Work Text:
Dean had one hand on Sam’s hipbone and two fingers buried knuckle-deep in the sweet clenching heat of him. “When I saw you in that cage…what if I’d left you there, huh? That’ll teach you to go wandering off in unlit parking lots.”
“Dean.” An exasperated tilt of his hips. The way his hole gaped for Dean’s fingers was obscene. “They didn’t kidnap me for their sex menagerie.”
They had kidnapped Sam to eat him, which if you asked Dean was not a whole lot better. He ran his finger down the the crack of Sam’s ass. “Well they can’t have you. This ass is mine.”
He was not contradicted on this point. He wasn’t entirely sure who he was trying to demonstrate the point to. He and Sam were on the same page here: Sam’s dick was slobbering against his stomach and he was wriggling on Dean’s fingers. He doesn’t even look like he knows he’s doing it, though Dean knew better. Sam knew exactly what he was doing. Sam knew what he wanted and he went after it; that was the difference between him and Dean. Dean had only ever wanted the one thing.
He had Sam up against the wall because there was not a single piece of furniture he’d be willing to touch without a hazmat suit, and his fingers were coated in spit and precome and nothing else because why would there be a drop of dish soap in this cockroach pit. Sam was the one who couldn’t even wait for the deputy to leave the room before making fuck-me eyes. Hell, Dean still had all his clothes on.
He pressed his mouth to the sweat-damp skin of Sam’s neck. “Want me to strip your cock? Right here right now. Bet you would blow in three strokes.” He could already picture it. He was blazingly hard just from the sensation of Sam’s hair tickling his nose.
Sam grunted, inclined his head to give Dean better access to his neck. His neck, which went on and on and on. Dean was barely moving his hand anymore, just letting Sam grind down on it. Luckily for both of them Sam’s thighs were made out of whatever airplanes and spaceships were made of.
Not good enough, Dean decided. He kept staring at his own fingers disappearing into Sam, hearing the wet squelching noise they made and thinking about how it was going to be his cock snugged up in there, only he couldn’t do it yet because being inside Sam only made him needwant Sam more, and if he was going to endure this bottomless craving he sure as shit was not going to endure it alone.
“Sounds like you need more than my fingers. You need my cock, baby boy? Is that it?”
Sam made a face. It wasn’t a horny face, but there was something fond in it that would have made the blood pound in Dean’s ears if all the blood in his body hadn’t already gone south.
“You’re a jerk,” said Sam, that big horse cock of his thrusting futilely into empty air, into the wall. God he must really need it bad. Dean hadn’t even got a hand on him yet.
“But I’m a good big brother.” Dean unzipped his fly and took himself in hand, let the tip of his angry-red cock catch on Sam’s rim. “And I’m gonna make you come on my cock. Just my cock, nothing else.”
Sam’s hands scrabbled against the wall. Not five minutes ago those huge hands had been pawing Dean all over—his biceps, his stomach, the backs of his thighs—but they had kept returning to the poker burn under Dean’s sternum where the jacket was singed, the leather seared right into the skin. Dean could still feel the warmth of Sam’s palm resting lightly over the burn, covering it.
Nobody got him hot as fast as Sam did. Nobody made him come as hard as Sam did. Just thinking about being sheathed in that slick heat was giving him brainrot. He put his hand low on Sam’s belly, nuzzled the soft tips of Sam’s hair. “I’m right here. I’m all right. I’m fine now, see? I got you.” Sam gave a choked gasp and Dean added, low, “Always come harder when you come untouched, donctcha Sammy?”
“Jesus.” Sam’s hips bucked wildly. Dean was so hard that a stray breeze would probably be enough to make him spill but he would sooner let his dick fall off than let himself press into Sam before he got what he wanted.
“You mean, ‘fuck me blind, Dean.’”
“I’m—you—insane,” said Sam, and clearly Dean was not doing his job if Sam was still coherent enough to babble actual words. He grabbed for every bit of Sam that he could, every scrap of skin, wanted to reach beneath it for the sinew and the bone.
“Show me how much you need it.” It almost sounded like Dean was the one doing the begging.
It was insane, no two ways about it. The deputy was next door in the barn and there was a thirteen-year-old girl zip-tied in the closet and Dean was about to dick his little brother down in this pile of building code violations pretending to be a house because they really, really needed this. The sex had never been the hard part. The hard part was the rest of it.
Dean kept circling Sam’s rim because he didn’t want to slam his cock home, not yet, not when he was all wired from the fight and he wasn’t going to last. “You like that, champ? You need more?” The filthier Dean talked, the harder Sam got off. The few times they had had phone sex he had nearly passed out. If there was one thing Dean knew it was how to wreck his baby brother, and the number one weapon in his arsenal was the gravel in his voice.
“Dean,” said Sam, and now they were getting somewhere. Sam’s pulse was going a million miles an hour. Dean was mashed up against his broad back, he could feel Sam’s heart pounding steadily through his skin. So he wasn’t at all expecting the next thing Sam said. “Dean, this is making your complex worse.”
“My what?”
“Your complex. You don’t—you never think I can handle it. Whatever it is.”
This was beyond everything. “Did I not just find you locked in a—“ Dean yelped as Sam thrust himself back and swallowed Dean’s cock in one greedy gulp. Not all of it, not even most of it, just the head but Jesus fuck Sam felt good.
“Fucking warn a guy,” said Dean, breathless, by which he meant Stay right there. Stay right there forever. Stay where I can keep ahold of you.
“Fucking move,” snarled Sam.
He was almost reluctant to do it. The sooner he started pounding away the sooner it would be over.
See, there were a string of nothings he might have muttered once he was buried to the hilt in Sam. Yeah, yeah, c’mon or Like, that, huh or Told you I was gonna stuff you full of my cock and make you come on it. The words that actually fell out of his mouth were—
“Never letting you out of my sight again.”
Sam shifted, groaned. He was close to losing it, breath coming in tiny puffs that were making Dean’s cock want to jump inside him and never come back out. “Seems…impractical.”
“Don’t care,” he said, and to hell with making Sam beg for it. He was going to pulverize Sam’s ass. He was going to fuck Sam so hard there would be nothing left for anyone else. “Can’t lose you. Won’t.”
“Why can’t you just trust me to handle it,” whined Sam, and maybe Dean wouldn’t have a complex if Sam didn’t go around making little-brother begging noises every time he wanted something from Dean—including his dick.
“Why can’t you just stay,” he rumbled back, because was that really too much to ask? He drew his fingers through a fistful of Sam’s stupidly soft hair and Sam leaned into it—instantly, no premeditation, just blind kitten rooting, Christ. He was balls-deep in Sam and every last one of his nerve endings felt like it had poured into his fingertips, and was now resting on the curve of Sam’s skull. Sam could come like this. Dean could make him come like this—Dean’s dick gave an agonized throb—Dean who didn’t even let himself yank Sam’s hair when Sam was blowing him, because it felt like giving too much away. But this wasn’t about Dean. He tugged on Sam’s hair, and not gently. Of course that would be what did it. Sam shot his load all over the wall and his own chest and Dean’s chin, and Dean was a lot of things but he wasn’t a man who could watch his little brother come so perfectly for him without coming too.
If Dean could fuck Sam all day he would. If he could chip him like a housecat he’d do that too.
On the hike back to the police station he told Sam, because he thought it might help, “You know what I said to Papa Redneck back there, when he asked me to choose? You or the deputy, he said. They were going to give you a weapon and hunt you down.”
Sam’s expression was half cautious hope, half something else. Dean thought it might be alarm.
“I picked you.” So put that in your pipe and smoke it.
Sam nodded. “Good.” Did he have to look so goddamn relieved that Dean had made the right call? Did he know that Dean had been tempted—if only for a split second—to make the other choice? Of course he did. Damn his eyes. Dean spent so much time watching Sam that he forgot Sam was watching him right back. Sam could read him cold.
“Thanks, by the way. I needed that.” Sam was suddenly all sincerity. He had stopped walking. He grabbed for Dean’s shoulder and gripped it tight, swiped his thumb over the poker burn. Dean felt a flare of emotion too big and too oppressive for words.
“Are we still talking about me saving your bacon?” he managed to get out.
“No.” Sam flashed him a smile. If there was a way to get drunk on dimples Dean would have spent his whole life failing out of twelve-step programs. “No, the score is two for me and one for the deputy. Tell you what—I’ll give you credit for subduing the thirteen-year-old though.”
It was hardly Dean's fault he had a complex. Anyone would, with Sam for a brother.