Chapter Text
Dean knows he's a little fucked up when it comes to Sam.
Okay, that's a total lie.
He knows he's completely fucked up when it comes to Sam, but he doesn't honestly know how it could have gone any other way. Not when the two of them fit together like gears meshing, like the smooth revolution of a bullet chambering, like gasoline and fire. Powerful. Deadly. Explosive.
None of which explains why he's about to stroke out and come from the thrusting pressure of Sam's cock over his tongue.
It's too fast and too hard; he's gagging on it, hot tears burning their way out of his eyes and down his cheeks, filling his open mouth with a secondary salt-bitter taste.
But he likes it.
Okay. That's a lie too.
He loves it.
Because it's Sam. Because Sam, who is so gentle and careful with everyone and every fucking thing is holding Dean's head in place between his enormous palms and ruthlessly shoving and pushing and thrusting down Dean's throat. Because Sam knows he can take it. Because Sam knows he will take it.
Sam's just taking his pleasure. Taking from Dean. Taking something Dean can give. Willingly, oh God, so willingly given to Sam.
Because Sam knows he loves it. He's giving and thrusting and clutching and Dean can't, in any universe, be expected to retain higher brain function right now. He simply cannot be expected to think about how Sam is essentially drugged or how wrong this is beyond the delicious shiver of "wrong, bad, hot" that rockets from the base of his spine up through his neck and into what's left of his brain.
So he just tilts his head that last little bit, opens his throat and opens his eyes, to see Sam looking down at him, sweaty and flushed, hair hanging in his face.
Sam's smiling. It's not friendly.
It's not his "trust me" smile. Not even his wicked "I'll glue you to something" smile. It's predatory and fierce, a smile that promises pain exquisite beyond measure.
And Dean would like to blame this on the pollen, on those stupid taffy-striped flowers. But he can't escape the fact that Sam's the only one who's dosed like this. That Dean doesn't have any excuse. He'd like to say he's not THIS fucked up, this needy, to let Sam just fuck him without consideration of recourse, but Dean knows his own lies, owns them, even when he's just telling them to himself. He wants this. He wants this so bad he thinks he could burst from just this, from Sam just raping his mouth and thumbing the tears from his eyes while smiling that same cock-eyed smile.
Please, he thinks, and fumbles for the button and zipper of his jeans. Oh God, please, Sam...
He doesn't know what he's asking for. Stop. Don't stop. I can't. Please, God, more…
His cock is halfway through the slit of his boxers when Sam speaks, voice thick and guttural, almost unrecognizable with lust. "No. It's mine. You're mine. You don't get to touch. Not until I tell you. Not until I let you."
Dean stops. Doesn't even think about it, hands balling to fists. The fabric of Dean's jeans is open and rubs against him as he circles his hips now, providing just enough friction to be even more torture than before.
Dean groans, helpless, fevered, and Sam's head falls back, his hands tightening so much Dean expects to find fingertip-shaped indentations in his skull, his jaw later on. His cock slides faster, lubricated on Dean's helpless salivation.
Sam's moaning almost continuously now. Moaning shapes and sounds like Dean's name, like litanies of praise to Dean's mouth and Dean feels....cherished. Used. Wanted.
Sam's hand skims Dean's face, his thumb slips into Dean's stretched mouth, sliding between Dean's teeth and the heated length of his own cock, an entirely new and unexpected dimension of feeling. "C'mon baby," Sam croons, pistoning in hard, flat cracks of his hips. The smell of him surrounds Dean, hot, musky, sexual beyond measure.
"You want me to touch you, yeah?" Sam's blinking hard, like he can't quite keep Dean in focus. "I bet you're hard, so fucking hard for it. You love me fucking your mouth. Don't you?"
Dean's eyes fall closed, and his neck relaxes back; a wordless "Yes...yes...more". Surrender. His hands open.
Dean's crying now. Full on weeping, because it's Too Much. It hurts and it's wonderful and he doesn't know how to separate them or even if they should be.
It's just Sam. Giving to Sam. Being needed by Sam. Being useful, pleasuring Sam. And it's holy. It's sacred. It's ecstasy, physical and spiritual ecstasy to be for Sam this way. Belonging. Being his.
Sam inhales sharply, a sound Dean knows balls to bone from two decades of close quarters and teenage jerk-off sessions, the sound Sam makes right before he comes. Dean opens his eyes, wanting to see it. Wanting to see Sam's face change and shift, becoming something sublime and beyond human.
Then suddenly, Sam is pulling away, pushing Dean back, his heavy cock slipping wetly from Dean's lips, connected by thick strings of spit and pre-come.
Dean is dazed, frozen, iced by the sudden fear that he's displeased Sam, that he hasn't been good enough, hasn't sucked hard enough, skillfully enough.
I can do it, he thinks, whining out loud in a way that would totally shame him if it didn't mean he might have Sam in him, down him again. I can...oh God, please let me. I'll do it right...
But then Sam steps forward, grips his jaw inflexibly, thumb and forefinger holding Dean's mouth open. He moves the hand up to grip the hair on the back of Dean's head, tilting his face back. Sam's dark eyes seem to burn.
With the other hand, Sam strokes his dick; one single, hard, squeezing slide over spit-wet flesh and then he's coming. Hot/wet/salt splatters on Dean's lips, over his cheeks, his nose. Dean puts his tongue out, lapping for every droplet he can claim.
Each pulse is a brand. Mine, Mine, You Are Mine.
It stings in his eyes worse than the tears, clings to his eyelashes, rendering Sam in blurry rainbows and Dean can't hold on anymore. It's all pain and pleasure and fluid. Tears and come and shared blood.
Yours, God, yes, yours forever always was yes. Anything. I'd do anything for you Sammy... Just ask. Just take. Anything…
"It's okay," Sam whispers roughly, lovingly, caressing Dean's cheek with one hand, and between that and Sam's come dripping down his face Dean keens, head flinging back as he spurts all over himself, without being touched, without even making it all the way out of his pants.
He feels it soaking into his boxers, his jeans. His knees are inadequate to hold him. Dean collapses. Can't even throw out a hand to catch himself, a panting, scrambled, nerveless bundle of twitching flesh. But Sam catches him, holds him against that broad beating chest.
Sam thrusts a hand into the slit of Dean's boxers and plays with Dean's sensitized flesh. Dean sobs against the skin of Sam's neck. Too much. Too much. And yet he wouldn't--couldn't--deny Sam anything. Nothing he wouldn't do. Nothing he wouldn't let Sam take. Have.
Sam's hand comes out smeared and slick with Dean's semen and he brings his fingers to Dean's lips, curving and pushing them into Dean's slack mouth. "Come on, baby. Suck. Taste yourself."
Dean can't do more than lick weakly, still racked with shuddering sobs. His eyes burn with salt-semen tears and Sam scruffs his free hand through Dean's hair, raising goosebumps because it feels so fucking good. Right.
"You were so good, Dean. Mmm. So good. Yeah. C'mon. Lick it clean. Love to watch your tongue."
Dean does. He just...does. Because it's Sam. And that...that's everything.
Because Sam's still saying shattering things like, "Yeah. You did so good. You're so good, Dean. I loved it. Such a good boy...."
Sam stretches out next to him on the floor, head pillowed on his arm. His smile is back to the gentle one, the one that shreds Dean because he knows how much Sam loves him. Him. Dean.
"C'mere," Sam says, pulling Dean close.
Dean knows it's only a matter of very little time before Sam will start again. He can practically see the golden pollen filtering steadily through Sam's veins, out into the capillaries to infuse his skin... Dean knows it's only a matter of time before they start again.
Dean doesn't mind. Even fagged out, exhausted and fucked...he's kind of looking forward to it.
Okay, that's a total lie.
"You're always gonna be mine, right?" Sam says, sounding much less sleepy than he should.
Dean nods, hiding his face in Sam's neck. He's not just looking forward to it. He's going to love every fucking second.
Sam rolls toward him, the scent of flowers and sex rising even higher in the air around them, grinds his swiftly hardening cock (again, oh God, impossible) against Dean's hip.
"Good. Cause we're not done yet."