Fic: Face Down Like The Jack of Hearts (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
Title: Face Down Like The Jack of Hearts
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary/Notes: Wrote this for salt_burn_porn for the prompt, 'It itches. Literally!' Unexpected pairing from me, but I only had 24 hours to write this and this was the first thing I thought of, and it then decided to prevent me from having any further thoughts. (NB: note the challenge comm. This is porn. S6, post-hiatus, soon to be very very Jossed porn, with no redeeming value.)
Word Count: 3,726
There's a look on Sam's face that Dean hasn't seen there in over a year - hell, hasn't seen there frequently in a damn sight longer than that. It's a childish look, almost, all scrunch-nosed concentration with an edge of guilt, the way Sam used to look when Dean glanced into the back sometimes to find him surreptitiously sneaking tomorrow's candy like he thought he could actually pull off the 'sneaking' part.
It's a dangerous look on Sam, and Dean's watched Sam's face for too long not to be able to guess what it means.
"Sam," he chides, voice low with warning, and reaches an arm across the front seat to thwack Sam in the knee. "Stop it."
Sam, predictably, looks offended. "What was that for?" he demands. There's a muscle twitching weirdly in his forehead. Sam's never, ever been good at pretending he doesn't know why he's in trouble. It'd be almost pitiful if Dean wasn't so goddamn terrified.
"You know what," Dean says shortly. It's early evening, the shadows stretching low and yellow over the tinder-dry roadside scrub that's been their only scenery for the last three hundred miles. They've been driving for close on seven hours, still in freakin' Texas yet, and Dean is not in the mood for this. "Leave it the hell alone, wouldja? Don't make me come over there."
For half a second, Sam looks as if he might be about to launch into some impassioned denial. Apparently, though, Sam is just as fed up as Dean is, because all he actually does is slump down in his seat until his knees are practically on the dash, and whine, "But I'm bored." Honest-to-God whines it, like he isn't twenty-seven years old and eight feet tall; like he's that petulant little kid again, and Dad's already told him twice to stop complaining. "And it itches, Dean. Literally. It's like - " and then he screws up his face again, the fucker, poking at that thing in his head right there in front of Dean, and Dean's had enough.
At the very least, when the wheels crunch up over the dirt-dry gravel of the shoulder, Sam doesn't look bored. He shoots a look at Dean, eyes wide and bemused, but, hell, he isn't wearing the 'itching powder in my shorts' face any more, which has to say something for this plan.
"Uh," says Sam, when Dean turns off the engine.
"We're taking a break," Dean tells him smartly, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to pop out the knots a day's driving has tied there.
"Dean." Sam's voice has gotten that Tone to it, the one Dean can't think about without automatically capitalising it in his mind. "In case you hadn't noticed, we're kind of in the middle of nowhere."
"Oh, I noticed," Dean says, voice tightening a little as he throws open the driver's side door. "But it's another hundred miles to the nearest two-horse town, and I can't let you stay bored all that time, Sam." He climbs stiffly out of the car; knits his fingers together and pushes his hands up over his head, stretching out until his knuckles crack.
Sam lets him do it for a second, and then another, without saying anything, and Dean's just started to wonder whether this is actually going to work at all when he hears Sam's door creaking open, the dry sound of rubber on dirt that tells him Sam is getting out to join him.
"Five minutes," Sam says, sounding disgruntled, as he settles himself on the broad hood of the car. "And only because every single part of me hurts. Okay?" Then he snorts, the bastard. "Forgive me if I don't think there's much you could find out here to keep me entertained."
And, that - that's exactly where Sam is wrong. Or at least, Dean hopes so, anyway. After all, it's been a while, and Dean can't be sure that Death didn't decide that all the gay sibling incest probably counted as a traumatic memory Sam would deal better without. Hell, maybe Sam's free of that, now - maybe all the times Dean swallowed him down until his eyes watered, all the times Sam's fingers bit bruises into Dean's hips as he came, maybe they're all tucked neatly away somewhere he doesn't have to think about them, safe behind that wall. Maybe, when Sam looks at him now, there's nothing in it that isn't all apple-pie normal; no fine thread of guilty heat that's been wound around his throat for years. For all Dean knows, Sam could actually be normal, now - could actually be able to move on from all those years of crazy, fucked-up wanting.
Maybe, if Dean were a better person, he wouldn't be hoping Sam still remembered. But he isn't. And he does. And if he stands even a chance of keeping Sam distracted this way, then, fuck it, he's gonna take it. There's fucked up, and then there's fucked up, and Dean knows the difference. If the other option is a Sam with a mind pulped bloody by the sheer weight of its own trauma, Dean'll take the guy who puts the moves on his brother any day, and not just because of the blowjobs.
Evening's creeping in pink on the horizon, and Sam's eyes are fixed upon it, knees fallen open in a loose vee that Dean fits himself into easily, as he has a hundred thousand times before. Sam laughs, short and sharp, more like he's surprised than anything, and shakes his head at Dean's cocked eyebrow. "You're kidding, right?"
"Why would I be?" Dean tosses back, loose and casual, like he doesn't give a fuck what Sam might say. Like he could just back off with a shrug and claim prank, if Sam said we're brothers, man, all unknowing, or, worse, I thought we weren't gonna do this any more. Like Dean could laugh, too, and move on, no harm, no foul.
"We're in the middle of the road, Dean," Sam says, and for half a second it's the sweetest fucking piece of prissy reasoning Dean's ever heard. Then Sam's hands find his waist, gripping loosely, and he forgets about everything but the warmth of them, the easy reach of Sam's long fingers.
"Nuh-uh," he counters, letting his fingers gravitate tentatively upward over the jut of Sam's hip, up to where layers of shirt pose a semi-permeable barrier to the heat of his body. "We're actually on the shoulder. It's totally legal to stop here."
His heart is pounding thunderously in his throat, fine vein of it pulsing just below his ear as he flattens his palm and waits to be pushed away. But Sam's hands only shift to pull him closer, thumbs making thoughtful little circles as he smiles. "Pretty sure that doesn't make it totally legal to fuck here."
Relief leaps like bile in the pit of Dean's stomach, punching out of him in a harsh little breath, something close to a gasp. "Correct me if I'm wrong, brother," he says, "but I don't think it's the charming outdoor setting that's making this little shindig illegal."
Sam's smile quirks, twitching up at the corners. "Huh," he says, eyebrows raised, as if Dean had just rolled out some finely nuanced argument he'd never have come up with on his own. He shuffles forward a little on the hood until his feet are on the ground; pulls Dean firm against him until Dean is half-unbalanced, entirely reliant on Sam's support. "That's a pretty good point," Sam says.
It's been over a year, but Sam's mouth on his is just as soft and sure as Dean remembers, almost casual, like this isn't the first time they've done this since that mouth and the body attached to it were remade. Dean's fisted his hands in the front of Sam's shirt before he remembers that he'd sworn off doing that, mostly because it kind of made him feel like Ingrid Bergman in some black-and-white about doomed lovers. He's trying to decide whether he actually gives enough of a fuck to let go - because it does feel good like this, holding Sam right where he wants him while Dean tongues at his mouth - when Sam dwarfs the issue somewhat by lifting Dean bodily by the ass, the fucker, and setting him down again on the hood of the car.
"Dude," Dean protests when Sam breaks away to nip at the line of his jaw, sharp little flashes of teeth between drags of his tongue which, yes, okay, feel fucking fantastic. "I'm not freaking Scarlett O'Hara, in case you hadn't noticed."
Sam's always had some kind of thing for this, kissing damp and slack-mouthed up to the smooth place behind Dean's ear that inevitably makes him writhe and moan, and apparently, his stint in Hell hasn't knocked it out of him. It's not until he's quite done sucking on Dean's earlobe that he spares Dean the courtesy of arching an eyebrow and saying, "So stop me, then," which is really, which, which is not fair play. Dean makes a mental note to roll out a lecture on basic decent behaviour, or honour among thieves or some shit, when he can gather the wherewithal to actually lift his head up off the damn hood.
"Sam," he says instead, and it isn't a no, and it isn't stop, but, God, it is Sam grinning at how incapacitated he is already, just from a bit of necking, sprawled out over the hood of his own car like a freaking girl, and the joy of that simple truth is so incredible that he doesn't even care about anything else. "Sam," he says, and Sam's eyes are washed dark like he wants him, and that's all Dean needs to know.
Dean's never quite gotten used to just how massive Sam has turned out to be, and it's never more obvious than when he's under him like this, Sam's hands spanning Dean's wrists effortlessly, his broad chest pinning Dean strong and certain to the car. Dean would never openly concede just how much he likes to be held down, to be supported, but he's pretty sure Sam's smart enough to have worked it out for himself, and that's all that matters. His mouth is hot on Dean's, always so hot, hands coming up to grip Dean's face as he tongues his mouth, obscene and slow and deep. Dean moans, can't bite it back and can't be bothered to try, his own hands tugging impulsively at the hem of Sam's shirt, pulling fistfuls of fabric out of his jeans until he can slide his hands up and over skin.
Sam moans, too, at that; presses himself down more firmly against Dean, ridge of his cock hot and hard under denim. Dean rolls his hips up, sliding his palms further up over taut muscle until his thumbs find Sam's nipples, and Sam gasps roughly into Dean's mouth, the kiss going wet and slack as he shivers under the touch. They're both shifting against each other now, the thick heat of Sam's cock pressed flush against Dean's through their jeans, and suddenly it doesn't matter any more that it's a not-terribly-warm evening on some empty Texas freeway; Dean is not gonna be content with a blowjob.
The fine skin of Sam's stomach leaps beneath Dean's fingers as he fumbles for his belt-buckle, Sam's mouth stilling against his as he arches his back, wanting, trying to make the angle easier on Dean's wrist. "Fuck," he pants, into the dark space between their lips, when Dean finally gets the belt open and the button undone, and Dean has to take a moment to breathe through the wave of heat that wells up in him like blood from a fresh wound.
The sound Sam makes when Dean actually gets a hand inside his shorts and around him is low and stuttered like the jerk of his hips into Dean's fist, all the slicked hot weight of him smooth and heavy in the circle of Dean's fingers. He's leaking, strings of precome smearing under Dean's thumb, and that'll make it easier, Dean thinks, if neither of them has anything, if -
"Dean," Sam grits through his teeth, yanking Dean's belt out of the buckle with more aggression than skill. "Ohgod, Dean," and then his hand is on Dean's cock, the other tunnelling between his underwear and his skin to cradle his balls, and, fuck, Dean has to stop this if he doesn't want to come right now.
His hand is trembling when he takes hold of Sam's wrist, fingers sticky with Sam's own precome, and Sam looks utterly confused for a moment, eyes wide and so close to stricken that Dean has to lean up to kiss him again, lick at his mouth until that look is gone. When he pulls away, Sam's wrist still held fast in the circle of his fingers, Sam still looks pretty confused, but without the same edge of anxiety.
"Sam," Dean says - takes hold of his jeans and boxers, and shoves them unceremoniously down to his knees. "Want you to fuck me, dude. You got any...?" He gestures with two fingers, in what he hopes is a reasonably comprehensible mime for 'lube'.
Sam's expression remains at 'confused' for perhaps another quarter of a second. What happens to it after that, Dean doesn't exactly get a good look at, mostly because he finds himself facedown over the hood, Sam's cock nudging slickly at the small of his back.
"Oh, shit, Dean," Sam says; rubs his mouth wet and open against the nape of Dean's neck until Dean groans against the back of his hand. Sam's panting, hips jerking incrementally, and his tongue rubs flat and hot and perfect over the skin of Dean's nape. "Just stay, okay - you just - God, gonna fuck you so hard, just - "
Dean kind of wants to point out that he's not exactly likely to just up and wander off, but then Sam shifts away, the wind whipping chill in his absence over the back of Dean's neck. He's just about to protest when he feels Sam's fingers elsewhere, parting his thighs with gentle insistence, and he shudders out a breath and concentrates on not coming instead.
Apparently Sam's been carrying lube in the pockets of his jacket this whole time, which, okay, is probably not all that surprising, given what little Dean saw of the sexual exploits of RoboSam - but Dean doesn't want to think about that right now. Mostly, right now he'd rather concentrate on the way Sam's fingers work him open, deft little passes of the tips of them over him there until the muscle starts to unclench in helpless submission. Sam's good at this; better still when Dean's loose enough that he can work a finger inside, torqued thrusts of it in and out, and then another, until Dean's moaning, leaking precome all over the hood of his precious car and not giving a damn.
"Come on," he rasps out; raises his hips and fucks himself back hard onto Sam's fingers, wanting more, wanting Sam to fill him right up. "Sam, come on, I'm ready, come on - " and Sam's laughing, the little bitch; laughing as he crooks and presses right there so Dean's cut off mid-sentence, moaning and jerking on Sam's fingers.
"I got you," Sam says, pulling out his fingers in a slow drag that sets Dean twitching with want. He's empty without them, God, so fucking empty, but then the tip of Sam's cock is all hot and slick and there and Dean rocks back against it; bites down on the heel of his hand.
He cries out, anyway, when Sam pushes inside of him, long slow thrust splitting him thorough and deep. "Sam," he gets out, mouth mashed helplessly against his hand, "Sam, Jesus. Do it, come on, fuck."
He can tell by the catch of Sam's breath that he's in no mood to tease, and Dean's grateful, nerves all alight just with this, the familiar burn of Sam, his Sam, inside of him, where he belongs. Sam's fingers find his hipbones and bracket them tightly, pulling Dean up against him as he thrusts, and Dean arches his back, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the frictionless hood as Sam's pelvis pistons forward. It's rough, inelegant, Sam's stomach sweat-sticky at the small of Dean's back and Dean's cock skidding hot over metal with every push, but it's the best sex Dean's had since they opened the cage and he wants, Christ, he never wants Sam to stop.
Not that Sam would. He's speeding up, now, one hand migrated to the meat of Dean's thigh the better to pin him as Sam snaps in and out of him, long hard pushes that rasp over his prostate and build a bank of white like mercury behind Dean's eyes. It's good, fuck; Dean's probably making all kinds of indistinct noises, but Sam is, too, cries wrenched out of him with every smack of his pelvis against Dean's ass, and Dean can't cope under the onslaught, he can't.
"Sam," he manages, like it's any kind of a warning, and then Sam's right there again, one last slammed spark that sets him all alight like tinder, body arching, toes curling in his boots as he comes.
"Dean," Sam gets out, wrecked and dry and panting in his ear, and he's still moving, fucking Dean through the aftershocks, but Sam never could last long with Dean clenching around him like this, and Dean can feel him throbbing, breath going short and fractured as he comes apart.
Turns out that the hood of the Impala becomes instantly less comfortable the moment Dean's no longer being fucked on it. Sam pulls out of him slowly, carefully, but the moment he straightens up it's as if Dean's body has just caught up with what's been happening to it, and promptly begins to ache everywhere.
"Christ," he says; rolls over with an effort and blinks up at Sam, a broad dark shape against the greying sky.
"Old bones," Sam says, knowing already, of course, exactly what Dean was planning on complaining about. He offers a hand, which Dean takes gratefully. "Never mind. You can have first shower when we find a motel."
"Damn right I will," Dean tells him, grumbling a little for effect as he rebuttons his pants. Pretty nasty, really - there's come all over the hood of the car, for one thing, and he leans over, nose scrunched, to wipe at it distastefully with his t-shirt. Sam hovers by his elbow, still smiling, but there's something in his eyes - uncertain, maybe; kind of hopeful.
"Maybe I'll join you in it," Sam says, after a moment, and then Dean understands - bites back a smile that threatens to split his face, despite the fact that he aches everywhere and there's come leaking out of his ass.
"Damn right you will," he says, and opens the car door. "Then hopefully you won't be bored."
Sam pulls a face, but there's affection under it, and relief, boundless relief, as he gets into his seat; and really, why were they both so stupid? They could have been doing this weeks ago, if they hadn't both been such damn fools about it. Really, for a guy who's so big on effective communication, Sam doesn't seem to have been doing too much of it lately. Dean throws Sam a languid grin across the front seat. Hopefully it's a clear enough communication for now.
"How far'd you say it was to the next town?" Sam asks, as they pull back off onto the road. It's still empty, vast and endless and dry.
"Hundred miles," Dean says, shrugging, "Give or take. If you feel yourself getting bored, I think there's a pen and paper under the seat. You can make a list of all the things we're gonna do when we find a bed."
Laughter punches out of Sam like a bullet, sharp and fierce and gloriously bright. "I think that might take some time, Dean."
"Good," Dean says; fumbles the cassette out of the deck and turns it over. "Got to keep you entertained somehow, right?"
Sam rolls his eyes and makes a show of looking out of the window, like there's anything to see except desert and scrub, but Dean caught his smile before he turned, and isn't fooled.
****
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary/Notes: Wrote this for salt_burn_porn for the prompt, 'It itches. Literally!' Unexpected pairing from me, but I only had 24 hours to write this and this was the first thing I thought of, and it then decided to prevent me from having any further thoughts. (NB: note the challenge comm. This is porn. S6, post-hiatus, soon to be very very Jossed porn, with no redeeming value.)
Word Count: 3,726
There's a look on Sam's face that Dean hasn't seen there in over a year - hell, hasn't seen there frequently in a damn sight longer than that. It's a childish look, almost, all scrunch-nosed concentration with an edge of guilt, the way Sam used to look when Dean glanced into the back sometimes to find him surreptitiously sneaking tomorrow's candy like he thought he could actually pull off the 'sneaking' part.
It's a dangerous look on Sam, and Dean's watched Sam's face for too long not to be able to guess what it means.
"Sam," he chides, voice low with warning, and reaches an arm across the front seat to thwack Sam in the knee. "Stop it."
Sam, predictably, looks offended. "What was that for?" he demands. There's a muscle twitching weirdly in his forehead. Sam's never, ever been good at pretending he doesn't know why he's in trouble. It'd be almost pitiful if Dean wasn't so goddamn terrified.
"You know what," Dean says shortly. It's early evening, the shadows stretching low and yellow over the tinder-dry roadside scrub that's been their only scenery for the last three hundred miles. They've been driving for close on seven hours, still in freakin' Texas yet, and Dean is not in the mood for this. "Leave it the hell alone, wouldja? Don't make me come over there."
For half a second, Sam looks as if he might be about to launch into some impassioned denial. Apparently, though, Sam is just as fed up as Dean is, because all he actually does is slump down in his seat until his knees are practically on the dash, and whine, "But I'm bored." Honest-to-God whines it, like he isn't twenty-seven years old and eight feet tall; like he's that petulant little kid again, and Dad's already told him twice to stop complaining. "And it itches, Dean. Literally. It's like - " and then he screws up his face again, the fucker, poking at that thing in his head right there in front of Dean, and Dean's had enough.
At the very least, when the wheels crunch up over the dirt-dry gravel of the shoulder, Sam doesn't look bored. He shoots a look at Dean, eyes wide and bemused, but, hell, he isn't wearing the 'itching powder in my shorts' face any more, which has to say something for this plan.
"Uh," says Sam, when Dean turns off the engine.
"We're taking a break," Dean tells him smartly, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to pop out the knots a day's driving has tied there.
"Dean." Sam's voice has gotten that Tone to it, the one Dean can't think about without automatically capitalising it in his mind. "In case you hadn't noticed, we're kind of in the middle of nowhere."
"Oh, I noticed," Dean says, voice tightening a little as he throws open the driver's side door. "But it's another hundred miles to the nearest two-horse town, and I can't let you stay bored all that time, Sam." He climbs stiffly out of the car; knits his fingers together and pushes his hands up over his head, stretching out until his knuckles crack.
Sam lets him do it for a second, and then another, without saying anything, and Dean's just started to wonder whether this is actually going to work at all when he hears Sam's door creaking open, the dry sound of rubber on dirt that tells him Sam is getting out to join him.
"Five minutes," Sam says, sounding disgruntled, as he settles himself on the broad hood of the car. "And only because every single part of me hurts. Okay?" Then he snorts, the bastard. "Forgive me if I don't think there's much you could find out here to keep me entertained."
And, that - that's exactly where Sam is wrong. Or at least, Dean hopes so, anyway. After all, it's been a while, and Dean can't be sure that Death didn't decide that all the gay sibling incest probably counted as a traumatic memory Sam would deal better without. Hell, maybe Sam's free of that, now - maybe all the times Dean swallowed him down until his eyes watered, all the times Sam's fingers bit bruises into Dean's hips as he came, maybe they're all tucked neatly away somewhere he doesn't have to think about them, safe behind that wall. Maybe, when Sam looks at him now, there's nothing in it that isn't all apple-pie normal; no fine thread of guilty heat that's been wound around his throat for years. For all Dean knows, Sam could actually be normal, now - could actually be able to move on from all those years of crazy, fucked-up wanting.
Maybe, if Dean were a better person, he wouldn't be hoping Sam still remembered. But he isn't. And he does. And if he stands even a chance of keeping Sam distracted this way, then, fuck it, he's gonna take it. There's fucked up, and then there's fucked up, and Dean knows the difference. If the other option is a Sam with a mind pulped bloody by the sheer weight of its own trauma, Dean'll take the guy who puts the moves on his brother any day, and not just because of the blowjobs.
Evening's creeping in pink on the horizon, and Sam's eyes are fixed upon it, knees fallen open in a loose vee that Dean fits himself into easily, as he has a hundred thousand times before. Sam laughs, short and sharp, more like he's surprised than anything, and shakes his head at Dean's cocked eyebrow. "You're kidding, right?"
"Why would I be?" Dean tosses back, loose and casual, like he doesn't give a fuck what Sam might say. Like he could just back off with a shrug and claim prank, if Sam said we're brothers, man, all unknowing, or, worse, I thought we weren't gonna do this any more. Like Dean could laugh, too, and move on, no harm, no foul.
"We're in the middle of the road, Dean," Sam says, and for half a second it's the sweetest fucking piece of prissy reasoning Dean's ever heard. Then Sam's hands find his waist, gripping loosely, and he forgets about everything but the warmth of them, the easy reach of Sam's long fingers.
"Nuh-uh," he counters, letting his fingers gravitate tentatively upward over the jut of Sam's hip, up to where layers of shirt pose a semi-permeable barrier to the heat of his body. "We're actually on the shoulder. It's totally legal to stop here."
His heart is pounding thunderously in his throat, fine vein of it pulsing just below his ear as he flattens his palm and waits to be pushed away. But Sam's hands only shift to pull him closer, thumbs making thoughtful little circles as he smiles. "Pretty sure that doesn't make it totally legal to fuck here."
Relief leaps like bile in the pit of Dean's stomach, punching out of him in a harsh little breath, something close to a gasp. "Correct me if I'm wrong, brother," he says, "but I don't think it's the charming outdoor setting that's making this little shindig illegal."
Sam's smile quirks, twitching up at the corners. "Huh," he says, eyebrows raised, as if Dean had just rolled out some finely nuanced argument he'd never have come up with on his own. He shuffles forward a little on the hood until his feet are on the ground; pulls Dean firm against him until Dean is half-unbalanced, entirely reliant on Sam's support. "That's a pretty good point," Sam says.
It's been over a year, but Sam's mouth on his is just as soft and sure as Dean remembers, almost casual, like this isn't the first time they've done this since that mouth and the body attached to it were remade. Dean's fisted his hands in the front of Sam's shirt before he remembers that he'd sworn off doing that, mostly because it kind of made him feel like Ingrid Bergman in some black-and-white about doomed lovers. He's trying to decide whether he actually gives enough of a fuck to let go - because it does feel good like this, holding Sam right where he wants him while Dean tongues at his mouth - when Sam dwarfs the issue somewhat by lifting Dean bodily by the ass, the fucker, and setting him down again on the hood of the car.
"Dude," Dean protests when Sam breaks away to nip at the line of his jaw, sharp little flashes of teeth between drags of his tongue which, yes, okay, feel fucking fantastic. "I'm not freaking Scarlett O'Hara, in case you hadn't noticed."
Sam's always had some kind of thing for this, kissing damp and slack-mouthed up to the smooth place behind Dean's ear that inevitably makes him writhe and moan, and apparently, his stint in Hell hasn't knocked it out of him. It's not until he's quite done sucking on Dean's earlobe that he spares Dean the courtesy of arching an eyebrow and saying, "So stop me, then," which is really, which, which is not fair play. Dean makes a mental note to roll out a lecture on basic decent behaviour, or honour among thieves or some shit, when he can gather the wherewithal to actually lift his head up off the damn hood.
"Sam," he says instead, and it isn't a no, and it isn't stop, but, God, it is Sam grinning at how incapacitated he is already, just from a bit of necking, sprawled out over the hood of his own car like a freaking girl, and the joy of that simple truth is so incredible that he doesn't even care about anything else. "Sam," he says, and Sam's eyes are washed dark like he wants him, and that's all Dean needs to know.
Dean's never quite gotten used to just how massive Sam has turned out to be, and it's never more obvious than when he's under him like this, Sam's hands spanning Dean's wrists effortlessly, his broad chest pinning Dean strong and certain to the car. Dean would never openly concede just how much he likes to be held down, to be supported, but he's pretty sure Sam's smart enough to have worked it out for himself, and that's all that matters. His mouth is hot on Dean's, always so hot, hands coming up to grip Dean's face as he tongues his mouth, obscene and slow and deep. Dean moans, can't bite it back and can't be bothered to try, his own hands tugging impulsively at the hem of Sam's shirt, pulling fistfuls of fabric out of his jeans until he can slide his hands up and over skin.
Sam moans, too, at that; presses himself down more firmly against Dean, ridge of his cock hot and hard under denim. Dean rolls his hips up, sliding his palms further up over taut muscle until his thumbs find Sam's nipples, and Sam gasps roughly into Dean's mouth, the kiss going wet and slack as he shivers under the touch. They're both shifting against each other now, the thick heat of Sam's cock pressed flush against Dean's through their jeans, and suddenly it doesn't matter any more that it's a not-terribly-warm evening on some empty Texas freeway; Dean is not gonna be content with a blowjob.
The fine skin of Sam's stomach leaps beneath Dean's fingers as he fumbles for his belt-buckle, Sam's mouth stilling against his as he arches his back, wanting, trying to make the angle easier on Dean's wrist. "Fuck," he pants, into the dark space between their lips, when Dean finally gets the belt open and the button undone, and Dean has to take a moment to breathe through the wave of heat that wells up in him like blood from a fresh wound.
The sound Sam makes when Dean actually gets a hand inside his shorts and around him is low and stuttered like the jerk of his hips into Dean's fist, all the slicked hot weight of him smooth and heavy in the circle of Dean's fingers. He's leaking, strings of precome smearing under Dean's thumb, and that'll make it easier, Dean thinks, if neither of them has anything, if -
"Dean," Sam grits through his teeth, yanking Dean's belt out of the buckle with more aggression than skill. "Ohgod, Dean," and then his hand is on Dean's cock, the other tunnelling between his underwear and his skin to cradle his balls, and, fuck, Dean has to stop this if he doesn't want to come right now.
His hand is trembling when he takes hold of Sam's wrist, fingers sticky with Sam's own precome, and Sam looks utterly confused for a moment, eyes wide and so close to stricken that Dean has to lean up to kiss him again, lick at his mouth until that look is gone. When he pulls away, Sam's wrist still held fast in the circle of his fingers, Sam still looks pretty confused, but without the same edge of anxiety.
"Sam," Dean says - takes hold of his jeans and boxers, and shoves them unceremoniously down to his knees. "Want you to fuck me, dude. You got any...?" He gestures with two fingers, in what he hopes is a reasonably comprehensible mime for 'lube'.
Sam's expression remains at 'confused' for perhaps another quarter of a second. What happens to it after that, Dean doesn't exactly get a good look at, mostly because he finds himself facedown over the hood, Sam's cock nudging slickly at the small of his back.
"Oh, shit, Dean," Sam says; rubs his mouth wet and open against the nape of Dean's neck until Dean groans against the back of his hand. Sam's panting, hips jerking incrementally, and his tongue rubs flat and hot and perfect over the skin of Dean's nape. "Just stay, okay - you just - God, gonna fuck you so hard, just - "
Dean kind of wants to point out that he's not exactly likely to just up and wander off, but then Sam shifts away, the wind whipping chill in his absence over the back of Dean's neck. He's just about to protest when he feels Sam's fingers elsewhere, parting his thighs with gentle insistence, and he shudders out a breath and concentrates on not coming instead.
Apparently Sam's been carrying lube in the pockets of his jacket this whole time, which, okay, is probably not all that surprising, given what little Dean saw of the sexual exploits of RoboSam - but Dean doesn't want to think about that right now. Mostly, right now he'd rather concentrate on the way Sam's fingers work him open, deft little passes of the tips of them over him there until the muscle starts to unclench in helpless submission. Sam's good at this; better still when Dean's loose enough that he can work a finger inside, torqued thrusts of it in and out, and then another, until Dean's moaning, leaking precome all over the hood of his precious car and not giving a damn.
"Come on," he rasps out; raises his hips and fucks himself back hard onto Sam's fingers, wanting more, wanting Sam to fill him right up. "Sam, come on, I'm ready, come on - " and Sam's laughing, the little bitch; laughing as he crooks and presses right there so Dean's cut off mid-sentence, moaning and jerking on Sam's fingers.
"I got you," Sam says, pulling out his fingers in a slow drag that sets Dean twitching with want. He's empty without them, God, so fucking empty, but then the tip of Sam's cock is all hot and slick and there and Dean rocks back against it; bites down on the heel of his hand.
He cries out, anyway, when Sam pushes inside of him, long slow thrust splitting him thorough and deep. "Sam," he gets out, mouth mashed helplessly against his hand, "Sam, Jesus. Do it, come on, fuck."
He can tell by the catch of Sam's breath that he's in no mood to tease, and Dean's grateful, nerves all alight just with this, the familiar burn of Sam, his Sam, inside of him, where he belongs. Sam's fingers find his hipbones and bracket them tightly, pulling Dean up against him as he thrusts, and Dean arches his back, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the frictionless hood as Sam's pelvis pistons forward. It's rough, inelegant, Sam's stomach sweat-sticky at the small of Dean's back and Dean's cock skidding hot over metal with every push, but it's the best sex Dean's had since they opened the cage and he wants, Christ, he never wants Sam to stop.
Not that Sam would. He's speeding up, now, one hand migrated to the meat of Dean's thigh the better to pin him as Sam snaps in and out of him, long hard pushes that rasp over his prostate and build a bank of white like mercury behind Dean's eyes. It's good, fuck; Dean's probably making all kinds of indistinct noises, but Sam is, too, cries wrenched out of him with every smack of his pelvis against Dean's ass, and Dean can't cope under the onslaught, he can't.
"Sam," he manages, like it's any kind of a warning, and then Sam's right there again, one last slammed spark that sets him all alight like tinder, body arching, toes curling in his boots as he comes.
"Dean," Sam gets out, wrecked and dry and panting in his ear, and he's still moving, fucking Dean through the aftershocks, but Sam never could last long with Dean clenching around him like this, and Dean can feel him throbbing, breath going short and fractured as he comes apart.
Turns out that the hood of the Impala becomes instantly less comfortable the moment Dean's no longer being fucked on it. Sam pulls out of him slowly, carefully, but the moment he straightens up it's as if Dean's body has just caught up with what's been happening to it, and promptly begins to ache everywhere.
"Christ," he says; rolls over with an effort and blinks up at Sam, a broad dark shape against the greying sky.
"Old bones," Sam says, knowing already, of course, exactly what Dean was planning on complaining about. He offers a hand, which Dean takes gratefully. "Never mind. You can have first shower when we find a motel."
"Damn right I will," Dean tells him, grumbling a little for effect as he rebuttons his pants. Pretty nasty, really - there's come all over the hood of the car, for one thing, and he leans over, nose scrunched, to wipe at it distastefully with his t-shirt. Sam hovers by his elbow, still smiling, but there's something in his eyes - uncertain, maybe; kind of hopeful.
"Maybe I'll join you in it," Sam says, after a moment, and then Dean understands - bites back a smile that threatens to split his face, despite the fact that he aches everywhere and there's come leaking out of his ass.
"Damn right you will," he says, and opens the car door. "Then hopefully you won't be bored."
Sam pulls a face, but there's affection under it, and relief, boundless relief, as he gets into his seat; and really, why were they both so stupid? They could have been doing this weeks ago, if they hadn't both been such damn fools about it. Really, for a guy who's so big on effective communication, Sam doesn't seem to have been doing too much of it lately. Dean throws Sam a languid grin across the front seat. Hopefully it's a clear enough communication for now.
"How far'd you say it was to the next town?" Sam asks, as they pull back off onto the road. It's still empty, vast and endless and dry.
"Hundred miles," Dean says, shrugging, "Give or take. If you feel yourself getting bored, I think there's a pen and paper under the seat. You can make a list of all the things we're gonna do when we find a bed."
Laughter punches out of Sam like a bullet, sharp and fierce and gloriously bright. "I think that might take some time, Dean."
"Good," Dean says; fumbles the cassette out of the deck and turns it over. "Got to keep you entertained somehow, right?"
Sam rolls his eyes and makes a show of looking out of the window, like there's anything to see except desert and scrub, but Dean caught his smile before he turned, and isn't fooled.
****