zeegoeshere

Someday I'll go back to writing stuff longer than 2000 words with ratings below NC-17. Today is not that day.


To a Deep Place

Sam/Dean, NC-17. that's... pretty much it.
Thanks to lcsbanana, pearl_o, lierdumoa and vagabond_sal for audiencing and listening to me whine.




Dean didn't see it coming, or he didn't think he did. One minute he's walking with Sam out of the latest bar, pool money triumphantly in hand, and the next Sam's mouth is pressed against his, wet and urgent and not really taking no for an answer.

Sam tastes sweet, like chick liquor and fresh air, like everything Dean hasn't let himself want. Sam's eyes are closed and his tongue is sweeping over Dean's lips, encouraging him to open his mouth, and Dean tells himself he hasn't pushed him away because he's startled, disoriented.

When he does break away he shoves Sam, makes him stumble. Sam narrows his eyes and his jaw juts out, glaring like they're both teenagers again and this is just some tussle.

Instead of. Dean doesn't think about it.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Dean says, and the words sound sour and wrong in his mouth because he knows he doesn't mean them. Sam knows, too, and his glare turns into a sneer.

"Are you out of yours?" Sam makes the question casual, like they're discussing breakfast or the road or a fucking case. Instead of--

Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and doesn't think. He doesn't think more when Sam steps close to him again, close enough to cup the back of his head and bite Dean's bottom lip. He's biting it hard and it hurts, and when Dean goes to push him away again his hands tangle in Sam's jacket, clenching and holding on.

He knows as much as Sam does that this has been there, under the surface, lurking like some fucking demon Dean has no idea how to exorcise. It's been there and been there and Dean is afraid that if he ignores it much longer it will start twisting and morphing and mutating into something ugly and dangerous--more dangerous than this already is, at least.

Dean can feel the hard metal of his car against his back and ass as Sam presses him up against it. They're in the parking lot of a bar where Dean stripped too many locals of their hard-earned cash, and it's not like it's a *gay* bar and this is a small town in Alabama, and there could be some serious shit if someone saw them.

Fuck. Fuck. Dean knows how bad it is that he's trying to find excuses for why this is bad behind the *blatantly obvious.*

Sam's tongue is in his mouth now and he's shoving his thigh between Dean's legs. He is so damn *tall*--Dean has never kissed anyone this much taller than him, and he doesn't know if he likes it. Sam's fingers fumbling with Dean's fly are as frantic as Dean feels, and when Dean catches Sam's hand it's shaking.

It jerks Dean out of it. "Hotel," he grunts out, instead of "Stop it" "We can't do this" and "This is wrong."

"Right, yeah," Sam says against Dean's skin, his voice breathy and weird. Dean peels himself away to get into the driver's seat, not looking at Sam when he pours himself into the passenger side. But he can feel Sam's eyes on him as he turns the key in the ignition, presses his foot to the gas pedal and tears out of the parking lot.

When they get out to the highway, Sam says "Pull over" in a soft voice.

Dean stiffens. "God, what is *with* you-"

"Just do it. Please." And Sam is using his pleading, sincere voice that gets anyone to do what he wants. And his hand is on Dean's thigh.

Dean swallows and does what he's told.

Sam kisses his neck this time; Dean can feel his lips on his pulse. And then Sam's tongue, oh god, and Dean is so hard that his jeans are causing him some serious physical pain. Which Sam seems to understand, because there his hands are again, his long fingers unzipping Dean's pants and reaching inside. He bites down on Dean's collarbone and Dean bites back a groan.

"Sammy--fuck--" he manages, because some distant part of his brain still knows this is bad and is still trying to get him to stop. But Dean has never been good at listening to that part of himself, and there is a very able hand on his cock and lips and teeth and wet and warm on his neck. The fact that it's *Sam* doing all that to him just turns him on even more, and someday Dean might even admit that to himself.

"Dean," Sam whispers. And then, oh fuck, then he bends over and Dean is left staring dumbly at the top of his brother's head and the graceful arc of his spine. He can see Sam's too-small shirt slipping up to reveal the small of his back, and he can feel Sam's lips dragging from the base of his cock to the tip.

"*Sam,*" Dean says, and it's a plea for more. His hips buck and he clenches his hand on the steering wheel to keep from pushing Sam's head down. Because fucking *fuck* his brother is a tease: flicking the head of his cock with his tongue, fingering his balls, rubbing his cheek against the shaft. Sam, the little shit, is going to make Dean beg.

Dean is easy. "Sam, *please!*" and Sam groans and wraps his lips around the head, sucking hard before sliding down. Dean gives up and touches Sam's neck, threads his fingers through Sam's hair and holds on. When he thrusts up, Sam just takes it. This is better than any blowjob a girl has given Dean, and no amount of repentance or denial will change that.

Dean's orgasm hits him like he's sixteen again, too hard and too fast and leaving him whimpering. His hands are clenched and tangled in Sam's too-long hair; evidently it's not too comfortable for Sam, because after swallowing he reaches up to grab and twist Dean's wrist. Dean grunts and let go, and Sam squeezes his wrist before letting go, looking up. Sam smile-smirks, and his lips are shiny and wet.

Before Dean can speak or tuck his dick back into his pants or try and assert at least *some* Older Brother Authority, Sam climbs up his lap and sticks his tongue in Dean's mouth. Dean can--*fuck*--taste his own come, and Sam's desire, and it makes his dick twitch hard. Dean reaches for the lever to his right, jerkily moving the seat back to give them more room. But it's still cramped and claustrophobic--Sam is all over him, his teeth biting down on Dean's lip and his hard-on digging into Dean's hip.

Dean reaches down and grabs him, not gently, and Sam hisses. Dean feels like he's lost mobility in his fingers, fumbling and scrabbling like an amateur trying to get Sam's pants open. And then Sam's dick is in his hand, already slick with pre-come, and Dean--Dean is hard again already. Fuck.

And Sam can feel it: his hand is on Dean's dick again, palm rubbing against it. "*Damn,* Dean," Sam says, sounding somewhere between baffled and amused. Dean bites his ear.

Sam yelps and squirms on Dean's lap, which only makes things worse; the next thing he knows they're jostling for space and room, and he's bending over, and then his head is in Sam's lap and he's breathing on Sam's dick.

Dean is more okay with this than he would have thought.

He wraps his hand around the base of Sam's cock and swallows as much as he can, choking a little when Sam yells (*yells*) and thrusts up. And Sam's clumsy long fingers are there in his hair, gripping and making Dean's scalp hurt. He closes his eyes, and when he comes back up for air Sam pushes him back down.

If he opened his eyes all Dean would see is skin and more skin, and all he can taste is Sam, Sam all over his tongue and deep in his throat and rubbing against his lips. Dean is drooling all over Sam's dick and he has to, *has* to reach down and grab his own dick, stroking himself feverishly without rhythm or finesse.

He can hear Sam panting and groaning and occasionally saying Dean's name, and when the noises start to sound more urgent, higher-pitched, Sam's hands are suddenly pulling on him, pushing him away. Dean pulls off, looking up just as Sam says "Fuck, Dean, I need to--" and Sam comes all over his hand.

It's sticky and not as gross as Dean thinks it should be. Sam has collapsed in the car seat, boneless and sweaty, and Dean doesn't bother to wipe his hand off before wrapping it around his cock. All it takes is one twist of his wrist and he's coming again, shaking hard and slumping against the steering wheel for support. He feels wrung out and dazed, weak as a kitten. And his mouth is sore.

Dean wipes his hand off on his shirt (god, they hadn't even bothered to take off their clothes. Fuck.); it was dirty anyway. He doesn't look at Sam, who hasn't moved. He looks out the window instead.

"Shit," he hears Sam murmur after a while. Dean waits for him to expand on that concept, but he doesn't, and when Dean looks over at him Sam is staring back.

"Yeah," Dean agrees. And... he doesn't really have anything else he can say.

He thinks he needs to get drunk. Again.

For now-- "We should go back to the hotel. Get some sleep." Dean glances over at Sam to see if his brother is going to turn that into something dirty, but Sam just nods.

"Yeah, sure," he says, distant. As if once again, Sam is preoccupied in his own world of nightmares and dusty books and whatever else he doesn't think Dean will understand. It makes Dean want to say something, anything--there are a lot of things he could say now that would be completely justified--but instead he shrugs and starts the car.