SPN fic: "Like a Hurricane" by Mona and Poisontaster
This is what happens when neither poisontaster nor I want to do work and instead we just stay on chat together all day. *shakes head* I fear us.
Title: Like a Hurricane
Authors: mona1347 & poisontaster
Pairing: Sam/Dean - Wincest ahead!
Rating: Adult. Shame, point and plot-free porn.
Soundtrack (because that’s how we roll): Scorpions - Rock You Like a Hurricane
Authors' Note: Sex in two parts. Because for some odd reason, Dean took over this story about half-way through. He says that he is prettier than everyone in the room and so he can do that if he wants to. Then he *pouts* and it's very pretty. So we just let him get away with it because we're slutty like that.
mona1347: Pet me
poisontaster: *pets* What's up chiquita?
mona1347: I'm just all wacked out, I think. See I have that manic crackrock writing thing happening?
poisontaster: ?
mona1347: Except without the writing part.
poisontaster: Oh.
mona1347: Yeah. *SIGH*
poisontaster: *pets* I'm sorry. How can I help?
mona1347: I don't know. I think I want to porn or something.
poisontaster: ME TOO! Why can't we porn?
mona1347: Okay let's porn *looks around*
poisontaster: Okay. Porn away.
mona1347: Yeah. Okay. Let’s porn. Um.
poisontaster: Who are we porning? Sam/Dean?
mona1347: Well YES.
poisontaster: LOL.
mona1347: Who else do we have a hope of porning?
poisontaster: Hey, I've porned other people!
mona1347: I mean like right now. We’re pwned and stuff.
poisontaster: Okay yes.
mona1347: Scenario? Should we make this like an independent scenario? From everything else we’ve done?
poisontaster: Sure. Yes. Let's do something new.
mona1347: Just...porny goodness?
poisontaster: YES.
mona1347: okay excellent *lights cigarette* *turns up music*
[PAUSE]
mona1347: This is the part where we porn isn't it?
poisontaster: Yes…um…Car porn?
mona1347: Car porn! Yes. Metallicar needs love.
poisontaster: I want to bend SOMEONE over the Impala, dammit.
mona1347: Front seat? Then move to Impala hood?
poisontaster: Okay. Or trunk? It's ALWAYS the hood.
mona1347: Mmm yes. The trunk is good (that took me too long to type). The trunk is...squarer.
poisontaster: YES. And sturdier!
mona1347: Yes. And less likely to be very hot to the touch
poisontaster: Yes! So who's topping? You know my vote.
mona1347: I, too, vote Sam.
poisontaster: Yay! *dances you*
mona1347: LOL! I love us.
poisontaster: LOL. Yes. Me too.
~
(1)
Sam
Dean's eyelids are drooping a little as he drives so Sam keeps trying to talk to him, keep him awake, you know? But Dean is cranky and terse as Dean is so fucking often wont to be, so Sam cranks up the Scorpions and says something to the effect of "Fine. Jesus, Mr. Crankypants. Maybe this will improve your little bitchy-ass mood."
Both of them nod along half-heartedly to the music for a while, but they're not talking and Sam is still ridiculously bored. They're in the middle of absolutely nothing -- corner of "no" and "where" -- black road stretching out before and behind them. It's like the universe contains only the two of them, nestled snug together inside the Impala under cover of darkness.
Which...is not a bad thought. Not at all. In fact...Sam thinks that's a pretty fine thought. And he slides sideways, leaning a little towards Dean.
Dean is crumpled and rumbly, tired and twitchy, all keyed up but utterly exhausted. He clearly needs to chill the fuck out. So Sam reaches over, nearly casual, puts his hand on Dean's thigh and just...kneads. Dean kind of stiffens but only licks his lips and tightens his hands on the wheel. Eyes on the road, not even a glance. So Sam slides a little closer, curves toward and around Dean, and rubs his lips against the cotton t-shirt. Just...nuzzles Dean's shoulder. Like a question.
Dean shrugs him off. But he still doesn't say anything and doesn't take Sam's hand off his thigh. Sam thinks, "Oh, so that’s the game, huh? We’ll see about that."
Sam sits up, puts one arm on the backseat behind Dean, and slides his hand further up and inside Dean's thigh, running his thumb over that inner, fleshy, sensitive part and now this is nothing but exactly what it is.
Dean shifts his hips and bites his bottom lip for just a minute but keeps looking at the road; Sam can feel the fabric of Dean's pants stretching and tightening near his fingertips. Dean's getting hard and there's heat coming off him like a furnace.
Then Sam leans over and puts his lips on the skin behind Dean's ear, a spot he knows Dean is extra sensitive, scrapes his teeth lightly against the skin and whispers, "You're gonna say my name, Dean."
At the same time, he slides his hand over Dean's crotch. Still in that gentle kneading motion. Deans lips part and a little puff of breath, a non-sound, comes out on the exhale. The car swerves. Not a lot; Dean's not about to wreck the Impala, for Christ's sake. But enough to cross the center line and veer back.
"Can you handle this, Dean? If I jerked you off right here in the front seat? My hand, wrapped around you? Would we crash?" Dean shudders and Sam continues on, "What if it was my mouth? Think you could control the car still? If I licked you down my throat like you were fucking ice cream?"
Dean's eyelashes flutter and his legs part a little bit.
Sam says, "Oh no. No closing your eyes if you're going to just keep driving, Dean. If you keep pretending you don't love this. Keep pretending that there's just nothing going on at all. That you don't give a shit if I keep doing this..."
Dean hisses, "Fuck!" and jerks the car over to the side of the road with a screech. Rips the keys out of the ignition and grabs the back of Sam's neck, pulling him in for a scorching kiss; all tongue and teeth.
Sam's not bored anymore and Dean is very much awake.
Dean gasps and arches his back when Sam unzips his pants, brushing against his cock through cotton and Sam says, "That's more like it."
"Would you just...shut the fuck up and keep doing that...yes, fuck, that right th...ah...fuck, Sammy…"
Sam's grin is huge. "Like that, do you?" And he so knows that Dean does.
"Oh my god, dude, stop. Talking. And fuck me!"
But oh no. Sam's not going to make it that easy. "Oh come on Dean, you watch Oprah. You should know the importance of foreplay."
(2)
Dean
Sam's hand moves away from Dean's dick and Dean's confused for a second, "Wai-- I didn't mean... Are you stopping?" but Sam's grabbed him by the front of the shirt and is dragging him to the other side of the car. Sam opens the door and they tumble out. He slams Dean up against the back door and rubs their bodies together in a long hard grind.
"Too many clothes," Dean mutters, fingers tangling in Sam's belt. "Why the hell do you wear so many goddamn clothes? All these fuckin’ layers, Sammy...seriously."
Sam pulls Dean's head back by the hair. "Man, if you can do this much talking, I must not be doing this right." He licks up the side of Dean’s neck in a line of wet heat, making Dean shudder from head to toe, then drops to his knees.
Dean just makes this noise before Sam even touches him. This groaning, gasping, needy noise and rises up on his toes, hips pistoning. Sam wraps his hands around Dean's hips, thumbs smoothing into the hollows, pushing Dean's ass back against the car, retaining control.
Dean doesn’t know what to do with himself, reaching up to clutch hard on the edge of the roof as he whimpers, "Sammy, please..."
"Mmm" Sam hums against the soft skin of Dean's cock. Not taking him in yet, but right there, breath ghosting over sensitive flesh. "I like the sound of that. Say it again."
Dean gasps hard, like the breath he needs to say anything just whooshed out of his lungs at the thought.
"Say it, Dean…come on."
"Sammy. Oh God, Sam."
"Say 'please', Dean. Say 'Sam, please'…" One wet swirl, just over the very tip, collecting the perfect droplet of liquid gathering in the slit.
"Fuck. Fine. Fine, goddamm it… Please Sam, please suck me. Whatever… Sammy, I'll say whatever you want I'll --" but it gets choked off as Sam sucks the head of Dean's cock into his mouth and then further, all the way down into his throat in one thrust. Dean keens and his hips thrust forward again but they can't get any lift because Sam's huge hands are clenched around his hip bones, pressing him into the warm metal. "Sam... Sam... fuck. Just let me, let me..."
Sam pulls off his cock with a wet luscious pop that makes Dean's stomach clench. "Let you what, Dean?" Dean groans at the loss of sensation, muscles clamped tight from his shoulders to his calves.
Sam squints up at him, grinning all crooked. His mouth is wet, shiny with spit, and when his tongue creeps out to swipe over his swollen lower lip, Dean thinks he could just about come from that sight alone.
"You like this, Dean? Being out here in the middle of nowhere with your cock down my throat? You like it maybe if I slip my fingers here..." Sam makes tiny firm circles with his first finger, pressing up between Dean's balls. Dean yelps this time, and fucked if he's admitting to any of this shit later. Sam shifts one of his hands to slide between Dean's legs, short nails slipping along the taut bridge of flesh between Dean's balls and his ass. "'Cause I think you do."
Sam slips his finger around, in a slow hard caress, to circle Dean's ass and says, "What if I fucked you? Out here in the dark? In front of God and all the woodland creatures? What if I bend you. Over. This car. And fuck you till you scream?"
"Sam..." It's not even a sound. Dean doesn't know what it is. He's not breathing, so it can't be breath.
“Yeah" Sam says, like he's privately decided something, like he’s come to an inescapable resolution, like Dean doesn’t factor in at all. He stands back up and twists his hands in Dean's shirt, pulling Dean into him, invading Dean's mouth with filthy wet kisses. Tongue sliding and stroking into Dean's mouth, like Sam's trying to taste him from the inside out. He tastes like Sam and he tastes like Dean’s cock and Dean thinks that the combination might be the best, the rightest, taste ever.
Sam grabs Dean by the shoulder and spins him laterally, along the side of the car, and -- whumph -- Dean goes face first over the trunk. The breath goes out of Dean again, this time in a huff, but the impact still goes straight to his cock, so hard he thinks he might blow it right there. Right there, rubbing the wet head of his dick slickly up against the metal of his car and fuck that would just be a whole new level of kink to deal with. Getting seriously off on being bent over his own goddamn cock-rock muscle car, knowing that his baby brother is about to fuck him like that…that’s about all the kink Dean thinks he can stand without frying his brain completely.
Sam leans into him, rocking slow and teasing against Dean's naked ass, and Dean realizes the fucker is still completely clothed. Because Sam is a sneaky little manipulating bastard and those hands and that smile and the puppy-dog-eyes-from-hell have always made the very worst ideas seem like a genius plan.
Sam leans in, breath brushing Dean's ear. "I think we got a problem, big brother. Because I am going to have that sweet ass of yours. But we don't have a drop of lube."
"Sam--" Dean groans. This shouldn't be hot. This shouldn't be so fucking hot.
"Now we can go at it dry..." Sam's hand smoothes over the back of Dean's thigh, up over the cheek of his ass and then down, between the cleft to brush light and teasing over the furled bud and Dean's so wild for it he's almost thinking "yes yes yes do it god do it anyway do it."
"Or maybe..." Dean doesn’t know how Sam can sound so calm, so fucking speculative when he can feel Sam, hard as a tire iron against his hip. "Maybe I'll make you come all over my hand first, and I'll fuck you with that." Sam's quick on the draw. Dean's gotta give him that.
And also, oh holy god. Because Sam’s words go straight to Dean's cock, and that might have been it, just it right there if Sam didn't wrap long fingers around the base of Dean's cock and squeeze a choked sound of out him as his head spins with near-orgasm.
“Don’t think it’ll take long at this rate, huh Dean?” The smirk is almost entirely audible and would be really irritating under any other circumstance. But Sam’s hand slides up, twisting the flat of his palm over the head and Dean’s fingers scramble wildly, trying to find a hand-hold on the smooth metal. His forehead thunks down between his forearms and he couldn’t even begin to try to classify the noise he makes when Sam does it again, and again, and again, squeezing the base on the down-stroke, making it last even longer than it should; though Dean knows Sam must be ready -- now, yesterday, back when they were still driving -- by the way he’s thrusting his own denim-clad hardness against Dean’s ass like a promise.
“Yeah. Come on, Dean. Come for me. Don’t make me wait. Come for me so I can fuck you.”
The black of nighttime and Detroit steel whites out before Dean’s gaze and he’s coming so hard, so much, shuddering red-hot sensation shooting from Sam’s hand pressing against his spine, holding him down, through his body and out his dick, clenched in Sam’s fist.
When Dean can finally breathe again, see again, he feels the palm of Sam's clever hand cupped, smoothing over his cock head, slick and hot and wet. Sam murmurs something like, "Didn't even mess up the paint job," but then the hand slides up and back, rubbing at Dean's opening, palm as flat as he can make it, then using the callused side to spread the liquid around and then - oh fucking hell -- inside. Dean moans, thrusts back towards Sam, and could probably come again if they were still teenagers. As it is, it only takes Sam about a half-second to hit that sweet spot and Dean’s more than happy to just go along for the ride as Sam works him open and full.
Dean’s halfway to humming with it when Sam’s other hand scrapes hard up his side and Sam says, "Dean-" in this broken, brain-damaged voice.
Dean doesn't even have to think about it-which is a good thing-he just reaches back and runs his hand up Sam's thigh and tugs Sam into him. "Come on," Dean murmurs, still writhing on the end of Sam's fingers. "C'mon. You know I want it. Do it - fuck me. You want me to beg again, Sammy? I will, swear to God…I'll fucking do whatev…"
And then Sam's fingers are out of him and he's whimpering (another thing he'll totally fucking deny) and Sam's fumbling with his pants and it's too goddamn long before that hard lanky body is back against his, cock sliding between Dean's legs and Dean puts his forehead down again and just lets it go.
It is a bit uncomfortable as Sam first thrusts in and Dean bites down on his lip, breath hissing out against the Impala's paint as Sam pulls him back and onto him. Still pretty damn good though. And even better on the second stroke when Sam slick/slide/scrapes across just the right place and Dean's hips buck.
"Dean-" Dean feels the trembling build up in Sam, tiny stuttering shakes that make his rhythm falter. Dean plants his elbows more firmly and pushes back, fucking himself on Sam. The warm hazy glow of Sam inside him ratchets up another notch, the two of them flexing and moving together like different parts of the same machine. "Dean-"
"Yeah," Dean says. He's too blissed out, too fucking loose to get hard again, but the feel of Sam in him is damn fine all on its own, as is the soft rising keen of Sam's voice as he shudders and drives his way towards his own climax. "C'mon Sammy. Yeah. Harder. Do it harder."
Sam cries out at that, fingers digging into Dean's flesh as he thrusts harder, deeper; once, twice, and then he's coming, both hands on Dean's shoulders and burying himself so far in Dean it feels like Dean can taste him. Dean cries out too; somehow his legs go swimmy and weak and his spent cock rallies just enough for one half-pulsing spurt.
Sam collapses on him, and Dean's so fucking done even he doesn't have any kind of comeback or complaint. About any of this. Ever. Life is good.
They just lean there, breathing together, for a few moments. Slowly the rustling, chirping sounds of the night become audible again. Sam breathes in and leans up, tucking himself away - motherfucker, he’s still got all his clothes on - before putting Dean’s wardrobe to rights again as well. Dean’s hands stubbornly follow after Sam’s, getting there a half-second too late to be of any help with the pull-zip-tug of Sam’s efficiency. Bastard.
He manhandles Dean back into the car and drops his own rolled-up jacket into Dean’s lap. By the time Dean’s worked out what it’s for and tucks it between his head and the window, they’ve started driving again, Sam singing softly, grinning and tapping out the baseline on his thigh. Entirely too pleased with himself. Lucky that Dean's too interested in a long nap to bitch about it.
The last thought Dean has would jar him back awake were he not so damn tired and fucked out: "When the hell did I say it was okay for Sam to drive?"
Title: Like a Hurricane
Authors: mona1347 & poisontaster
Pairing: Sam/Dean - Wincest ahead!
Rating: Adult. Shame, point and plot-free porn.
Soundtrack (because that’s how we roll): Scorpions - Rock You Like a Hurricane
Authors' Note: Sex in two parts. Because for some odd reason, Dean took over this story about half-way through. He says that he is prettier than everyone in the room and so he can do that if he wants to. Then he *pouts* and it's very pretty. So we just let him get away with it because we're slutty like that.
mona1347: Pet me
poisontaster: *pets* What's up chiquita?
mona1347: I'm just all wacked out, I think. See I have that manic crackrock writing thing happening?
poisontaster: ?
mona1347: Except without the writing part.
poisontaster: Oh.
mona1347: Yeah. *SIGH*
poisontaster: *pets* I'm sorry. How can I help?
mona1347: I don't know. I think I want to porn or something.
poisontaster: ME TOO! Why can't we porn?
mona1347: Okay let's porn *looks around*
poisontaster: Okay. Porn away.
mona1347: Yeah. Okay. Let’s porn. Um.
poisontaster: Who are we porning? Sam/Dean?
mona1347: Well YES.
poisontaster: LOL.
mona1347: Who else do we have a hope of porning?
poisontaster: Hey, I've porned other people!
mona1347: I mean like right now. We’re pwned and stuff.
poisontaster: Okay yes.
mona1347: Scenario? Should we make this like an independent scenario? From everything else we’ve done?
poisontaster: Sure. Yes. Let's do something new.
mona1347: Just...porny goodness?
poisontaster: YES.
mona1347: okay excellent *lights cigarette* *turns up music*
[PAUSE]
mona1347: This is the part where we porn isn't it?
poisontaster: Yes…um…Car porn?
mona1347: Car porn! Yes. Metallicar needs love.
poisontaster: I want to bend SOMEONE over the Impala, dammit.
mona1347: Front seat? Then move to Impala hood?
poisontaster: Okay. Or trunk? It's ALWAYS the hood.
mona1347: Mmm yes. The trunk is good (that took me too long to type). The trunk is...squarer.
poisontaster: YES. And sturdier!
mona1347: Yes. And less likely to be very hot to the touch
poisontaster: Yes! So who's topping? You know my vote.
mona1347: I, too, vote Sam.
poisontaster: Yay! *dances you*
mona1347: LOL! I love us.
poisontaster: LOL. Yes. Me too.
~
(1)
Sam
Dean's eyelids are drooping a little as he drives so Sam keeps trying to talk to him, keep him awake, you know? But Dean is cranky and terse as Dean is so fucking often wont to be, so Sam cranks up the Scorpions and says something to the effect of "Fine. Jesus, Mr. Crankypants. Maybe this will improve your little bitchy-ass mood."
Both of them nod along half-heartedly to the music for a while, but they're not talking and Sam is still ridiculously bored. They're in the middle of absolutely nothing -- corner of "no" and "where" -- black road stretching out before and behind them. It's like the universe contains only the two of them, nestled snug together inside the Impala under cover of darkness.
Which...is not a bad thought. Not at all. In fact...Sam thinks that's a pretty fine thought. And he slides sideways, leaning a little towards Dean.
Dean is crumpled and rumbly, tired and twitchy, all keyed up but utterly exhausted. He clearly needs to chill the fuck out. So Sam reaches over, nearly casual, puts his hand on Dean's thigh and just...kneads. Dean kind of stiffens but only licks his lips and tightens his hands on the wheel. Eyes on the road, not even a glance. So Sam slides a little closer, curves toward and around Dean, and rubs his lips against the cotton t-shirt. Just...nuzzles Dean's shoulder. Like a question.
Dean shrugs him off. But he still doesn't say anything and doesn't take Sam's hand off his thigh. Sam thinks, "Oh, so that’s the game, huh? We’ll see about that."
Sam sits up, puts one arm on the backseat behind Dean, and slides his hand further up and inside Dean's thigh, running his thumb over that inner, fleshy, sensitive part and now this is nothing but exactly what it is.
Dean shifts his hips and bites his bottom lip for just a minute but keeps looking at the road; Sam can feel the fabric of Dean's pants stretching and tightening near his fingertips. Dean's getting hard and there's heat coming off him like a furnace.
Then Sam leans over and puts his lips on the skin behind Dean's ear, a spot he knows Dean is extra sensitive, scrapes his teeth lightly against the skin and whispers, "You're gonna say my name, Dean."
At the same time, he slides his hand over Dean's crotch. Still in that gentle kneading motion. Deans lips part and a little puff of breath, a non-sound, comes out on the exhale. The car swerves. Not a lot; Dean's not about to wreck the Impala, for Christ's sake. But enough to cross the center line and veer back.
"Can you handle this, Dean? If I jerked you off right here in the front seat? My hand, wrapped around you? Would we crash?" Dean shudders and Sam continues on, "What if it was my mouth? Think you could control the car still? If I licked you down my throat like you were fucking ice cream?"
Dean's eyelashes flutter and his legs part a little bit.
Sam says, "Oh no. No closing your eyes if you're going to just keep driving, Dean. If you keep pretending you don't love this. Keep pretending that there's just nothing going on at all. That you don't give a shit if I keep doing this..."
Dean hisses, "Fuck!" and jerks the car over to the side of the road with a screech. Rips the keys out of the ignition and grabs the back of Sam's neck, pulling him in for a scorching kiss; all tongue and teeth.
Sam's not bored anymore and Dean is very much awake.
Dean gasps and arches his back when Sam unzips his pants, brushing against his cock through cotton and Sam says, "That's more like it."
"Would you just...shut the fuck up and keep doing that...yes, fuck, that right th...ah...fuck, Sammy…"
Sam's grin is huge. "Like that, do you?" And he so knows that Dean does.
"Oh my god, dude, stop. Talking. And fuck me!"
But oh no. Sam's not going to make it that easy. "Oh come on Dean, you watch Oprah. You should know the importance of foreplay."
(2)
Dean
Sam's hand moves away from Dean's dick and Dean's confused for a second, "Wai-- I didn't mean... Are you stopping?" but Sam's grabbed him by the front of the shirt and is dragging him to the other side of the car. Sam opens the door and they tumble out. He slams Dean up against the back door and rubs their bodies together in a long hard grind.
"Too many clothes," Dean mutters, fingers tangling in Sam's belt. "Why the hell do you wear so many goddamn clothes? All these fuckin’ layers, Sammy...seriously."
Sam pulls Dean's head back by the hair. "Man, if you can do this much talking, I must not be doing this right." He licks up the side of Dean’s neck in a line of wet heat, making Dean shudder from head to toe, then drops to his knees.
Dean just makes this noise before Sam even touches him. This groaning, gasping, needy noise and rises up on his toes, hips pistoning. Sam wraps his hands around Dean's hips, thumbs smoothing into the hollows, pushing Dean's ass back against the car, retaining control.
Dean doesn’t know what to do with himself, reaching up to clutch hard on the edge of the roof as he whimpers, "Sammy, please..."
"Mmm" Sam hums against the soft skin of Dean's cock. Not taking him in yet, but right there, breath ghosting over sensitive flesh. "I like the sound of that. Say it again."
Dean gasps hard, like the breath he needs to say anything just whooshed out of his lungs at the thought.
"Say it, Dean…come on."
"Sammy. Oh God, Sam."
"Say 'please', Dean. Say 'Sam, please'…" One wet swirl, just over the very tip, collecting the perfect droplet of liquid gathering in the slit.
"Fuck. Fine. Fine, goddamm it… Please Sam, please suck me. Whatever… Sammy, I'll say whatever you want I'll --" but it gets choked off as Sam sucks the head of Dean's cock into his mouth and then further, all the way down into his throat in one thrust. Dean keens and his hips thrust forward again but they can't get any lift because Sam's huge hands are clenched around his hip bones, pressing him into the warm metal. "Sam... Sam... fuck. Just let me, let me..."
Sam pulls off his cock with a wet luscious pop that makes Dean's stomach clench. "Let you what, Dean?" Dean groans at the loss of sensation, muscles clamped tight from his shoulders to his calves.
Sam squints up at him, grinning all crooked. His mouth is wet, shiny with spit, and when his tongue creeps out to swipe over his swollen lower lip, Dean thinks he could just about come from that sight alone.
"You like this, Dean? Being out here in the middle of nowhere with your cock down my throat? You like it maybe if I slip my fingers here..." Sam makes tiny firm circles with his first finger, pressing up between Dean's balls. Dean yelps this time, and fucked if he's admitting to any of this shit later. Sam shifts one of his hands to slide between Dean's legs, short nails slipping along the taut bridge of flesh between Dean's balls and his ass. "'Cause I think you do."
Sam slips his finger around, in a slow hard caress, to circle Dean's ass and says, "What if I fucked you? Out here in the dark? In front of God and all the woodland creatures? What if I bend you. Over. This car. And fuck you till you scream?"
"Sam..." It's not even a sound. Dean doesn't know what it is. He's not breathing, so it can't be breath.
“Yeah" Sam says, like he's privately decided something, like he’s come to an inescapable resolution, like Dean doesn’t factor in at all. He stands back up and twists his hands in Dean's shirt, pulling Dean into him, invading Dean's mouth with filthy wet kisses. Tongue sliding and stroking into Dean's mouth, like Sam's trying to taste him from the inside out. He tastes like Sam and he tastes like Dean’s cock and Dean thinks that the combination might be the best, the rightest, taste ever.
Sam grabs Dean by the shoulder and spins him laterally, along the side of the car, and -- whumph -- Dean goes face first over the trunk. The breath goes out of Dean again, this time in a huff, but the impact still goes straight to his cock, so hard he thinks he might blow it right there. Right there, rubbing the wet head of his dick slickly up against the metal of his car and fuck that would just be a whole new level of kink to deal with. Getting seriously off on being bent over his own goddamn cock-rock muscle car, knowing that his baby brother is about to fuck him like that…that’s about all the kink Dean thinks he can stand without frying his brain completely.
Sam leans into him, rocking slow and teasing against Dean's naked ass, and Dean realizes the fucker is still completely clothed. Because Sam is a sneaky little manipulating bastard and those hands and that smile and the puppy-dog-eyes-from-hell have always made the very worst ideas seem like a genius plan.
Sam leans in, breath brushing Dean's ear. "I think we got a problem, big brother. Because I am going to have that sweet ass of yours. But we don't have a drop of lube."
"Sam--" Dean groans. This shouldn't be hot. This shouldn't be so fucking hot.
"Now we can go at it dry..." Sam's hand smoothes over the back of Dean's thigh, up over the cheek of his ass and then down, between the cleft to brush light and teasing over the furled bud and Dean's so wild for it he's almost thinking "yes yes yes do it god do it anyway do it."
"Or maybe..." Dean doesn’t know how Sam can sound so calm, so fucking speculative when he can feel Sam, hard as a tire iron against his hip. "Maybe I'll make you come all over my hand first, and I'll fuck you with that." Sam's quick on the draw. Dean's gotta give him that.
And also, oh holy god. Because Sam’s words go straight to Dean's cock, and that might have been it, just it right there if Sam didn't wrap long fingers around the base of Dean's cock and squeeze a choked sound of out him as his head spins with near-orgasm.
“Don’t think it’ll take long at this rate, huh Dean?” The smirk is almost entirely audible and would be really irritating under any other circumstance. But Sam’s hand slides up, twisting the flat of his palm over the head and Dean’s fingers scramble wildly, trying to find a hand-hold on the smooth metal. His forehead thunks down between his forearms and he couldn’t even begin to try to classify the noise he makes when Sam does it again, and again, and again, squeezing the base on the down-stroke, making it last even longer than it should; though Dean knows Sam must be ready -- now, yesterday, back when they were still driving -- by the way he’s thrusting his own denim-clad hardness against Dean’s ass like a promise.
“Yeah. Come on, Dean. Come for me. Don’t make me wait. Come for me so I can fuck you.”
The black of nighttime and Detroit steel whites out before Dean’s gaze and he’s coming so hard, so much, shuddering red-hot sensation shooting from Sam’s hand pressing against his spine, holding him down, through his body and out his dick, clenched in Sam’s fist.
When Dean can finally breathe again, see again, he feels the palm of Sam's clever hand cupped, smoothing over his cock head, slick and hot and wet. Sam murmurs something like, "Didn't even mess up the paint job," but then the hand slides up and back, rubbing at Dean's opening, palm as flat as he can make it, then using the callused side to spread the liquid around and then - oh fucking hell -- inside. Dean moans, thrusts back towards Sam, and could probably come again if they were still teenagers. As it is, it only takes Sam about a half-second to hit that sweet spot and Dean’s more than happy to just go along for the ride as Sam works him open and full.
Dean’s halfway to humming with it when Sam’s other hand scrapes hard up his side and Sam says, "Dean-" in this broken, brain-damaged voice.
Dean doesn't even have to think about it-which is a good thing-he just reaches back and runs his hand up Sam's thigh and tugs Sam into him. "Come on," Dean murmurs, still writhing on the end of Sam's fingers. "C'mon. You know I want it. Do it - fuck me. You want me to beg again, Sammy? I will, swear to God…I'll fucking do whatev…"
And then Sam's fingers are out of him and he's whimpering (another thing he'll totally fucking deny) and Sam's fumbling with his pants and it's too goddamn long before that hard lanky body is back against his, cock sliding between Dean's legs and Dean puts his forehead down again and just lets it go.
It is a bit uncomfortable as Sam first thrusts in and Dean bites down on his lip, breath hissing out against the Impala's paint as Sam pulls him back and onto him. Still pretty damn good though. And even better on the second stroke when Sam slick/slide/scrapes across just the right place and Dean's hips buck.
"Dean-" Dean feels the trembling build up in Sam, tiny stuttering shakes that make his rhythm falter. Dean plants his elbows more firmly and pushes back, fucking himself on Sam. The warm hazy glow of Sam inside him ratchets up another notch, the two of them flexing and moving together like different parts of the same machine. "Dean-"
"Yeah," Dean says. He's too blissed out, too fucking loose to get hard again, but the feel of Sam in him is damn fine all on its own, as is the soft rising keen of Sam's voice as he shudders and drives his way towards his own climax. "C'mon Sammy. Yeah. Harder. Do it harder."
Sam cries out at that, fingers digging into Dean's flesh as he thrusts harder, deeper; once, twice, and then he's coming, both hands on Dean's shoulders and burying himself so far in Dean it feels like Dean can taste him. Dean cries out too; somehow his legs go swimmy and weak and his spent cock rallies just enough for one half-pulsing spurt.
Sam collapses on him, and Dean's so fucking done even he doesn't have any kind of comeback or complaint. About any of this. Ever. Life is good.
They just lean there, breathing together, for a few moments. Slowly the rustling, chirping sounds of the night become audible again. Sam breathes in and leans up, tucking himself away - motherfucker, he’s still got all his clothes on - before putting Dean’s wardrobe to rights again as well. Dean’s hands stubbornly follow after Sam’s, getting there a half-second too late to be of any help with the pull-zip-tug of Sam’s efficiency. Bastard.
He manhandles Dean back into the car and drops his own rolled-up jacket into Dean’s lap. By the time Dean’s worked out what it’s for and tucks it between his head and the window, they’ve started driving again, Sam singing softly, grinning and tapping out the baseline on his thigh. Entirely too pleased with himself. Lucky that Dean's too interested in a long nap to bitch about it.
The last thought Dean has would jar him back awake were he not so damn tired and fucked out: "When the hell did I say it was okay for Sam to drive?"