#dry-humping

“You’re hard.” Dean’s voice is teasing, but there’s a note of curiosity in it. “Guess it’s been awhile since you got laid, huh?” He licks his lips, looks down at his little brother.

Sam lets out a slow breath, a bright pink blush tinting his cheeks. “Doesn’t help that there’s a warm body on mine,” he admits, swallowing hard.

Dean presses his hips a little harder against Sam’s. “Does that feel good?”

“Dean -- d-don’t --” He starts to rock off, intent on throwing him off.

Dean makes a noise of surprise, their cocks rubbing directly together through their clothes now. “Jesus, Sam --”

Sam’s eyes close. “Please get off of me before --”

“Before what? You come?” He’s leaning down real close to Sam’s face now.

Sam shivers, and suddenly he’s yanking Dean’s head down, crashing their lips together. “Please,” he says, even though he knows it’s wrong. “Please, just once --”

Proof that there is a god, and that it is Bowie. I have been stuck on one troublesome scene for two weeks, but heard one of my inspiration songs this morning (randomly) and thought, OMG, write that scene TO THE SONG. It saved me.

*

John realised he was walking quicker by the time they turned into Baker Street, and Sherlock practically chased him up the stairs, must have unbuttoned his jacket as they ascended for it hit the lounge floor as John kicked the door shut behind them and turned the lock, no offers of tea, no background music, no time to bother shutting the drapes. Sherlock’s gigantic hands cradled his face. Sherlock’s roughsoft mouth laid claim to his lips, tongue, throat, closed eye. Sherlock shoved him toward the sofa and pressed him back, down, settled himself between John’s thighs and rolled against him, again, again, again, his tongue stroking the side of John’s tongue in time with the crest of each wave. John let himself be storm-tossed, pushed and pulled, held under until he was gasping; he’d been longing to be drowned—like this, just like this—and so surrendered himself to the wash of Sherlock’s incense-heavy scent, his dusky voice muttering commands, the weight of him, and all his long angles, and all his surprising, desperate force. Let Sherlock smother him; it was sublime. 

*

omg yes pls like after they’ve just come back from a hunt and they’re dirty and exhausted but still so high on the adrenaline rush that they need to do /something/ so they just collapse onto a bed and rut against each other still fully-clothed hhhhHH

Dean tries to snarl, but it comes out more as a gasp, his fingers clenched in the angel’s trenchcoat. “Get off me,” he spits.

Castiel crushes his lips against Dean’s, kissing him hard and long. It’s all teeth and tongue and something he’s been wanting to do for a long time.

Dean’s eyes widen, breath caught in his throat. “Cas -“

Castiel grinds against him, fisting his fingers in his hair. “Shut up, Dean,” he whispers, hips rocking against the other’s.

Dean let’s himself relax, let’s it start to feel good, eyes partially lidded. He kisses Cas back, but it’s slower, softer.

Cas draws Dean’s bottom lip into his mouth, sucking, lightly biting. He pulls away, trails kisses down Dean’s neck. “I’m in love with you.”