about the whole situation, still has trouble processing. The fact that he's not dead, that he got through a showdown with a Phoenix in the middle of a freaking western town, still hasn’t settled completely into his head. What has taken residence, though, is the fact that Sam’s obvious hero-worship of a hunting legend and his freaking cell phone might save the world in the end.
Sam’s about to take the hat off, when Dean closes the door to their room. It’s the first time that they're sharing again since Sam has become Sam. It’s the first time that it feels like they both wanted to.
Dean’s not crashing on the couch due to exhaustion or too much beer, nor is Sam holed up between books or strapped down in the panic room. Dean’s not sure why he followed Sam but Sam hasn’t said a word to discourage him, hasn’t stopped him and even now, he looks relieved more than anything.
Bottles are placed carefully on tables, cell phones and keys dropped beside them. The only sounds in the otherwise quiet room, glass against wood, metal against. Dean switches the main light off, for a second there's just the moon and one lonely security lamp shining through the window. Bedside lamps are switched on then, enough to see but not too bright. They both turn at the same time, standing there, in the middle of the room. Neither of them move, just looks and small, hitched breaths from Sam.
Dean’s not sure what he’s supposed to do now, what to say. He only knows what he’d really like to do to Sam while he wears that hat. And when Sam sighs, wary and almost a little sad, it seems so far off that Dean's surprised how much it effects him
Sam’s hand is on the brim of the hat, about to take it off. Something makes Dean reach out and stop him.
“Leave it.” It comes out more an order and not so much a request. It carries so much more meaning this way and Dean sees it in Sam’s eyes.
He sees Sam swallow, but after a second or two he lowers his hand, hat still firmly placed on his dark, unruly hair. The air is charged now, tension thick and neither move. It’s like they're back in that street, now facing each other down instead of Sam having Dean’s back.
The old clock down in Bobby’s study strikes. Midnight. A new day. A new chance to either live or fuck it all over again.
Dean’s not sure what to do now, why he stopped Sam. It’s more than just the fact that Sam looks good like this, way more. Just as he’s about to take his coat off, Sam steps closer, not much but enough to make Dean have to look up.
Sam's hazel eyes, ablaze with want, meet his, making him swallow and freeze. There's so much he could do, should do, but nothing seems as important as moving closer to Sam.The want in his brother's eyes, it's drawing him in -- the way Sam looks at him without saying a word, he doesn't think he can fight it.
Dean blinks, sees the man in front of him and not the brother. Just the man who's been getting under his skin for longer than Dean cares to admit. Dark hat pushed back a little, his eyes focused on nothing but Dean, breath hitching, chest rising under the pristine white shirt. It’s really too clean, Dean thinks almost hysterically. Too clean, too white and looking very, very good on Sam.
There's a second when everything seems to stand still. Time, the universe, life itself. Everything. Just one second, one held breath, one blink of an eye. Then everything is in motion again, almost uncontrolled, pushing toward wild and without boundaries.
They move. Dean toward Sam, Sam reaching out. They move in sync, like a dance they choreographed years ago and are only now able to perfect. Sam whimpers when his fingers touch the leather of the coat, Dean just closes his eyes. Sam’s touching him now, him and no one else.
Strong hands suddenly yank him close, clutching the coat hard and not letting go. They're so close now that Dean can feel Sam’s breath on his skin. Their lips crash together with a force that makes Dean’s breath catch in the back of his throat.
It’s almost primal; the way Sam’s devouring him. Dean finds he's not holding back either.
It’s a surprise how well they fit like this again, but then they have been practicing for years. It should feel weird, too fast, too soon, too wrong. Every time this happens, Dean waits for the feelings that remind him of what he’s doing. And yet they never come, never show. Have never been there before and were never needed.
It feels like they’ve taken another step, it feels different, feels even more right than it ever has. This feels like how it should, like what he’s been missing for a while - over a year. This feels like coming home and it shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does.
There's no real regret, except for the lost time. And he has no dark thoughts or questions. Only his need for Sam exists. It’s all he needs.
Dean feels Sam’s heartbeat through the skin under his fingers where he’s clutching Sam’s waist equally hard. Dean doesn’t know how Sam’s shirt got untucked or how his fingers got under it. And Sam’s right there with him, moves his hips, tries to get Dean closer.
Hands leave clothing and find skin, find hair under hats to tug at. Dean moans, a low, deep growl that vibrates through them. It’s like breathing freely for the first time in years, so that’s what Dean does. He takes deep breaths, takes Sam in and savors the taste, the warmth that comes with it.
“God, Dean… Dean.” Sam’s moving along his cheekbone now, little nips and kisses, hands grabbing, clutching; feet shuffling, moving them toward one of the beds. Dean has a second where he thinks they should close the door but then remembers that he already did that.
“Fucking coat ‘n hat. God, so hot.” Sam’s grumbling against his ear and Dean shivers, at the words and the lips moving against his skin. “Wanted you when I saw you like this. God, can you even imagine?”
And that’s the thing, Dean absolutely can.
“Sam… Sammy.” It’s all he needs to say for Sam to smile, bright and knowing.
Dean’s hands on Sam’s belt buckle, lips pressed against Sam’s skin, that’s how they fall. That’s how they tumble to the floor, stumbling over discarded boots Dean barely remembers taking off. They crash down, heavy and loud, groan at the impact and the pressure, moan at the feeling of being pressed so close together.
They roll, lose clothes, lose words, along the way.
They kiss and suck and lick; hands roaming, wandering, clutching tightly. They move and never stay still until Sam has him pinned down, keeps him there with a growl and bite. They are naked, heaving, struggling for control.
Dean’s chest moves fast, breath hitching, eyes rolling back into his head when Sam’s thigh puts the just right amount of pressure on his groin. He needs friction, more of it, so much more of it
Sam’s hat is still on, Dean’s left lying on the floor. And then Sam starts to spread him out, right there on the floor, on Dean’s coat. They never stop kissing, never stop touching. It’s them and Dean wants it to stay like that. Attached, close, just them.
Dean’s not willing to let go even if Sam needs room to move. He doesn’t say a single word. Lets Sam dictate the pace because Dean’s not sure he could do it right now. Overwhelmed with Sam flooding his senses, pressed down against the floor, his coat cold and warm against his skin.
He lets Sam press even closer, lets hot breath touch his skin. Sam’s just licking now, has slowed down a little now that he has Dean naked beneath him. Dean allows himself to shudder, to tremble at the sight above him. Powerful, strong Sam so close, so desperate. It spikes something inside of Dean, makes him roll his hips and smirk at the groan Sam can’t suppress.
Sam retaliates, bites just hard enough to make Dean arch into it, to make it all the more about want, lust and desperate desire. Almost unconsciously, Dean spreads his legs, lets Sam settle even closer.
The leather of the coat feels smooth against his naked skin, makes him writhe just a fraction more, a fraction that is enough to bring him ever closer to Sam. Dean almost hurts with want now, can’t wait any longer, needs Sam to move more, to just do something. Feels hot and sweaty, feels like Sam’s holding back to tease and he doesn’t want that, can’t stand it.
“Sam… come on. Come on.”
He wants it. He needs it. Now. All of a sudden it’s there, burning inside of him, the need to be Sam’s, the need to feel, to be alive, to just goddamn fuck. It’s hit him too much too fast and Dean feels helpless for a second. When he looks up, he can see Sam’s feeling the same, eyes wide, mouth open, panting Dean’s name over and over again.
How they went from ogling each other in cowboy gear to kissing, to practically fucking on the floor, is beyond him right now. All Dean knows is that he either needs Sam inside of him or to be inside Sam. Doesn’t matter which, as long as it happens.
Sam’s hat slips, just a bit but enough to cast a shadow over both their faces. The feeling of being trapped becomes almost too overwhelming, almost enough to make him struggle for real. He's close but not close enough. Dean’s so overwhelmed by sensation that he can’t seem to predict Sam’s actions anymore and it makes his even needier. It aches deep inside, making him feel hot and dizzy. But also elated in a way. It’s like a current he can’t fight against, like a wave surging and ebbing with every touch of Sam’s fingers on his skin.
He moans, doesn’t hold back anymore, not caring if Bobby can hear them or about anything else in the world. Only Sam matters now, only the two of them. Slick fingers, and Dean doesn’t even care how that happened, ease in, slow at first then more demanding. It’s a temporary relief because it’s not enough.
He needs more.
Heat shoots through him, muscles twitching and straining but then Sam’s mouth is on his neck again. Sucking blood to the surface, making him dizzy, making him moan. Fingers and nails scratch along his side, hands tugging at his hair, tugging so much that it almost hurts.
They kiss, hungrily and without holding back. They kiss like the world's ending, as if they'll never do it again. And then they kiss like they just survived the end of the world and this is the only way to prove they're still alive. It’s frantic. Minds clouded with lust, hands grabbing, pushing and then soothing gently over scratches. Lips smooth over bites and nips, then crashing together when they can’t stand being apart any longer. They move together in a desperate rhythm that turns it all into something fast and hungry.
Sam’s there suddenly with quick, hard thrusts. More, so much more, and Dean can’t demand it, is stunned for a second and then just lets go He shifts, wrapping his legs around Sam’s waist and closes his eyes. This is what he wanted, what he needs right now, Sam letting go, Sam helping him to do the same.
Dean arches away from the ground, the coat, toward Sam, meets him halfway through a thrust and groans out loud. The wave builds inside of him, he can feel it throbbing through his veins. All he can think is how he needs to come, needs friction, needs lose himself against Sam. He clutches at Sam’s shoulder, fingers almost tugging too hard at his hair peaking out from under the hat. But he doesn’t care.
Sam moves with him, the same hard rhythm Dean’s hips have somehow caught. He’s close, they both are, and Dean can feel it vibrating through them.
With a bite against his neck and a vicious twist of Sam’s hips, it crashes through him. White and hot, almost painful. Splatters of come land on his stomach, next to him on the coat. His cock twitches and Sam’s fingers curl loosely around it. Dean moans, clenches hard around Sam, feels the answering groan against his neck and the hotness within him. They ride it out, still hard and fast, rhythm never faltering.
Lips are back on his and Dean sucks greedily at them, feeling only slightly slutty. Spread out on the floor clad in only a leather coat, with Sam above him, wearing nothing but a cowboy hat. His hips are still moving, Sam shudders against him, once, twice, three times and then just flops down, boneless and breathing hard.
Dean can only groan and, even in his daze, thinks how unsexy this leather coat feels now. Then he feels the brim of Sam’s hat poking him in the cheek and he can’t help but wonder why he wanted Sam to keep it on. He flips it off, makes it sail across the room and land right next to his own discarded one.
Sam groans as well but doesn’t move and, for once, Dean doesn’t mind. He just lowers his legs while keeping Sam close, arms wrapped around him. It's so unexpected that Dean doesn’t really know what to say, so he keeps quiet. It’s Sam who breaks the silence and Dean shouldn’t really be as surprised about it as he is.
“You really do have a fetish, huh?” Sam mumbles against his neck, moves so that they are both spread out on the coat but are still wrapped around each other. Dean silently curses the fact that Sam didn’t use a condom. It’ll be a bitch to clean the coat now.
“Look who’s talking. Spreading me out on the coat like this. There somethin’ you wanna tell me?”
Sam snorts, but moves closer and kisses Dean deep and thorough. “Ride’ em, cowboy.” He mumbles into Dean's mouth.
It makes Dean laugh, loud and long, has Sam grinning against his skin after a second. It feels good to be like this. To be able to touch and feel, to laugh and joke, to be together and alive.
“Later, Sammy. Later.”
The clock strikes again and it’s well past midnight when Dean closes his eyes and finally settles down.
If Sam pulls a blanket over them and doesn’t move from the coat or the floor, Dean doesn’t say anything. He’s already asleep, plastered against Sam and a small smile on his lips. If his hand moves out to grab Sam’s hat during the night neither of them says anything the next morning.
And neither of them acknowledge the fact that hat and coat take up a permanent residence in the Impala’s trunk.