ᴡ ɪ ɴ ᴄ ᴇ s ᴛ - ᴄ ʟ ᴏ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴅ s ᴇ x
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The Winchester boys barely made it inside their motel room before Dean was pushing the other against the wall, his lips smashing against Sam’s in a heated, desperate kiss. Sam didn’t fight it. He only parted his lips and tilted his head, his lips moving just as desperately with Dean’s. It’d been a good few weeks since either one of them had been in the mood— and even if they had been, they usually didn’t have the energy to do anything about it. These last few cases had been a doozy.
Dean wasted no time at all and pinned the other hunter’s hands to the wall at either side of his head whilst tucking his leg between the other’s, and he pressed. Not hard, but just enough for Sam to whine against his lips. Dean could already feel how ready Sam was, feeling his length harden against him. The same could be said of him— he was already at half mast from just riding in the same car as Sam.
Sam spread his long stretch of legs wider, obediently, and groaned whenever Dean pressed harder between him. He breathed out Dean’s name as soon as his lips left his own, and Dean murmured a raspy “Sam,” before returning his lips to Sam’s. They didn’t stay there long, and he was kissing an open-mouthed trail down Sam’s jaw, then his neck, his shoulder.
“Dean, please,” Sam begged, and Dean smirked as Sam arched his hips. “Please. I want this. So fuckin’ bad.”
It wasn’t long before the both of them were on the creaky motel bed, Sam’s hands in Dean’s hair and curled in the sheets, Dean kissing down the length of Sam’s mostly-clothed body. When he reached Sam’s collarbone, he began unbuttoning his flannel, placing a kiss in each place where fabric used to be. Sam arched and whined, and it all went straight to Dean’s cock. The minute he got to the last button, he was already tugging on Sam’s belt, unbuckling it, and pulling it from its loops. Dean had Sam’s jeans in the floor before Sam knew what was what.
“Fuck,” Dean rasped, taking a good look at the man beneath him. He didn’t stop to look long, but just enough to take in that golden expanse of skin, the sinewy muscles flexing with want, with need. In all of the time that Dean and Sam had been together, doing things like this, well… Dean had still yet to get used to it.
Who could get used to something like this?
Sam breathing his name brought him back to the present, and he grinned, moving back up Sam’s body to capture his red, swollen lips in another heated kiss. Sam, now having free movement of his hands, tugged needily at the waistband of Dean’s pants, managed to sputter the word “Off,” whenever they broke apart. “Please, Dean.”
Dean undid the button to his jeans hastily, only pushing them and his underwear down far enough to give his Sammy what he needed.
And, well, what he needed, too.
“Sammy, baby, where’s the—”
He didn’t even need to say anything, because Sam was shuffling over to the side table, where he opened the drawer and pulled out a small, familiar looking bottle. Dean didn’t give a shit what anyone had to say— spit was not a safe alternative to actual lube. Him and Sammy had to learn that the hard way, being new to the whole gay scene and everything.
That being said, they certainly weren’t new anymore.
After squeezing some into his palm, Dean smeared it over two fingers.
“Don’t bother.” Sam told him, still a little breathless.
Dean furrowed his brow at the other for a moment, but then raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You already—”
“Yes, Dean, now would you just hurry up and fuck me already?” Sam said exasperatedly, his legs bending at the knees and his legs spreading wider. Goddammit, this kid was going to be the death of him.
“Mkay, bossy,” Dean teased, already nestling himself between Sam’s legs as he slicked his cock with lube.
Before Sam could say something smart, Dean had lined himself up with Sam’s entrance and was sliding in, reveling in the way Sam gasped his name and clutched at his flannel-clad shoulders. Dean pushed inside of him until he couldn’t anymore, until Sam was taking him to the hilt, and fuck, Sam was tight.
“Oh, fuck,” Dean groaned into Sam’s neck, one of his hands going to Sam’s hip to steady it. “Sweetheart.”
For a moment, Dean didn’t move, just let Sam adjust. Let himself adjust. It’d been so damn long since he’d felt Sam like this. He just kind of wanted to savor the moment before he started moving. But the internal Chick-Flick moment passed soon thereafter and desire took over. It clouded the minds of both of them, apparently, because Sam was practically bucking his hips with want.
When he began moving, it was slow and steady at first, and he couldn’t help the groans that escaped him, much like Sam couldn’t help the way he moaned. However, it wasn’t long before Dean increased the pace of his hips. He wanted to hear Sam, and he wanted to chase that warm feeling pooling in his groin, because he knew Sam must have been feeling that same way.
Usually, in the midst of sex, they’d be more vocal. Whether it be dirty, rotten, downright nasty exchanges of what one wanted to do to the other, or what one wanted the other to do to them, or the Chick-Flicky shit you see on TV— of which Sam wasn’t allowed to bring up outside of sexy times— they were usually more talkative. But with the build and impending satiation of their needs, it was almost as if they had almost forgotten how to speak, other than a few select words, anyway.
Every Harder, Dean and Faster he got led to the merciless grind he was currently fucking Sam into the mattress with. Dean was fucking him so hard he was practically screaming, his hands clutching the fabric on Dean’s shoulders, bunching it in his fists. It was almost like he could barely even stand himself.
As good as Sam felt around his dick, and for that very reason, Dean needed to come. Fuck. He was so goddamn close, and he could tell that Sam was almost there, too, with the way he was arching his back and moaning like a whore on nickel night. So Dean’s grip on Sam’s hip tightened, and he fucked into Sam as hard as he could. Before either of them knew it, Sam was shooting off like a rocket, coming untouched, and all over Dean and his stomachs. The way Sam threw his head back and screamed his name— it was all over for Dean then and he came hard and fast inside of the other with “Sammy,” on his lips. His hips stuttered, and he rode out his and Sam’s orgasms like a champ, if he did say so himself.
Breathing heavily, Dean collapsed on top of the other. His mind was blissfully hazy in the afterglow. He had barely caught his breath before he rolled off of Sam. Now laying on his back, Dean just relaxed. Listened. The only noises were the occasional car passing by outside and the labored breathing from them both. And with every passing moment, the breathing quieted, until their breath had almost evened out completely.
“I missed this, Sammy.” Dean revealed quietly, a lazy grin pulling at his lips as he looked over at Sam whose flushed cheeks told him everything.
Sam tilted his head towards the other, facing him now. Dean would never get over those eyes of his. “Me, too.” God, he was still a little breathless, too.
They just looked at one another for awhile. It was Sam who broke it, and even then he didn’t really look away from Dean, just down his body instead.
Dean furrowed his brow. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s just— God, we didn’t get all of our clothes off.” Sam managed, between chuckles.
Dean glanced down Sam’s body, then his own, and they both still had some sort of article of clothing on. For Sam, it was just the flannel. For Dean, well, he still had his goddamn pants around his ankles. Chuckling now, too, he went and kicked them the rest of the way off. “Looks that way.”
Honestly, it wasn’t all that funny, but they were both feeling bubbly right now, and that was good enough for them.
“Okay, no more going weeks without a little something-something,” Dean said. “We’ve got to make more time for each other. Deal?”
With a languid smirk, Sam nodded. “Mhm, deal.”
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