By Weirdnessmagnet
Paring: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dean has trouble admitting he likes certain things.
Author's Notes: There is no plot, just blowjobs and mild angst.
Disclaimers: The boys belong to Kripke and CW. If they were mine, I guarantee they'd be having more sex.
Spoilers: None.

**

Dean will not admit he likes this.

They're at an inn or motel or flophouse in Texas or Oklahoma or Wyoming. He doesn’t remember, and it’s not like it matters. Like every other mattress he’s ever slept on, the bedsprings dig into his ribs as he props himself up on one elbow. Sunlight isn't quite coming in the cracks where the drapes don't meet. It's not dawn, not yet, and Sam is sleeping hard.

Dean won't admit he likes this part: the watching Sam sleep after they've fucked each other senseless. “No chick flick moments” is a rule -- hell, he made it -- and he's breaking it now. Hard.

He’s been breaking it.

Dean tells himself it's just because he can't sleep and the sound of the TV would wake Sam up, and besides there's nothing on at this hour anyway. This time of day, the only thing worth watching is Sam.

It’s a disturbing thought, but it’s not enough to make Dean stop doing it.

His eyes linger on the curve of Sam’s cheekbone, the line of his neck as it leads to his collarbone. Dean likes Sam’s collarbones, the shape of them. The dip between that peeks above the neckline of certain t-shirts, the ones that have been washed too many times and stretched out to shapelessness and smell like Sam even when they’re clean.

He likes biting Sam's collarbones. He doesn't leave bruises, ever, but he wonders if Sam has noticed. Dean tries to remember what Sam was wearing during their last few arguments, the ones that led to this. The ones that made Dean push Sam down and take his mouth and Sam just let him.

He's pretty sure Sam hasn't noticed Dean's thing for his collarbones. Dean considers hiding all those particular t-shirts anyway. Just to be sure. Sam shouldn’t have that kind of tactical advantage, whether he knows he has it or not.

Dean slides a little lower on the bed, pushing the covers down as he goes. More of Sam's sun-kissed skin exposed. Dean eases himself down the bed, past Sam's ribs and the latest wounds healing into new scars. Sam’s scent is stronger here, musk of Sam and him, and Dean does not think about last night. He does not think about what Sam said. Pillow talk, heat of the moment. A guy will say anything when the sex is good enough. It's irrelevant, and doesn't have a thing to do with anything, ever.

Doesn't have a thing to do with the flaccid cock resting against Sam's thigh. He presses his face against Sam's crotch and inhales. Dean tells himself he doesn't need this, either.

Sam makes a little murmur. Dean holds himself absolutely still and watches Sam shift, toss his head, and settle back into sleep. No nightmares this time. No visions to rescue him from. Just sleep.

Dean's tongue snakes out and flicks once wetly at the head. Soft skin, warm and inviting and smells like Sam. Dean lifts Sam’s cock with two fingers and sucks the head in completely. He likes this part, likes the way it feels inside his mouth, warm and heavy and swelling with every flick of his tongue. Dean takes his time -- this part never lasts long enough -- tasting and licking and nibbling just hard enough to get Sam’s blood where he wants it.

Sam’s lips part and he's breathing faster now. Not really awake but being dragged there. Sam’s big hand drags clumsily across his own stomach and bumps into Dean's head. Dean grabs Sam's wrist with his free hand and puts Sam's hand on his head. Sam’s palm brushes the soft bristles of Dean’s latest haircut.

Which brings Sam from the Land of Nod to the Land of the Very Interested in a hurry. He doesn't open his eyes, bastard, but he's moaning now and fully hard and leaking steadily into Dean's mouth. Little bucks of Sam' hips that Dean knows he can't hold back, he always does that when he's getting what he wants, what he needs, and Dean has to push Sam’s hips down on the bed.

Dean sucks steadily and moves one hand from Sam’s hip to circle the base of his cock, stroking Sam with hand and teeth and tongue. Sam is whispering nonsense now, threading long fingers through Dean's short crop of hair, eyes still closed and whispering: God, yes, Dean, please --

Dean slides a spit-slicked finger lower, finds the small opening still used-feeling and stretched. He slips easily inside. Sam arches and begs, pulls Dean down by the hair until he's almost gagging on his brother's cock. Sam is strong but Dean's got the leverage and angles his finger just so. Sam shouts and begs and arches and comes just as Dean pulls off enough to take it all, swallows around him and presses up with his finger and Sam's crying, he thinks that what that sound is, until he realizes that it's just Sam saying his name over and over: Dean, Dean.

He pulls his finger out and holds his mouth on Sam's cockhead. Lets himself ride the aftershocks of Sam’s orgasm, suck the last drops. Listens to Sam’s panting turn into harsh breaths and finally into just breathing. When he finally pulls off, he lets Sam haul him up the bed and roll him over and kiss him into the mattress, feeling the weight of his brother hold him down and surround him and block out the sunlight coming through the curtains. Sam blocks out the sun and whispers things to him, things Dean tells Sam he doesn’t want to hear, but Sam won’t shut up and Dean has to lie there and listen to everything Sam wants to say.

Dean tells himself he doesn't like this.

 

~end