this is not a place of honor

you try to call out for your boyfriend, but he shoves your face hard into the pillows. his cock is so much thicker, he has to stop and spit on your pussy before you can fully take him. you try to kick your legs out, but he's mounting you, holding you down, you can hardly breathe. but he's not like his son, he knows what he's doing. by the time he lets you catch your breath, you're moaning for more. he makes you cum so hard, you don't even notice your boyfriend enter the room again.

Got this idea from the thought of Dean fucking Sam so good he comes multiple times and when he can’t come anymore – spent and shivering and breathless – Dean keeps going, relentless, until he makes Sammy squirt.

A tremulous thing; the harsh sounds of their combined breathing. The soft, breathy noises Sam makes underneath the weight of Dean’s body; his knees pressed tightly against Dean’s sides, pale thighs spread wide, the twitch of his wet, softened cock against his lower belly, the plumpness of his sack. The clench of his ass as Dean refuses to slow his pace – chasing his own climax dogmatically – and it’s all too much, a blooming, aching kind of pleasure, too deep, and he can’t control it, can’t stop it from happening.

They're on the ground, and Dean's got a shin across Sam's torso and a hand on one of his shoulders, pinning him. They were wrestling, up until a second ago, a natural devolution of their sparring match, but now they're both still other than the synchronous heaving of their chests. Sam's got his mouth open to suck in air, lips parted and skin damp with cooling sweat. Dean's looking at him like there's nothing else in the room, one-hundred percent focused on the space between his baby brother's lips, where he can see a hint of pink tongue.

He might be hard. Maybe. Wouldn't be the first time one of them has gotten a little riled up when they're sparring, won't be the last. Winchester rule for that: don't mention it and it wasn't real. Don't mention it and it didn't happen, or it happens with everyone so it's nothing worth bringing up.

Sam licks at the sweat around his lips, still breathing hard in his place under Dean. Dean can't look away from that fucking tongue.

And he's thinking about a conversation they had earlier, he's hearing the echoes of Sam saying Dean, there are some things you'll never know about me, and he was joking, probably, they weren't fighting or anything, but god, god does it itch. Dean wants—he needs to know Sam, to know everything about Sam. Dean should let them have these last few boundaries, he knows that, really. But that's his little brother, his partner in crime, his best friend, his, and Dean doesn't get to have a lot of things in this life. What little he does, he likes to know thoroughly, with his eyes and his hands.

There are some things you'll never know about me—but he could. He could. He could find out what that pink, soft-looking tongue feels like. He could find out what Sammy looks like with the taste of his brother in his mouth.

He doesn't decide to do it, he just does it; he sticks his thumb into Sam's open mouth, rubbing over his bottom lip. There's an awful, edge-of-the-knife moment where things could fall two ways and neither of them are good. And then Sam's eyes flutter shut and his body goes limp and he—well, there's really no other way to say it but he fucking whines, like a begging dog at a dinner table.

God.

Dean was right; his tongue is soft. Dangerously fucking soft and sweet, lapping at his fingertip gently. Dean might just die here, like this, with his brother loosely pinned beneath him, both of them drenched in sweat and shaking from something that isn't cold or horror.

Sam sets his teeth around Dean's thumb, not biting, just holding it in place. His lips close, his head tilts back a tiny bit and he sucks, mouth flooding with warm, wet saliva. Dean lets out an unsteady, choked gasp and half-collapses forward. His lips land against Sam's forehead without his permission, mouth open and panting.

Sam lets out another of those fucking whines that just about kill Dean on the spot, and there's a soft jingling and rustling sound that Dean, out of his mind as he is, takes no time at all to place. Fuck. Dean screws his eyes shut and doesn't look, he doesn't look, so it isn't happening, nothing's happening, Sam and Dean are on the floor and Dean's thumb is in Sam's mouth but that's—that's a joke, or something. Dean's got his eyes shut, so he doesn't know that that sound is Sam's belt opening and his pants being shoved aside.

Even when Sam lets out a series of broken little whimpers, even when Dean can hear the desperate rhythm of his hand moving over himself, that's not anything. The arch of Sam's back, his teeth biting down almost hard enough to break skin, a gasping moan, and the hot splatter of fluid against Dean's other hand, which had migrated down to Sam's stomach at some point he doesn't quite remember—all of that is incidental and excusable. Dean didn't see it. It wasn't real.