Characters: Sam/Dean (Wincest)
Summary: Sam works on adjusting Dean's attitude, one step at a time.
Author's Notes: For spn_heraea's Team Schmoop, this is my entry on "Train." Votes go in the comments (Team Schmoop vs. Team angst) if you're so inclined (1..10, and the information is here).
This is dedicated to the lovely destina, whose birthday is tomorrow and who loves and writes the schmoop like no-one's business.
"Ghost in Mississippi, or incubus in Tennessee?"
"Incubus, Dean. The male kind."
"Oh. Ghost then, I guess." Dean dodged the swat Sam aimed at his head. "Watch it, I'm driving!"
"And still thinking with your dick."
Three exits later, Dean pulled off the highway to get gas. Sam opened the door, looking over as he swung his legs out. "You want anything?"
"Peanut M & Ms."
"About ten inches," Dean grinned.
"You fucking wish." Sam flashed him a knowing smile and slid out the door, heading to the bathroom.
Dean thought seriously about following him in there, but remembered they were in Oklahoma, one of those states where things like that were Officially Not Done— not when other people might notice, anyway. Crap. Maybe in a few hours...
He washed the windshield while the gas pump ticked away dollars by the handful, and then headed to the bathroom himself. By the time he returned, Sam was leaning over a map spread out on the hood of the car. Damn fine view, Dean thought, and rarely seen thanks to Sam's ridiculous love of layers of clothing that usually hid that and most of Sam's other "assets."
"Find a good route?" Dean asked.
"Yeah. Still a good eight or nine hours, though, minimum."
"Piece of cake, Sammy. We can even stop off along the way."
Hours later, still west of Little Rock, Dean pulled off onto a road leading toward a natural parkway.
"I thought you meant stop for something to eat," Sam protested.
"All in good time, Sammy, but it's been a couple of weeks since we did combat practice. This'll break up the day."
Maybe the practice was necessary and maybe it wasn't. The rational part of Sam's brain always told him it couldn't hurt, but the other parts remembered Dad running drills and Sam rarely getting close enough to perfect. Those parts were louder.
"It'll be good, Sammy, I promise."
Dean liked sparring way too fucking much, just like Dad.
Parking the car off to the side of the road, they unpacked a couple of wooden blunt-nosed daggers from the trunk. Sam grabbed some bottled water, and then they hiked off through the trees into a clearing where fishermen and picnickers wouldn't see them.
Perfect place for something else entirely, though a blanket would have been nice. But Sam could tell Dean had his heart set on practicing, so he trudged along behind his brother and hoped they wouldn't be at it too long.
Dean found a spot he liked, and tromped down the grass enough to check for gopher holes and fallen branches.
"Crop circles," he said teasingly. Sam just rolled his eyes and took a swig of water.
"Okay then," Dean said, "you ready to start?"
"Sure." Sam tossed the water bottle out of the way and gripped the wooden dagger. He bent his knees and started to move, loose and low. Dean mirrored him, face set in concentration.
This drill was lunging and retreating, thrusting and nearly-reaching and then moving quickly back out of range. Dean was faster, but Sam was bigger— his long arms nearly catching Dean over and over before Dean shifted and spun away.
The day was getting hotter, and even Dean was ready to move on to hand-to-hand so that they could take their fucking jackets off already. He burst forward suddenly, knocking Sam's arms down and bringing the dagger up toward Sam's chest. In a rapid reversal that couldn't possibly have happened that fast, Sam's arm shot up and he yanked Dean around backwards and up against him, his own knife pressing against Dean's throat.
"Huh," Dean said, a little dizzily. Sam's mouth fastened over his earlobe and nipped and suckled, and Dean's knees wobbled. From the heat, of course.
"Guess you, uh, won that round," Dean said when he could manage words.
Sam chuckled, the vibrations tingling down Dean's body. "You're damn right I did— won it twice."
Dean's breathing hitched, but then Sam released him.
"Let's get the rest of this over with," Sam said, stripping off his jacket. Dean followed suit.
They circled each other, feinting and dodging before Dean plowed forward and caught Sam mid-waist. Sam turned and let the leftover momentum thrash Dean to the ground instead, and Dean glared up at him, more disgusted with himself than anything. Sam just grinned.
Dean got up determinedly and they started in again, more intense than ever. Rapid blows flew toward Sam's body and face, several of them landing with far too much impact. He glared at Dean, blocking one vicious strike after another, and kept charging and ducking and moving away until finally—
"Ow! Goddamnit, Dean!" Sam yelled, drawing his fist up to his mouth. "What the hell's your problem? You just punched your way out of a blowjob later."
"What?" Dean stopped, suddenly contrite. "Aw, no Sammy— c'mon!"
"Oh, no, that was it, Dean— you've been pushing this since we started. You damage the goods and they're gone when you want them. So, got anything else you want to take out of the picture? Or can we practice without you itching to beat me up?"
"Sorry," Dean muttered.
They got back into position again, moving more slowly. Dean struck more carefully— close, but little contact— and the two of them gradually picked up speed until they were back to full practice mode. Dean remembered and pulled a few punches before they landed, and Sam smiled and swiped Dean's feet out from under him with a swing of one of those long, long legs.
He dropped down to straddle Dean, placing one big hand on either side of his brother's face. "Had enough?" he murmured, leaning down and nuzzling Dean's neck. "'Cause we've been at this for awhile…"
Dean trembled in response. "Could be," he admitted.
Sam pulled back, eyeing him thoughtfully. "It's getting late…"
"Think we should drive on through?"
"Hell, no," Sam grinned, "the ghost can wait. Let's get a room."
They made it back to the car in record speed, drove to the highway again and headed east. Dean nearly stopped at the first motel he saw, but it looked pretty sleazy and he figured he owed Sam better.
The second motel had air-conditioning and cable TV, and the pool was clean— not that they'd use it, but that was usually a sign of how well the place was taken care of.
No freaky décor, just two soft-looking queen-sized beds, which was perfect: one for sex and one for sleeping on.
The sleeping could wait.
Dean muscled Sam back against the closest bed and pushed him over, crawling on top of him and diving in for his mouth.
"What?" Dean leaned back, puzzled. Sam was scowling at him.
"Remember that punch you gave me earlier? No blowjobs, no kissing, and for chrissake watch the knees and elbows. I'm bruised enough as it is."
"No kissing? Really?" Dean couldn't hide the disappointment in his voice.
"Not that kind." Sam rolled Dean over onto his back, and took the lead.
Soft kisses, soft licks, fingers stroking up the side of Dean's neck and around to the nape. Sam rubbed those fingers lightly through that short, silky hair, and when he brushed his hand down Dean's arm afterward, there were goosebumps waiting in response.
Sam pushed up Dean's shirt and swirled his tongue over each nipple, his hand sliding down across Dean's belly and under the waistband of Dean's pants as his brother started to shake. Reaching down inside, Sam drew his fingers lightly across the curls of hair below and was rewarded by Dean's hips bucking up off the bed.
"Fuck, Sammy, yeah." Dean unfastened his own belt and pants one-handed, trying to give Sam better access. His other hand rubbed awkwardly at Sam's crotch, unable to get the angle he needed.
"I'll take care of it," Sam murmured, tugging Dean's pants down. He licked up the bottom of Dean's cock and across the head, before pulling back and stripping his own clothes off while Dean's eyes pleaded with him to just take pity and change his mind already.
"Nope," Sam smiled softly, hands flowing across Dean's thighs. He palmed over Dean's cock, thumbing the tip, and then pushed Dean's legs apart and got between them. "My turn to drive," he said huskily, reaching into his duffle bag for the lube.
Dean just watched him, lips parted and eyes black with need as his breathing came faster and his cock arched toward his stomach.
Sam prepped him carefully, one hand doing the stretching while the other stroked Dean softly. Dean covered Sam's arm with his own hand as his brother worked, and lying there with closed eyes and skin tingling inside and out it was almost enough to bring Dean off, but not quite— and he knew Sam was making sure of that.
"C'mon, Sammy," he groaned, wanting more.
The fingers left him, and then Sam was pressing, pushing, and oh god—Sam was always so freaking huge just everywhere and this was almost more than Dean could stand, except when Sam got in far enough, Fuck, it was suddenly so incredibly good.
Dean caught his breath, and then reached up and pulled Sam down to him. His arms went around Sam's back and his legs around Sam's thighs as his brother started to move and the world tilted crazily— everything red-orange-black behind Dean's eyes.
Sam braced himself with his elbows to either side of Dean's shoulders, and he fucking loved being this tall, that he could do this so easily and still see Dean, still watch as he made Dean fall apart.
He thrust up harder and faster, leaning down to lick the lip Dean was biting.
"Sammy," Dean begged, and Sam reached between them and jerked up once, thumb-swipe, twice and Oh-- Dean stiffened and then flowed out over Sam's fingers, moaning and writhing underneath him.
The force of his contractions squeezing around Sam's cock so hot and tight kicked Sam right out of watching and into Fuck as he spilled inside Dean, his brother's ass milking the orgasm right out of him. Sam buried his face against Dean's neck and shook and shuddered as he let it go, riding it to the end.
"God," he finally muttered into the salty dampness of Dean's throat.
"You said it," Dean gasped, a smile in his voice. "You're kind of heavy though, so would you mind just—"
Sam untangled himself gently and settled on his side, curled around Dean. His rested his head against the crook of Dean's neck, and after a moment Dean's hand came up to drift and pull through his hair.
Sam's lips curved against Dean's skin at that touch, and he sighed happily and thumbed over the side of Dean's jaw while they caught their breath.
Dust swirled in the sunlight that leaked through the curtains, and the air conditioner rumbled in the background.
After awhile, Dean's fingers brushed past Sam's cheek and softly touched his mouth. "Does this help make up for before?" he asked quietly, not pressing too hard.
"It's better now, definitely," Sam said. "Maybe you're learning after all…"
He slid his hand up and stroked the hair back from Dean's forehead. "But Dean, we're not just hunters, or partners in hunting. We're a whole lot more than that now." He raised himself up to look Dean in the eyes. "You want to love me, you've got to change your style when we're not in bed. You've got to use your fingers a lot more than your fists. Okay?"
"Okay," Dean answered, kissing Sam sweetly and feather-softly in promise. Then he thought for a moment, and slid his hand further downward. "But what about this?" he asked, a half-smile sneaking onto his lips.
"Yeah," Sam agreed. "That kind of using your fists is good."
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