Sam's hand was the size of a goddamn shovel. Dean arched back when it cracked down on his ass, palm cupping enough air to make a whipcrack sound, hot slap against his skin and Sam's fingers curving to his hip, pressing down a little to keep the heat in. Dean panted crazily, his hands getting slippery with sweat on the headboard slats. His knees and elbows ached where they dug into the mattress; he was lying over Sam's lap.
Sam rubbed his thumb hard over the edge of the smack, scraping a little with his nail, bright and sharp. "Good?"
"Yeah," Dean said, on a hoarse breath. "Yeah." And it was, jesus, so fucking good, like everything; like everything else he'd asked for. Sam smacked him again, across both cheeks this time, long fingers leaving stripes of heat. Dean rounded his mouth and huffed desperately, shoved his forehead down against the pillow. His dick was hard and jerking against Sam's, between his thighs; he needed more, fuck.
Sam gripped his hips and slid them a little further down the bed, so Dean had to stretch to keep hold of the headboard, arms straining. "Shh," Sam said, though Dean hadn't said anything, and then he rubbed his thumb down the crack of Dean's ass, pressed against his hole.
Dean felt hot all over, across his shoulderblades, his thighs sweating and heavy, all his weight across Sam's legs now. His ass was throbbing, and Sam was rubbing slick over his hole with the pad of his thumb. "Come on, again," Dean said, Sam gave him another, low on his ass, and squeezed him after, kneaded it hot into the muscle until Dean was shaking, his face was burning.
He'd had a lot of partners, not a lot of time with any of them; what he knew was how to figure out what worked for somebody, what got a girl off, how to make sure she went away happy. He still didn't know this, a year into whatever this was, the two of them behind locked doors and drawn blackout shades, naked and secret together. Being spread open and taken deep, Sam finding his way further inside every time.
"Dean," Sam said, rubbing up and down his thigh, gently. "Yeah," Dean said, and jerked under the next one, almost losing his grip. The one after that slid him loose, and he buried his head in his arms, shivering, until Sam moved out from under him. Dean ducked his head away, trying to keep Sam from seeing his face, but Sam was kissing the back of his neck, down his spine, rubbing his big warm hand over Dean's ass in circles.
"Let me, let me see," Sam was murmuring, until Dean gave in and turned, both of them sliding messy and tangled over the bed. His ass was rubbing against the sheets while Sam kissed him, all along his jaw, bit his ear, sucked on his lip. Sam kept stopping every little while just to pull back and look at him, heavy-lidded and smiling, flush all along his cheeks, his hair messed every which way. Dean didn't know how to handle it when Sam looked at him like that; he shut his eyes and shivered under it, feeling hot all the way up his neck, until Sam finally let him breathe again, nudged him over and pulled him up to hands and knees.
He locked his arms and put his head down, waiting for it, sore and trembling and so full of want he didn't know how to keep it together. "Hold on," Sam said, and spanked him hard and fast, six quick slaps blurring together. Dean's cock was jerking and dripping into the air with every one, his hips trying to dance away, and then Sam was up behind him, settling between Dean's legs and forcing his knees wide. Dean shut his eyes and held himself up while Sam put it into him. Sam's hand was gripping his hip, fingers sticky and tight, and his cock was pressing in and opening him up.
"Like this," Sam said, low and happy, not really asking anymore because he knew, he had it now. His hips were up against the hot sore red of Dean's ass, and Sam was fucking him steadily, each thrust like another slap, thumbs pressing into the tender spots, even while Dean's arms gave out and left him sprawled out messily on the crumpled sheets; Sam was still holding up his hips, still fucking him, all the way down into the bed.
Sam stopped before he got off. He eased his cock back out again still hard, keeping Dean down with a hand in the small of his back. Dean could feel his pulse beating in his ass. His cock was pinned between his belly and the sheets. He reached out shaky for a pillow and wrapped his arms around it, mostly because he wanted something to hide his face in.
He hadn't even known about any of this himself until Sam found it, figured it out for him. Even that first time, both of them blind and struggling and terrified in the motel room, wrestling sliding into something else so fast they'd crossed the line without really meaning to. Dean had nearly broken and run for it, more to get himself away from Sam than the other way around, except Sam had pinned him down and said please, with his mouth and the weight of his body, not moving, and all the fight and fear had run right out of Dean like water.
But he still hadn't known how it was going to be. It started out hurried and furtive, always at night, like someone was going to catch them in the Super-8 on route thirty-fucking-seven. But they didn't get hit by lightning, and one day it just stopped being scary. Dean thought that was it, they'd figured it out; now it was just sex, whenever he wanted it: awesome, end of story. And yeah, it was a little different to go to bed with somebody even if they weren't going to fuck, and yeah, it was weird to wake up with the same person every morning. But it wasn't a revelation or anything, and Dean was already used to it.
Then one day after they were done, Sam propped himself up on his elbow and started exploring him; not trying to work up a second round, just sleepily curious. "No, go to sleep," he said, and just kept running his fingers down Dean's spine, nuzzling at the base of his neck, rubbing his cheek up against Dean's shoulderblade, and Dean drifted off with him still at it.
A couple days later, Dean had just gotten started, and Sam stopped him, took the lube out of his hands and said, "Wait, I want to," and spent the next hour just putting his mouth on different parts of Dean's body. It was like having a fever; Dean sweated the sheets translucent, his cock getting harder and softening and getting hard again, lying out in the air against his belly, while Sam tasted him all over and asked stupid questions like, "this good? how about? can I?"
After a while Sam had pushed him over on his stomach and spread his ass and started licking him there. Somewhere in the middle of pounding the stuffing out of the pillow with his fist, Dean gasped out, "Fuck me, come on, Sam," and came on Sam's cock without even the reach-around. Which was a little embarrassing, but what the fuck ever; the top of his head had come off, he wasn't complaining.
Sam kept pulling that kind of thing, getting creative. Dean had never really seen what was wrong with the basics; not that he wasn't happy to play, if a chick wanted it fancy, but he was a man of simple tastes. Except apparently not once Sam got his hands on him. Dean spent a couple of weeks wanting to punch Sam in the face—after getting his goddamn orgasm—because Sam kept asking what he wanted, what was good. As far as Dean was concerned, sex was good, he wanted sex, and he was getting it, except for how Sam kept interrupting him with questions.
"I just, come on, something," Sam said, mumbling against his neck, teasing Dean's cock with his fingers.
Dean rolled his eyes and said, "Fine, all right, I want to come on you," and Sam whimpered and said, "Oh, God," and rolled them over so Dean was straddling his hips and jerked him off hard and fast. Dean had to brace himself against the wall with both hands to keep himself up. He'd thought he'd yanked it out of thin air, but jesus holy fuck, he did want to, he wanted to more than anything. He started spurting through Sam's fingers, and watching it stripe Sam's belly was, oh, fuck, and then Sam stared up at him wild-eyed and said, "Dean," and came too, just like that.
Okay, so Sam was a little kinky, and maybe Dean was too; maybe that was a given seeing how the ground level here was fucking his brother. Once he'd started asking, though, he couldn't stop. Every time he asked for something, Sam made it happen, no matter how fucking crazy it was, and Dean got more and more off on it, and it was starting to freak him out a little, because he didn't get where it was all coming from. He just opened his mouth and things came out: let me tie you up, suck me off with ice in your mouth, put me on my face and spank me, and what the fuck, seriously.
But whenever Dean got a little squirrelly about it, Sam kept saying, "I want to," almost pleading, like Dean was doing him a favor. Dean made a point of turning it around, he'd done his fair share of asking Sam, too; but it didn't work right. Sam tried, he came up with these scenarios that sounded good, but it was like he was writing a script for a porn movie or something. They did it, it was all good, it was fun; everything was fun; but it wasn't this scary-ass blow your mind shit like what happened when Dean asked. Even when it was close to the same thing; apparently even when it was the exact same thing.
Sam had asked for the spanking thing first, a couple weeks ago. Dean had been game, he'd lain down, Sam had smacked him a couple of times, fucked him; great, whatever, it hadn't done a whole lot more for either of them. Then twenty minutes ago in the middle of a rerun of Invader Zim, Dean had opened his mouth and out came, "Hey, listen, you think," and Sam was gone, glassy-eyed staring at him before they even got on the bed.
So, Dean didn't even know, except mostly he figured he shouldn't mess with something that worked, and this, jesus—"Oh, fuck," he said; Sam was smacking him again, big open-handed slaps, working up and down his thighs too. "Use your teeth," Dean said, and Sam moaned and put his face against Dean's ass and bit him: not hard, just taking a hold, cool against the skin, and then he let go and licked over the soft little dents he'd left.
"Yeah," Dean said, shuddering. Fuck, he was going to have to spend tomorrow stretched out on the back seat, let Sam drive all day, both of them knowing Dean was back there feeling every mile of pavement. Sam rubbed his face against Dean's ass, sandpapery scrape of his five-o'clock shadow setting everything on edge.
"Please," Sam said, like Dean was holding out on him or something, "Please." Dean groaned, and Sam turned him over and pushed his legs back and sank into him.
"Aw, fuck," Dean said thickly to the ceiling. Sam had his arms hooked under Dean's knees, and he was bending them all the way to Dean's chest, leaning against the hot red backs of Dean's thighs. His hips were snug up to Dean's ass, and he was mostly rocking them together, making Dean flex with him, feel all that tender soreness running from his ass down his thighs, just what he wanted.
"Want to make you, Dean, want you to, want you," Sam said, soft and urgent, bending low over him, more than Dean knew what to do with in his eyes, his hands, the way Sam's fingers were curled tight around his thighs, and Dean said hoarsely, desperate, "I know, I know you do," and let himself fall, because he was starting to believe it.
= End =
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