rivers_bend

Title: Getting Lucky
Words: ~2800
Rating: Adult. Really, a lot.
Genre: Wincest Established Relationship
Characters: Sam/Dean
Warnings/Enticements: graphic wall!sex, rimming
Spoilers: not at all
Disclaimer: Our porn makes more people want to watch your show.
A/N: This is for all the people on my f'list who have a thing for Dean/Wall interfaces. Follows on from Down on your Luck. Thank you to lima_sierra for beta and the nod.
Summary: Dean gave Sam the smile. The one that said not only was he good, Sammy knew he was good, and he knew Sam knew it.


Getting Lucky

As luck would have it, when they woke up—legs cramped and heads aching from sleeping in the car—not twenty yards outside the windshield was a group of fishermen betting on knife throwing. While Sam scouted out the competition, Dean loosened the car-kinks in the complimentary campground shower, keeping his cast dry with a garbage bag and some duct tape.

"No contest," Sam said when Dean returned.

Before Sam was back from his own shower, Dean had $280 in his pocket. Amazing the slack people would cut you if you had a cast on your wrist. He might have to remember that. Nearly three hundred bucks was enough for gas to Nebraska, and a motel for the night if they weren't too picky. Not that they were ever all that picky.

Sam was quiet while Dean drove. Not bitch-face quiet. Smirking quiet. With frequent staring, licking of his lips, and adjusting his jeans.

"You okay there?" Dean finally asked, after two hundred miles or so. "There's a scenic overlook up ahead if you want me to stop."

Sam shifted in his seat again. "Nope. I'm all good."

The way he said it gave Dean the image of Sam all naked, and he was tempted to stop at the pull-out anyway. Sam must have seen something in Dean's eyes, because he said, "Uh unh. We can make it to Arkansas before dark. There's that nice motel in Waldron. Forty bucks a night. Thick walls." The look he gave Dean would have made an ice sculpture burst into flames.

Dean hoped the squeak he made was inaudible.

"Look." Sam pointed, bringing Dean back to earth. "Next gas fifteen miles." Sam's pointing hand landed on Dean's thigh. "Grab some snacks there and we don't have to stop again til supper." He talked like he had no idea his hand was sliding up Dean's leg, inches, inch, a hair's breadth from Dean's cock. "Two hundred fifty miles or so. You'll be alright til then. Right?" Now his fingers were curled around the swell of Dean's cock, squeezing, stroking, driving Dean insane, and Sam was still looking at him like they were honestly just talking about how far they would drive before stopping. Payback time for making Sam stay silent with his cock in Dean's mouth last night.

Fuck that.

"Oh, yeah. I'm good." Really, REALLY ignoring Sam's hand on his dick, Dean gave Sam the smile. The one that said not only was he good, Sammy knew he was good, and he knew Sam knew it. "We can drive straight through if you want. Hit the Roadhouse. See what Ash is up to. Say hey to Jo."

Sam didn’t skip a beat, just kept stroking, then slid his thumb between the buttons of Dean's fly, rubbing the thin cotton of Dean's boxers against his cock-head. "Up to you. You're driving."

Dean was pretty sure it was only his love for his baby that was keeping her on the road. It sure had nothing to do with coordination on his part; Sam had just about eradicated that with the little circles he was making with his thumb. Before Dean could beg or come or curse his brother, before he could do more than twitch his hips and clutch white-knuckled at the steering wheel, Sam pulled away and started digging through the box of tapes.

"You seen that Dark Side of the Moon tape I got in Clanton the summer after sophomore year?" He glanced at Dean. "You did keep it, didn't you?"

"I, um—" Dean hated that he had to clear his throat to continue. "Think Dad had it in his truck. Took it after…" He let a half-shrug-head-tilt say Stanford. Things were good between them. Hell, they were great. No need to bring up Sam leaving and Dad and all that shit.

Sam was obviously down with that, because he just said, "Why do you have three copies of Houses of the Holy?" Once he'd slotted one of them into the tape deck, he settled his hand on Dean's thigh again. Just high enough that Dean could feel the heat coming off his forearm on his still stiff cock. Sam let his fingers circle and rub so that Dean couldn't possibly ignore the fact he was there. The fifteen miles to their pit-stop felt like an eternity.

The burritos at the gas station were homemade, with whole beans and recognizable chicken, and that fact made Dean a hell of a lot less grumpy about the not stopping until they hit Waldron. The extra five minutes he took in the station's bathroom helped too, remembering the clutch of Sam's ass around his fingers as Dean'd fucked him open while some stranger washed his hands not five feet away. As easily as Sam came undone under Dean's tongue and hands however, when Sam was in the right mood, there was no doubt that he could cock-tease for eight hours, no problem. Dean wouldn't have made it to the Arkansas border, never mind half way up the state.

Sam backed off with the teasing after lunch, satisfying himself with the occasional squeeze of Dean's thigh and a few miles where he rested his hand on the back of Dean's neck. Dean's cock was aware of the pressure of Sam's fingers, but it kept its interest to a dull throb, rather than the fly-bursting routine it had been doing earlier. Mostly Sam kept busy with a pile of papers he pulled out of his bag, and digging thorough the tape box, grumbling, but choosing things he knew Dean liked when the tape they were listening to would get to its end.

The sun was just setting when they reached the Welcome to Waldron sign. "Think we need salt," Dean said. "And I know we need gas. How bout I drop you at the motel and you can get us a room while I go fill up?"

"You hungry?" The heat in Sam's eyes made Dean seriously consider skipping the trip to the gas station, but he didn't think he was going to be able to sleep knowing they were out of salt, and it was too ingrained in him not to leave the Impala running on fumes in case they had to make a quick getaway.

"We can, um, see about eating when I get back." Dean pulled into the motel lot.

Sam reached over and squeezed Dean's cock before grabbing the bags and heading for the office.

Five minutes to get to the gas station, ten minutes to fill the tank, and five minutes back. Sam was standing in the doorway of the end room, arm propped on the jam over his head, watching the lot. The lights were on in the room, casting Sam in silhouette, but Dean didn't have to see his face to read his expression. Supper, salt, everything that wasn't must. have. now. fled Dean's brain. He wasn't even sure he'd locked the Impala, and he couldn't have cared less.

Dean had it in the back of his mind that he would walk up, push Sam backwards until his legs hit the bed, that he'd fall on top of him, run hands over his arms and ribs, kiss his neck, rut against his hip… but that didn't work at all. Instead, Sam reached out long before Dean would have thought he was close enough, grabbed Dean by the lapels of his leather jacket, and yanked. Before Dean could do more than clutch Sam's wrist for support, Sam had him over the threshold, spun sideways, and slammed up against the wall.

What breath wasn't knocked out of him by the impact was being stolen by Sam's mouth, but Dean wasn't even sure that was what was making him dizzy. It was just as likely to be Sam's thigh thrust between his legs, the point of his hip pinning Dean's pelvis to the plaster, Sam's hands shoving Dean's jacket down off his shoulders, pushing up under his t-shirt, gripping at the skin on his back, pinching at his nipples—everywhere at once.

"Sam." Dean got a hand up and pushed his brother away long enough to drag air into his lungs. "Fuck."

"The plan," Sam said. The hands under Dean's shirt moved higher, bunching the fabric under his arms until he lifted them, and then higher still. Dean breathed again, and then again and then his hands were somehow bound in tight folds of his shirt, pinned to the wall above his head by one of Sam's huge paws.

Dean struggled, unable to believe that Sam had really captured him so easily, but the twists of cotton held him fast, caught on his cast and the point where his wrist widened to palm. Sam's grin was pure evil and it made Dean thrust his cock forward into the groove of Sam's hip. "My turn," Sam growled.

Not a chance Dean was gonna argue with that.

Without letting Dean's wrists go, Sam turned Dean around so he was facing the wall. With his free hand he started undoing Dean's fly as he ground his cock into Dean's ass. "Gonna fuck you so hard, Dean. You're gonna wish you had more to hold onto than that wall."

Dean said, "mmaagh," and didn't even know himself what he meant except it was probably something along the lines of Fuck, yes, get on with it.

When his jeans were undone and Sam's right hand was on his cock, Dean thought for a moment they weren't gonna get to the fucking. Every look and touch Sam had given him since he'd cleaned his pipes in the gas station rest room added up to too damn much foreplay to cope with. But Sam knew, somehow he knew, and the loose circle of his fist became a vise. "Not a chance," he said, and bit the back of Dean's neck.

"Sam," Dean said, and didn't even care that he sounded broken.

It wasn't until the shirt loosened around his wrist that Dean realized it had been twisted so tight the fingers of his right hand were tingling. He wriggled them as Sam bunched the spare fabric up and lowered Dean's arms a little. When Sam pushed the knotted cotton into his free fist, Dean automatically took it. "You gonna keep your hands there without me holding them?" The words contained the promise of something Dean desperately wanted if he said yes.

He said, "Yes."

Dean was almost comfortable now, forearms propped on the wall, forehead resting between them, wrists held together with his own grip on the cheap white t-shirt. The heat of Sam behind him and the play of Sam's fingers over the muscles of his back were keeping him on edge, however, and Dean was anything but relaxed. Sam's hands pushed below the waistband of his boxers and down, leaving Dean with denim and cotton bunched around his boot-tops. Which meant he couldn't spread his legs any wider to give Sam more room. Up against the wall, bound by his own clothes, Dean couldn't remember the last time his cock had been this hard. He could feel his ass clutching emptily on the absence of Sam.

But Sam was taking his time. Dean shut his eyes and tried not to beg as Sam's tongue and teeth and lips moved down his spine. He knew where his brother was headed, knew he couldn't take it, wanted nothing more.

"Dean," Sam said, on his knees now. "Your fucking ass should be illegal." He bit the offending item before spreading Dean's cheeks with both hands.

Crazy-desperate, and alarmed by the volume of his need and the puff of cold air on his exposed skin, Dean cringed away. But Sam just hooked fingers around his hipbones, held him open with his thumbs, and pulled him back until Dean was bent at the waist, ass exposed, ankles hobbled. "God, I want to taste you," Sam said. And then he did.

Long stripe first, from his asshole up to the small of Dean's back, and then Sam got closer. Used the point of his tongue to tease the skin at the base of Dean's scrotum. Again, when it made Dean whimper. Dean was pressing back now, wanting more pressure, more heat, more Sam. Just wanting. Sam used his teeth, nipped gently at the skin of Dean's perineum, and then pressed inwards with his tongue. Slow, wet, heat, with Dean's muscles letting go and giving way before it.

"I love it when you open up for me," Sam said, and then dove back in, licking, lapping, groaning into Dean's skin.

Dean lost track of what was happening, aware only of godsogood, until Sam's thumbs pierced him, pulled him open. Dean was nothing but the stretched rim of need that Sam was teasing with his tongue.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." It was his mantra, his aching want, his only hope for the future.

Sam was standing, thumbs still fucking into him, holding him open and ready, and then Dean felt Sam's cock pushing in between them. Sloppy-wet when had he lubed his cock? Damn that distracting tongue of his. and huge. Burning like ice, like a brand, cockhead and knuckles stretching Dean wider than he thought possible. Then Sam's thumbs were sliding out and his cock was sliding in and it was just fullnessfrictionbliss for what felt like eternity.

"Yes, yes," morphed into "More, more," as Dean started to feel like he'd been on the edge forever. Sam was crashing into him, driving his face and chest into the wall as Dean fucked back just as hard. It was good. Too good. He wanted something else. Something more than Sam's fist around his cock. Something like—Oh God! Sam's fingers pushing at his asshole, skating around its edges until when he pushed back in with his cock, a finger slid in alongside it.

Time stopped. Sam's hips were tight against Dean's ass. Cock and finger buried deep. Then slowly, slowly, he pulled back until just his cockhead held Dean open. "More?" he whispered, and Dean nodded.

Impossibly, there was more. Two fingers this time, maybe even three, pushed in with Sam's cock. It felt like the universe.

"My god. Dean, my god." Sam sounded like he was crying and Dean realized his own face was wet. This was nothing like… nothing like anything ever. Exquisite. Heart-stopping. And then Sam was coming. Shuddering against Dean's back, hips jerking, breath ragged gasps against Dean's neck.

Fingers and cock pulled out of his ass, and Sam collapsed, pulling Dean down onto the floor with him; leaving carpet burn on his hip and elbow, his knee a little twisted, and cracking the back of his head on Sam's collarbone. Sam didn’t even seem to notice. He had one arm wrapped around Dean's neck and chest so Dean's head was pillowed on Sam's biceps. The other arm was around Dean's waist, hand fumbling for his brother's cock.

Dean wanted to say that it was ok, that he was so far beyond the need to come the whole idea seemed redundant, but then Sam found his grip and started stroking. Dean realized there was a place in all the sensation for that particular feeling, and that orgasm was closer than he'd thought.

Sometime later, Dean woke up shivering, wrist aching, stomach growling, and the back of his neck damp with Sam's drool. Sam's arms were still tight around his chest. "Sam," he said. "Sam. Wake up."

Sam's grip got tighter, until Dean couldn't breathe. Squeaking in an undignified manner, Dean twisted his head and bit Sam's arm. "Dude," he said when Sam loosened his grip. "Get off me. Need a shower and some food."

"Mmmm," Sam said. "Food." But he still didn't let go.

"Yes, food. But we can't do that until I shower, and I can't have a shower until you release me." Though Dean wasn't sure that was actually going to help much.

In the end, Sam not only had to sit up, but unlace Dean's boots, help him out of his clothes, and support him into the shower. If Dean's elbow slipped and poked Sam in the stomach when Sam accused him of getting old, surely no one was going to blame him. "Broken wrist, here," he said, but he was stiff and bone-weary too. The shower felt like heaven.

The café was only across the parking lot, but even that short walk gave Sam plenty of time to tease Dean about walking like John Wayne. "You'll shut the hell up right now," Dean said, "if you ever want your dick in my ass again."

Bastard just laughed.

But the way Sam watched him while he ate, the way his knee kept bumping Dean's under the table, confirmed what Dean suspected. That Sam was only teasing because he knew Dean was a lot more likely to tolerate that than whatever declarations of undying love Sam meant by it all. Dean didn’t say anything, but when they got in bed, he edged back into the circle of Sam's arms. He didn't even sigh when Sam said, "Thank you." Just squeezed Sam's hand and hooked his foot over his brother's ankle.