Pairing: Sam/Dean (Wincest, PWP)
Prompt: Do I Make You Porny, Baby?
Summary: PWP. 2 minutes prep, little time to review. Hope it isn't garbage.
Author’s Notes: Writing this in my own personal (PST) 10-11 hour for 60_minute_fics, and was it ever tough! My brain is too dead for adjectives and phrases this late on a Friday night.
If you'd rather read the polished version (and why wouldn't you?), it is here.
That the ground was grassy was a huge plus—every fall went that much easier when it came. That it was secluded was a given—they don’t spar for an audience, not when a couple of guys fighting gets the cops called in anymore.
That it was five days since the last time they’d gotten their rocks off was pure chance. Hopeless, aching, rolling over one another and pinning each other down and gathering arms overhead in-a-single-grasp chance.
It was Dean who cracked first.
Sam was too tall now, so much aggravatingly longer than Dean. Once he’d flipped Dean over on his back, he could sit far enough down on Dean’s thighs to immobilize his brother’s legs and still reach up high enough to lock down Dean’s arms. Dean could squirm and writhe and buck all he wanted, but Sam just Could Not Be Moved.
With Sam above him, grinning and riding along with Dean’s frustration, it took exactly one low laugh next to his ear and one sweep of Sam’s thumb across his mouth before Dean rolled in a slow thrust up underneath his brother and parted his lips to nip and lick that thumb as it returned helplessly to the source of Dean’s most devastating weapon. Sam’s mouth followed, kissing, wrestling with the stubble-edged softness that was everything like Dean himself. All warning and toughness on the outside, wet welcome and need on the inside, Dean was a secret only Sam was permitted to know.
Winning was forgotten, along with the upper-hand and spin-kick techniques and whatever the hell else they’d been working on that day. Dean’s arms were pliant under Sam’s hand, just waiting for the chance to be freed, to roam and push-pull and stroke any part of Sam they could find. Instead, Sam slid up further, seated on and lap-dancing over Dean’s imprisoned, rigid heat. Sam ground his hips side-to-side slowly to the music of Dean’s moaning. He slid the other hand up to meet the first, parting Dean’s arms and clasping their hands together as he leaned forward and silk-slip-stroke-loved Dean with his mouth. Dean was many things-- everything—but he succumbed to the blending of skill and affection like no-one Sam had ever known. It was so sweet and easy, bringing Dean off like this, and Sam mouthed over Dean’s neck and brushed his hands lightly down Dean’s arms as his brother cried out and shuddered and gasped.
Sam shifted off to lie down next to Dean, his fingers moving gently over Dean’s temples, into his hair. Dean finally opened his eyes, heavy-lidded as they drifted up toward Sam’s. The smile he gave Sam at moments like this was worth all of it—the darkness, the danger, the worlds-inside taboo of the two of them together.
Dean pulled Sam’s head toward his own, kissing him slowly, thoroughly before the other hand slid down the length of Sam’s chest. Fumbling with Sam’s fly, Dean finally rolled him onto his back and let himself get lost in the richness of it all. His mouth teased and twirled, hands up under Sam’s shirt and caressing across his belly and hips. The pleasure Dean took from this was so obvious, his loving so intense, that it wasn’t long before Sam was arching his back and giving away all semblance of self and control to his brother. It was glorious—so sharp and darkly perfect that Sam’s world spun in red behind his eyes. The earth could have swallowed him whole and he would not have noticed the loss of the sun. It was inside him, inside Dean when they were together.
Dean crawled up beside him afterward, his head in the crook of Sam’s neck and his body folded into every curve and line and crevice. They lay as one, half-asleep with the release of so much energy. Dean’s arm embraced Sam’s chest, and Sam’s hand enfolded it in return as he breathed in the hidden-memory scent of Dean’s hair.
The day was ending, and this moment was complete.
The surrounding chirp of crickets rose toward dusk as the rustle-soft whisper of wind soothed the heat of the battle now finished.
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