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Title: The Jerk, the Bitch, and the Wardrobe
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Words: ~5,700
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: general for S4 arc
Warnings/Enticements: Dean is 16, Sam is 26
Summary: While searching an old hotel, Sam gets sucked back in time and lands at his brother's feet.
A/N: Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
balefully for the plot bunny and the beta.
The long-deserted hotel smells of mold and dust and something fetid that Sam hopes he doesn't find. He and Dean have split up to make their search go faster, Sam taking even floors and Dean odd. Half an hour into their hunt, Sam's on the fourth floor and can hear his brother banging around downstairs, slamming wardrobe doors and yanking drawers right out of dressers, getting more frustrated as the ancient book which purportedly lists the seals of the apocalypse continues to elude them. Sam has no idea why someone would have hidden that book in a turn-of-the-last-century hotel and doesn't have his hopes up, but this is where the trail led. Dean is sure this is it.
Room 409 has a different style wardrobe than Sam's seen in the other rooms: bigger, with darker wood and a large mirror on the door capturing his reflection. He looks dusty and tired, and is dwarfing the spindly table that might have once held a telephone. Despite the dim rooms, it's hot and humid in the hotel, and his t-shirt is stuck to him with sweat. He realizes he put on one of Dean's shirts again, and shakes his head that he's only just now noticing that the armholes feel tight and he's been tugging at the waist of it all day. Too many days running on nothing but stress, too many nights without enough sleep, neither of them even care what duffle they're shoving clothes into.
A particularly loud crash from below is followed by a long and imaginative—even for Dean—string of curses.
"You okay?" Sam shouts.
"Fine! Just everything is fucking empty," Dean bellows back. Sam's face in the mirror wars between consternation at the ticking clock on this whole Lilith thing and amusement at the look of fury and frustration with pouty lips and fluttery eyelashes that he can picture clear as day on Dean's face.
"We'll find it," Sam calls, even though he's less sure than ever. The place only has six floors and so far they have found nothing that indicates this place was ever used for anything but housing wealthy guests.
With a last frown at his too-small shirt, Sam trudges over to the wardrobe and pulls open the door. Instead of empty space, the thing is stuffed full of winter coats. Heavy woolen greatcoats, floor-length furs, even one that looks a little like the old-West version of Castiel's trench coat. Sam can feel his involuntary scowl at that one. "Fucking coats," he mutters and reaches out to push them aside so he can see behind them.
A rush of cold air hits him, and suddenly he's tipping forward into the coats and being sucked right through into a whooshing, spinning bright light.
"Dean!" he screams, but the word is sucked right out of his mouth.
There is a blast of heat and Sam spins one last time and lands flat on his back with a thump. "Dean," he calls again, first instinct to find his brother.
"What?" a familiar but wrong voice snaps from too nearby. And then, "Wait. Who—?"
Sitting up and rubbing his head, Sam turns towards the voice which he now recognizes is coming from behind him. And there is—holy fuck.
"Dean?"
It is Dean. Sam is certain. But not the Dean hunting for a book in an abandoned hotel in Louisiana. This is. Well. This is the brother Sam thought was so big and grown up and beautiful. So beautiful that Sam couldn't keep his hands out of his own pants thinking about him for the whole summer after Sam turned twelve and puberty struck like a freight train. Now Dean looks tiny. But still breathtaking.
"Who the hell are you and where did you come from?" Dean demands. He has a gun aimed at Sam's chest, safety off but a finger alongside the trigger guard, like Dad taught them to do when what they were aiming at was unarmed and more than likely human.
"It's me, Sam," Sam says, putting his hands out in front of him. "I, um, fell through a wardrobe."
"What does 'Me, Sam' mean?" Dean demands, "And I want the truth."
Sam has to struggle not to laugh at how fierce and earnest this Dean looks. And, Sam is willing to admit, probably because falling into a time-travelling wardrobe is bound to make a guy a little hysterical.
Dean takes a step closer, bending down a little to stare into Sam's face.
"You're what, sixteen?" Sam asks, keeping very still. "So this is 1995?"
"I said, 'Who. Are. You.'"
"I know it sounds insane. But I am your brother. It's—"
"Bullshit."
"It's 2009 where I came from, and you and I are searching an old abandoned hotel."
Dean puts his finger on the trigger.
"That necklace," Sam says. "I gave it to you. For Christmas. Wrapped in newspaper. Our mom died when I was six months old, and you and me and our dad travel around in a 1967 Chevy Impala hunting monsters and looking for whatever killed her." Sam almost mentions the Yellow-Eyed Demon before he remembers that sixteen-year-old Dean didn't know anything about him yet. Who the hell knows what might happen if Sam says too much.
"What did you do to my brother?" Dean still has his fierce, I'm-going-to-kick-your-ass voice on, but he's looking at Sam like he isn't completely convinced Sam is lying. There's something else in his eyes, too, something it takes Sam a minute to recognize: a look of hungry appreciation that Dean has been turning on waitresses, classmates, random people in the street, for as long as Sam can remember; a look that Sam is now used to seeing filtered through cynicism and too much experience.
Sam plays to that hunger, smiling, letting some of his adolescent hero worship tinge his voice. "You learned to shoot that thing when you were six, and you can shoot the Os out of a whole row of Coke cans without even trying."
Dean's lips twitch in pleasure, and his gun hand drops fractionally. Sam takes the opportunity to surge up and forward, grabbing the gun and using the momentum to push Dean back against the wall, hands up over his head. Dean's eyes widen in fear before narrowing in anger, and Sam is suddenly the pubescent boy so horny for his brother his dick is raw, and the man who's seen enough now to know just what wanting Dean means, and it's too much.
Adrenalin, confusion, and a living, breathing wet dream writhing under him, and Sam can hardly breathe. "Jesus, Dean," he says, grinding his hips forward without even knowing he's going to, and then doing it again, deliberately, when Dean makes a high noise in his throat.
"What are you doing?" Dean whispers, eyes wide again.
"Putting your gun over here." Sam fits action to words, letting go of Dean's free hand to take the gun and, thumbing on the safety, throw it on the chair to his right.
Sam realizes that Dean hasn't dropped his free hand, that it's still over his head like Sam's still pinning him, at the same moment he recognizes the hard heat pressed into his thigh is Dean's dick. Before Dean can figure out he has a hand free, Sam pins him again. "You like this?" he says, low in Dean's ear.
"I—" and Dean shivers, humping forward on Sam's leg before he can stop himself.
What the fuck? Dean's tendency to sniff after anything interested started early, but Sam had no idea that it included strange men telling stories that should sound impossible. Sam has a protective streak and it's screaming at him to pull away, give Dean a lecture about how he can't just rub up against anything that feels good, but Dean is rubbing and it feels fucking amazing, and Sam cannot let go.
Instead, he ducks his head and mouths a wet trail against Dean's neck. "You feel amazing," Sam says, words blurred against the smooth, damp skin under his lips.
Dean's struggling, but not protesting. He's panting instead, quick-stuttered breaths, and his hips are pumping in a steady rhythm against Sam's leg, the combination providing amazing friction between Dean's stomach and Sam's dick. And god. This wasn't—isn't—supposed to be happening. Sam needs to figure out how the hell to get back to 2009, find his Dean and the book— but there is no turning away from this. Like somehow he lost his reason spinning through whatever vortex brought him here.
To his left is a sofa, and as he turns Dean towards it, Sam recognizes it from the house in Georgia where Dad dumped them for July and August that summer he was twelve. He calculates the angle of light, figuring it's about ten AM, same time he left the hotel. His younger self must be at soccer camp, probably just left, and he's got about six hours before he has to get out of here or risk finding out what happens if there are two of him in the same place at the same time. It should freak him out, but all Sam can focus on is having his brother spread out underneath him.
With his grip on Dean's arms, Sam tosses him on the sofa and Dean lands with legs spread, one foot on the floor. Sam wants to ask if Dean believes him, believes that this man he's letting toss him around like a bag of rock salt is his brother, but he isn't sure he wants to know. Instead, he half kneels on the couch between Dean's spread thighs and pulls off his shirt, dick jerking hard when Deans' eyes track the movement and Dean bites his lower lip.
"Gonna take yours off too," Sam says, and he means it as a question, but it comes out as an order. Dean raises his hands over his head again like he's just waiting for Sam to undress him. Sam hasn't come in his jeans since he was thirteen, but he's pretty sure that sight is going to take him right back there.
"Dean, Christ," he breathes, and then he's ripping his brother's shirt over his head and falling on him, crushing his mouth, shoving in with his tongue, just taking, cupped hand lifting Dean's head to get a better angle, other hand spread on Dean's quivering belly, thumb stroking Dean's lowest rib and pinky edging under the waistband of his jeans.
"Shouldn't," Dean gasps when Sam lets his mouth go to lick and suck at the cleft of Dean's chin. "We shouldn't be—" But he's hooked his leg over the back of Sam's knee and he's riding Sam's thigh with frantic snaps of his hips, and his grip on Sam's hair is so tight it hurts, so Sam thinks his protest is bullshit.
Still, "Want me to stop?" he asks, because yeah, he's probably gonna die of blueballs if Dean says yes, but he's not going to rape his sixteen-year-old brother no matter how wanton he is.
"Don't you fucking dare," Dean growls, except it ends on a whimper as Sam pushes his hand the rest of the way into Dean's jeans.
They're baggy, but not baggy enough. Swearing, Sam gets his hand free so he can open them before diving back in, pressing Dean's dick against his belly with the flat of his palm, feeling his balls drawn up tight to its base. He wraps his fingers around and pulls, listening to Dean's choked off cries as he comes before Sam can even really get started.
"Hope you recover as quickly as you come ," Sam says, brotherly tease that makes Dean flush crimson and turn his face into his shoulder.
"Fuck you," he says, voice wrecked.
"I plan on it," Sam answers and sits back enough to tug Dean's jeans and boxers off.
Dean's blush spreads half way down his chest, and Sam needs to know if it's shame or coming that did that.
"You ever sucked dick before?" Sam asks, shucking out of his own jeans.
Dean won't look him in the face, eyes flicking between Sam's dick and somewhere around his neck instead. He shakes his head.
"Alexis—What's-her-name, Marshall?—sucked yours yet?" Sam's not sure when in the summer they are, can't remember exactly when that happened.
Dean half sits up at that, angling into the corner of the sofa and tucking his knees up defensively, but failing completely to hide the blush staining his neck and chest again. "Who told you—?"
"You did. So fucking wet, Sammy. Unbelievable. You've got to try it." Sam moves closer, brushing hair off Dean's forehead. "You have any idea how many times I jerked off to the fantasy of you sucking me off the way Alexis sucked you?"
"Jesus," Dean says, and now he's looking at Sam. Staring at him, eyes taking up half his face, nervous tongue licking his lips.
"You don't have to, if you're scared," Sam says, and he's an asshole. He knows it. Dean Winchester doesn't back down from a dare, never has. But fucking hell, those lips. Sam wasn't lying about the jerking off. Not just that summer, but pretty damn regularly for most of the last fourteen years, and his dick is talking for him.
"Not scared," Dean says. Sam sees Dean's dick poking out between his raised thighs, red head swelling again, smears of come drying on its length.
Sam doesn't say anything, doesn't trust himself to, just watches as Dean slithers off the couch onto his knees, reaches up to take Sam's heavy, aching cock in one hand. "Not scared," Dean says again, voice shaking a little.
"Dean," Sam starts, somehow about to find the words to say it's okay, Dean doesn't have to do this, but then his brother's lips and tongue press against the head of his dick, slide wetly down underneath before opening to take him inside, and words are the farthest thing from Sam's mind.
Dean's grip is painful around the base of Sam's dick, more a frantic clutch than a helping hand, but he's glad of it because the wet suction feels incredible, and Dean looks like about a hundred of the most amazing kinds of sin, and without that grip, Sam reckons he'd shoot faster than Dean had.
"Mmngh," Sam manages and buries a hand in Dean's hair, tugging, trying to communicate god only knows what. Whatever it is, it makes Dean loosen his fingers a little and look up.
Jerking off was never like this. Not remotely.
Sam fucks forward, can't help it, and Dean's hands fly to Sam's hips as his eyes fill with tears. He only pulls off to gasp once, though, and then opens his mouth again, eyes on Sam's face, still glittering, but not looking away as Sam slides forward again, more slowly this time, watching himself disappear into Dean's obscenely stretched mouth. Sam stops, but Dean pushes on until Sam feels the constriction of the back of Dean's throat and Dean jerks backwards, coughing, saying, "Sorry, fuck, I'm sorry," wiping his mouth with the back of one hand.
He's vulnerable in a way Sam never imagined him when he was still the younger brother and Dean was nothing less than brave, strong, amazing and perfect. It makes Sam want to hold him and soothe him, kiss the tears off his cheeks and tell him that everything is going to be okay and nothing will ever hurt him. It makes him want to hold Dean down and fuck him, feeling the heat of Dean's flushed skin against his cheek as Dean shivers and jerks underneath him.
Before Dean can start again or run away, Sam sits himself down on the sofa and pulls his brother up so he's straddling Sam's lap, half-hard dick nudging Sam's balls, friction-pink lips the perfect height for kissing. He practically melts into Sam's arms, a restless-hot weight on Sam's thighs, gasping and whimpering into Sam's mouth.
Reaching down between them, Sam shifts until his dick is riding the crack of Dean's ass, and then grips Dean's hips so he can control his brother's movements. Dean throws his head back, arms tightening around Sam's neck for balance, and he starts moaning, struggling against Sam's rhythm, trying to move farther and faster than Sam is inclined to let him.
"Feel good?" Sam leans forward to whisper in Dean's ear. "All that friction against your hole? Slick with all that sweat and the way you make me leak—you like that?"
"Sam," Dean gasps, "Fuck, Sam," and he believes Sam's story or is playing along, but either way hearing his brother say his name like that makes Sam jerk up, a movement that would have shoved Dean onto the floor had they not had such a tight grip on each other.
"I want to," Sam almost begs. "Gotta, Dean. Gotta fuck you."
Color floods Dean's face, and he's slack-jawed and wide eyed, the most debauched thing Sam has ever seen in his life. "I've got—" is all he says, but Sam remembers finding a strip of condoms and a tube of KY in Dean's drawer when they lived in this house, and so he stands, lifting Dean with him, and carries Dean back to the bedroom, arms around Sam's neck and legs wrapped tight around his waist.
"I haven't ever—" Dean says, sprawled where Sam dropped him while Sam opens the bedside drawer.
"Don't worry," Sam hushes him. "I have."
Dean's bed is so much smaller than Sam remembers, and lying next to Dean, Sam takes up all the space left. He turns Dean on his side and pulls him close, kissing him, smoothing a hand up and down Dean's spine, trying to get the hunch out of his shoulders. When Dean's pliant again, making little hitched-breath noises and rocking into the cut of Sam's hip, Sam reaches for the lube and slicks his fingers before sliding his hand lower and stroking along Dean's crack.
The heat makes him crazy, but he holds back, goes slow, just teases his fingers over Dean's hole, presses up behind his balls, stroking them for a minute before going back and circling again and again, soft-firm pressure, flirting and moving away. By the time he pushes a fingertip inside, Dean's got his face buried in Sam's chest, rocking his head from side to side as he pleads, wordless keening noises made understood in the clutch of Dean's fingers and the bucking of Dean's hips.
"Shhh, baby, I've got you, got you," Sam says, pushing one slick finger further into the heat of his brother's ass.
"Oh!" Dean gasps, jerking back to look at Sam's face, clenching and then relaxing around Sam's finger. "Oh," he says again when Sam moves out and then deeper in.
"So hot, Dean, so fucking hot. Wish you could see yourself. Want you so fucking bad."
Dean nods, mouth open, and then tries to kiss him but ends up just mouthing at Sam's chin.
Needing more room, Sam uses his free hand to hook Dean's thigh up over his hip, and then squirts more lube on his fingers.
"Cold," Dean says, and Sam pulls out to rub his fingers between Dean's cheeks again, warming the fresh gel before pushing at Dean's hole with two fingers. Dean flinches; he can only get the tips in and it's too hot and too tight. He is not fucking going to last, except if he doesn't get to do this, he will never get another chance, and Sam cannot live with that.
"Baby, shhh, baby. Just relax," he says, and kisses Dean slow and wet, tongue exploring, somehow keeping his fingers where they are, resisting the need to push inside and lay claim.
"Hurts," Dean pulls back to whisper. "Want it but it hurts."
"I'll go slow," Sam promises, and pulls his second finger out, pushing in with just one again. "Okay?"
"Mmmm," Dean says and tries pushing back a little. "Feels good."
It does. Better than anything, and Sam slides almost out and then all the way in again, out and then in with two. This time both fingers slide in up to the second knuckle before Dean whimpers a little in protest. But he doesn't flinch this time; he arches his back and pushes down, and suddenly Sam is all the way in. He uses his thumb to fondle Dean's balls and press up behind them, crooks his fingers and rubs and then pulls out, massaging just the outer ring of muscle, pushes back in, crooks and rubs, out to massage, and Dean is clinging so tight to Sam's shoulders it aches and has his leg clutched tight on Sam's ass. He's rocking and moaning, pleading now in words, "More, Sam, more, more, moremoremore," so Sam adds a third finger, still alternating between pushing in against Dean's prostate and rubbing and stretching him open, until Dean's shaking, begging, "Fuck me, please, fuck me."
It nearly kills Sam to stop long enough to find the condoms again and get one on, but somehow he manages, telling Dean to turn on his stomach, get his knees underneath him, ass in the air. He has to tell him twice, and then move him into the right position. Sam wants to see Dean's face while he fucks him, but he knows that ass-up hurts a lot less to start with, and he wants this to be good.
"Ready?" he asks, and Dean nods shallowly, face buried in the pillows. "Look at me," Sam says and drapes himself over Dean's back, leaning in to kiss him. His dick slips over Dean's ass, finds the groove and nudges forward to bump against Dean's balls. Sam straightens up and guides himself into Dean's hole and Dean turns back into the pillows.
The room is bright, windows at the back of the house with no curtains letting in the late morning sun, and Sam watches, entranced, as Dean stretches around the head of his dick. It's impossibly huge, half again the width of Sam's three fingers, and he's sure Dean isn't nearly prepped enough to take it, but pushes forward, staring as sweat beads on the small of Dean's back, and his thighs shake with the strain.
"Stop?" Sam asks, not totally sure he can, but needing to know, needing to hear Dean say it, but Dean doesn't stop him, pushes back of his own accord until the wide head of Sam's cock pops inside and all he can see is the pink-taut skin of his brother stretched around his shaft.
"Fuck, Dean," Sam chokes out, and Dean makes a broken sound in reply. He turns his head again to look at Sam, eyes filled with tears, and that's it. Sam can't do this. But when he tries to pull back, Dean flings a hand out to grab him, says, "Stop, stay, just move," and Sam slides forward instead.
So much pressure it's like his dick is in a vise and Dean has got to be hurting even worse, and Sam stops half-way in, rubs Dean's back, runs soothing fingers over Dean's hips, down between his legs, up to press gentle circles into his belly.
"Move," Dean gasps again, and relaxes just a fraction so Sam can do as he's told.
He pulls back first, just a little, and pushes in towards where his hand is flat just above Dean's cock. Out a fraction, lift Dean's hips just higher, and back in farther this time, and now he's moving through slick heat, and he can feel Dean's breathing, the rise and fall of his ribs under Sam's fingers.
The sun moves, bathing Dean's shoulders in direct light, and highlighting the dusting of freckles there, bringing the flush on his skin up bright instead of rose, and Sam has to taste the light with his lips, not just his fingers. Leaning forward tilts Dean to a better angle, and as he licks the curve of Dean's shoulder blade, Sam slips the rest of the way inside, making them both suck in a harsh breath.
"Full, god," Dean says, just as Sam breathes, "So tight," and they squirm against each other, each trying to find some leverage to thrust.
Sam pushes himself back up on his arms, taking some of the weight off his thighs so he can move, shushing Dean, saying, "I've got it, got you, okay."
Then they both find their balance and they're fucking. Really fucking, Sam moving in and out, Dean still gasping, whimpering, clutching the pillow, face flushed and streaked with drying tears, but he's rocking his hips, and saying, "Yes," when he can form words out of the sounds he's making. Sam reaches up and laces his fingers with Dean's left hand, pulling Dean's right one down to wrap around his cock where it's hanging soft between his legs.
"Gonna get hard for me while I'm fucking you?" Sam asks. "Want you to, please, baby. Want you to feel good." He sits back on his knees so he can see where his cock is moving in and out of his brother, fuck, his little brother who was always so damn huge in Sam's eyes, even once Sam grew, got taller and broader. Dean was always so much larger than life, cocky, smug, and now he's curled under Sam, hips so narrow Sam can span around Dean's pelvis with his hands, skin so smooth and almost unmarked, void of more than half the scars Sam came to know and want to taste. Nothing like this now, untested, fine-pored, almost hairless, glowing.
Dean's fingers are griping Sam's like he is never going to let go, and his other hand is moving fast and slick on his cock, mostly hard, when Sam reaches down to feel.
"Talk," Dean asks. "Say something," so Sam starts babbling.
"So fucking hot, Dean, so tight. God, filling you right up. Can see your hole all stretched around me. Wish you could see it, see how wide I have you open, how fucking amazing you are for me, slick shiny hole, stretched so fucking open, pushing your balls against mine with your fist, good, so good, Dean, god, how is this even—" and then Sam's jerking Dean back hard by his hips, shaking, coming, wishing he didn't have a condom on so he could see his come dripping down Dean's thighs, making a mess, marking him.
Spent, Sam collapses, shifting only enough to let Dean straighten his legs when Dean protests, waiting until he can breathe again before he pulls out, turning Dean until he can kiss him.
Dean's eyes are closed, and Sam kisses his eyelids, his nose, his cheek, hoping Dean will look at him. When he reaches Dean's lips, he finally says, "Look at me," needing to see that Dean's okay.
The look he gets is fleeting, and then Dean ducks his head and starts to suck at the skin below Sam's collar bone. "Dean?" he says again, and Dean doesn't answer, just wriggles closer. "You need to tell me you're okay," Sam continues.
He feels Dean's teeth tug at him as Dean nods, and Sam figures that's all he's going to get right now, and wraps his arms more tightly around his brother. Sam is almost asleep when he notices that Dean is rutting against his hip, and remembers that Dean hasn't come again since the over-too-quickly hand job that seems hours ago now.
"Think I can do better than Alexis," Sam says into Dean's hair, stroking a hand down over Dean's ass. "Gonna let me try?"
Dean rolls onto his back and says, "You really think you can? She's blown half the football team." He's got the teasing grin on his face that Sam hasn't seen on his brother in longer than he can remember, and it's even more beautiful than his wide eyes or the dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks.
"Is that a dare?"
"Think you're up to it?" There is still a tiny edge of fear in Dean's eyes, fear no one but Sam would ever be able to see, that says he's not sure if he's pushing too much or if this is okay.
Sam finds the easy grin he used to have before Cold Oak, Dean's deal, Lilith, and lets Dean see it full force before he moves down to lick at Dean's ribs, his nipples, the just-visible muscles of his stomach. Dean laughs shakily, murmurs, "That tickles," when Sam looks up and raises an eyebrow, and then laughs loud and swats him when Sam blows a raspberry just below his bellybutton.
"How am I doing so far?" Sam asks.
"Well. She actually sucked my dick, so you know," Dean says, but it's a little breathless because Sam's sucking a hickey into the top of his thigh as soon as Dean starts talking.
Once he starts putting marks on his brother, Sam doesn't want to stop, but he turns his attention to Dean's dick, no intention of going back on his promise. Dean's watching him, head propped on his fist and both pillows, and Sam holds his gaze and swallows Dean's dick down to the two fingers he's using to hold it steady.
Dean squeaks, and Sam chokes laughing and has to stop for a second to breathe, kissing the curve of Dean's hip when Dean swats at him and says, "Don't laugh, jerk."
When he starts again, Sam just sucks the tip, using his tongue, lips, cheeks, stroking the length with his thumb and fingers, teasing, wanting this to last. In a minute, maybe ninety seconds, he has Dean writhing, bucking against the grip Sam has on his hip, clutching at Sam's hair, his shoulder, the sheet, his own thigh, and Sam stops to say, "Now? Do I measure up?"
"Fucking christ! She's not even in your league. Suck me already," Dean says, and Sam gets back to what he was doing.
Dean's dick hot and heavy on his tongue, Sam reaches down and feels Dean's hole, still slippery and lose enough for two fingers to push in with minimal resistance. That makes Dean swear almost as colorfully as he will in a hotel room fourteen years in the future, and Sam smiles as much as a guy can with a mouth full of dick. That's about the end of making things last, though, and with a shout muffled by the crook of his arm, Dean shoots into Sam's throat. Sam's out of practice, and there's no warning, so he ends up spitting half of it down Dean's dick and his own chin, but he couldn't care less.
Dean is babbling, "Thank you, oh my god, thank you, fuck that was—fuck," and Sam feels like he just won the lottery.
He wipes his chin on Dean's stomach and lets Dean tug him up into a kiss. Sam falls asleep with his head on Dean's chest and Dean's fingers threading through his hair.
When he wakes up the light has shifted to the wall by the door, and Dean is snoring softly. Sam can't see a clock, but it must be late afternoon. His young self will be home soon, and he can't be here when that happens.
Sam finds his clothes, and pulls them on, picks up the used condom and takes it and hides it in the bathroom trash can. Wanting to let his brother sleep, he covers Dean with a sheet, not admitting to himself that he doesn't have any more idea how to say goodbye to this Dean than he ever has.
Now that he's up and ready to go, Sam wonders how the hell he's going to get back to his own time. He tries to identify the area of floor where he landed, but it looks just like the rest, and nothing happens. There are no hot spots or cold spots, no coat closet to explore, but the clock in the kitchen says it's almost four PM and he really needs to get out of here. Maybe he needs to get back to the hotel in this time, go back through the same wardrobe he left from. With a last look back at Dean's bedroom, Sam heads for the front door.
It turns out there is no need to steal a car or make the trek back to Louisiana. Sam opens the front door to leave, and before he can step onto the porch, he's sucked back into the bright spinning void, landing in a heap under a pile of coats.
He hears his name and tries to answer, getting a mouth full of fur for his trouble. By the time he has himself untangled, Dean is standing in the doorway, looking concerned.
"What the hell are you doing?" Dean demands. "Aren't you done with this floor yet? Quit playing dress-up."
"I'm not—" Sam obviously wasn't gone nearly as long for Dean as he was for himself, and wonders if he actually went anywhere at all. "I'm not playing dress-up. That wardrobe is…" He doesn't have the slightest clue how to finish that sentence, because he's pretty sure a portal to the most amazing sexual fantasy ever is not where he should go right now, so he trails off.
"Let me guess. There's a magical land filled with snow and fauns and there's never any Christmas, but you can eat Turkish Delight 'til you pop." Dean wrinkles his nose. "What the hell is Turkish Delight, anyway? You'd think harem girls, but I'm pretty sure you can't get them in fancy boxes, and they don't let little boys eat them in children's books."
"Dean, you're disgusting."
Dean says, "Heh," and then much to Sam's surprise steps closer and brushes something out of Sam's hair.
Even more surprising, he leans in and kisses Sam, full on the lips, like it's a promise of more later.
"Dean?"
"What? No one is here to see. Now come on. Let's finish searching already. I have plans for you."
Sam is sure—one hundred percent certain—that when they arrived at this hotel he and Dean did not have the kind of relationship where they kissed and had eyebrow-raising plans for one another. But now, it seems, they do. And there is only one explanation he can think of.
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if you want to see the pictures that inspired this fic, some of them are here.
now also available from Dean's POV: He is the Wind in the Door
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Words: ~5,700
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: general for S4 arc
Warnings/Enticements: Dean is 16, Sam is 26
Summary: While searching an old hotel, Sam gets sucked back in time and lands at his brother's feet.
A/N: Thank you to
balefully for the plot bunny and the beta.The long-deserted hotel smells of mold and dust and something fetid that Sam hopes he doesn't find. He and Dean have split up to make their search go faster, Sam taking even floors and Dean odd. Half an hour into their hunt, Sam's on the fourth floor and can hear his brother banging around downstairs, slamming wardrobe doors and yanking drawers right out of dressers, getting more frustrated as the ancient book which purportedly lists the seals of the apocalypse continues to elude them. Sam has no idea why someone would have hidden that book in a turn-of-the-last-century hotel and doesn't have his hopes up, but this is where the trail led. Dean is sure this is it.
Room 409 has a different style wardrobe than Sam's seen in the other rooms: bigger, with darker wood and a large mirror on the door capturing his reflection. He looks dusty and tired, and is dwarfing the spindly table that might have once held a telephone. Despite the dim rooms, it's hot and humid in the hotel, and his t-shirt is stuck to him with sweat. He realizes he put on one of Dean's shirts again, and shakes his head that he's only just now noticing that the armholes feel tight and he's been tugging at the waist of it all day. Too many days running on nothing but stress, too many nights without enough sleep, neither of them even care what duffle they're shoving clothes into.
A particularly loud crash from below is followed by a long and imaginative—even for Dean—string of curses.
"You okay?" Sam shouts.
"Fine! Just everything is fucking empty," Dean bellows back. Sam's face in the mirror wars between consternation at the ticking clock on this whole Lilith thing and amusement at the look of fury and frustration with pouty lips and fluttery eyelashes that he can picture clear as day on Dean's face.
"We'll find it," Sam calls, even though he's less sure than ever. The place only has six floors and so far they have found nothing that indicates this place was ever used for anything but housing wealthy guests.
With a last frown at his too-small shirt, Sam trudges over to the wardrobe and pulls open the door. Instead of empty space, the thing is stuffed full of winter coats. Heavy woolen greatcoats, floor-length furs, even one that looks a little like the old-West version of Castiel's trench coat. Sam can feel his involuntary scowl at that one. "Fucking coats," he mutters and reaches out to push them aside so he can see behind them.
A rush of cold air hits him, and suddenly he's tipping forward into the coats and being sucked right through into a whooshing, spinning bright light.
"Dean!" he screams, but the word is sucked right out of his mouth.
There is a blast of heat and Sam spins one last time and lands flat on his back with a thump. "Dean," he calls again, first instinct to find his brother.
"What?" a familiar but wrong voice snaps from too nearby. And then, "Wait. Who—?"
Sitting up and rubbing his head, Sam turns towards the voice which he now recognizes is coming from behind him. And there is—holy fuck.
"Dean?"
It is Dean. Sam is certain. But not the Dean hunting for a book in an abandoned hotel in Louisiana. This is. Well. This is the brother Sam thought was so big and grown up and beautiful. So beautiful that Sam couldn't keep his hands out of his own pants thinking about him for the whole summer after Sam turned twelve and puberty struck like a freight train. Now Dean looks tiny. But still breathtaking.
"Who the hell are you and where did you come from?" Dean demands. He has a gun aimed at Sam's chest, safety off but a finger alongside the trigger guard, like Dad taught them to do when what they were aiming at was unarmed and more than likely human.
"It's me, Sam," Sam says, putting his hands out in front of him. "I, um, fell through a wardrobe."
"What does 'Me, Sam' mean?" Dean demands, "And I want the truth."
Sam has to struggle not to laugh at how fierce and earnest this Dean looks. And, Sam is willing to admit, probably because falling into a time-travelling wardrobe is bound to make a guy a little hysterical.
Dean takes a step closer, bending down a little to stare into Sam's face.
"You're what, sixteen?" Sam asks, keeping very still. "So this is 1995?"
"I said, 'Who. Are. You.'"
"I know it sounds insane. But I am your brother. It's—"
"Bullshit."
"It's 2009 where I came from, and you and I are searching an old abandoned hotel."
Dean puts his finger on the trigger.
"That necklace," Sam says. "I gave it to you. For Christmas. Wrapped in newspaper. Our mom died when I was six months old, and you and me and our dad travel around in a 1967 Chevy Impala hunting monsters and looking for whatever killed her." Sam almost mentions the Yellow-Eyed Demon before he remembers that sixteen-year-old Dean didn't know anything about him yet. Who the hell knows what might happen if Sam says too much.
"What did you do to my brother?" Dean still has his fierce, I'm-going-to-kick-your-ass voice on, but he's looking at Sam like he isn't completely convinced Sam is lying. There's something else in his eyes, too, something it takes Sam a minute to recognize: a look of hungry appreciation that Dean has been turning on waitresses, classmates, random people in the street, for as long as Sam can remember; a look that Sam is now used to seeing filtered through cynicism and too much experience.
Sam plays to that hunger, smiling, letting some of his adolescent hero worship tinge his voice. "You learned to shoot that thing when you were six, and you can shoot the Os out of a whole row of Coke cans without even trying."
Dean's lips twitch in pleasure, and his gun hand drops fractionally. Sam takes the opportunity to surge up and forward, grabbing the gun and using the momentum to push Dean back against the wall, hands up over his head. Dean's eyes widen in fear before narrowing in anger, and Sam is suddenly the pubescent boy so horny for his brother his dick is raw, and the man who's seen enough now to know just what wanting Dean means, and it's too much.
Adrenalin, confusion, and a living, breathing wet dream writhing under him, and Sam can hardly breathe. "Jesus, Dean," he says, grinding his hips forward without even knowing he's going to, and then doing it again, deliberately, when Dean makes a high noise in his throat.
"What are you doing?" Dean whispers, eyes wide again.
"Putting your gun over here." Sam fits action to words, letting go of Dean's free hand to take the gun and, thumbing on the safety, throw it on the chair to his right.
Sam realizes that Dean hasn't dropped his free hand, that it's still over his head like Sam's still pinning him, at the same moment he recognizes the hard heat pressed into his thigh is Dean's dick. Before Dean can figure out he has a hand free, Sam pins him again. "You like this?" he says, low in Dean's ear.
"I—" and Dean shivers, humping forward on Sam's leg before he can stop himself.
What the fuck? Dean's tendency to sniff after anything interested started early, but Sam had no idea that it included strange men telling stories that should sound impossible. Sam has a protective streak and it's screaming at him to pull away, give Dean a lecture about how he can't just rub up against anything that feels good, but Dean is rubbing and it feels fucking amazing, and Sam cannot let go.
Instead, he ducks his head and mouths a wet trail against Dean's neck. "You feel amazing," Sam says, words blurred against the smooth, damp skin under his lips.
Dean's struggling, but not protesting. He's panting instead, quick-stuttered breaths, and his hips are pumping in a steady rhythm against Sam's leg, the combination providing amazing friction between Dean's stomach and Sam's dick. And god. This wasn't—isn't—supposed to be happening. Sam needs to figure out how the hell to get back to 2009, find his Dean and the book— but there is no turning away from this. Like somehow he lost his reason spinning through whatever vortex brought him here.
To his left is a sofa, and as he turns Dean towards it, Sam recognizes it from the house in Georgia where Dad dumped them for July and August that summer he was twelve. He calculates the angle of light, figuring it's about ten AM, same time he left the hotel. His younger self must be at soccer camp, probably just left, and he's got about six hours before he has to get out of here or risk finding out what happens if there are two of him in the same place at the same time. It should freak him out, but all Sam can focus on is having his brother spread out underneath him.
With his grip on Dean's arms, Sam tosses him on the sofa and Dean lands with legs spread, one foot on the floor. Sam wants to ask if Dean believes him, believes that this man he's letting toss him around like a bag of rock salt is his brother, but he isn't sure he wants to know. Instead, he half kneels on the couch between Dean's spread thighs and pulls off his shirt, dick jerking hard when Deans' eyes track the movement and Dean bites his lower lip.
"Gonna take yours off too," Sam says, and he means it as a question, but it comes out as an order. Dean raises his hands over his head again like he's just waiting for Sam to undress him. Sam hasn't come in his jeans since he was thirteen, but he's pretty sure that sight is going to take him right back there.
"Dean, Christ," he breathes, and then he's ripping his brother's shirt over his head and falling on him, crushing his mouth, shoving in with his tongue, just taking, cupped hand lifting Dean's head to get a better angle, other hand spread on Dean's quivering belly, thumb stroking Dean's lowest rib and pinky edging under the waistband of his jeans.
"Shouldn't," Dean gasps when Sam lets his mouth go to lick and suck at the cleft of Dean's chin. "We shouldn't be—" But he's hooked his leg over the back of Sam's knee and he's riding Sam's thigh with frantic snaps of his hips, and his grip on Sam's hair is so tight it hurts, so Sam thinks his protest is bullshit.
Still, "Want me to stop?" he asks, because yeah, he's probably gonna die of blueballs if Dean says yes, but he's not going to rape his sixteen-year-old brother no matter how wanton he is.
"Don't you fucking dare," Dean growls, except it ends on a whimper as Sam pushes his hand the rest of the way into Dean's jeans.
They're baggy, but not baggy enough. Swearing, Sam gets his hand free so he can open them before diving back in, pressing Dean's dick against his belly with the flat of his palm, feeling his balls drawn up tight to its base. He wraps his fingers around and pulls, listening to Dean's choked off cries as he comes before Sam can even really get started.
"Hope you recover as quickly as you come ," Sam says, brotherly tease that makes Dean flush crimson and turn his face into his shoulder.
"Fuck you," he says, voice wrecked.
"I plan on it," Sam answers and sits back enough to tug Dean's jeans and boxers off.
Dean's blush spreads half way down his chest, and Sam needs to know if it's shame or coming that did that.
"You ever sucked dick before?" Sam asks, shucking out of his own jeans.
Dean won't look him in the face, eyes flicking between Sam's dick and somewhere around his neck instead. He shakes his head.
"Alexis—What's-her-name, Marshall?—sucked yours yet?" Sam's not sure when in the summer they are, can't remember exactly when that happened.
Dean half sits up at that, angling into the corner of the sofa and tucking his knees up defensively, but failing completely to hide the blush staining his neck and chest again. "Who told you—?"
"You did. So fucking wet, Sammy. Unbelievable. You've got to try it." Sam moves closer, brushing hair off Dean's forehead. "You have any idea how many times I jerked off to the fantasy of you sucking me off the way Alexis sucked you?"
"Jesus," Dean says, and now he's looking at Sam. Staring at him, eyes taking up half his face, nervous tongue licking his lips.
"You don't have to, if you're scared," Sam says, and he's an asshole. He knows it. Dean Winchester doesn't back down from a dare, never has. But fucking hell, those lips. Sam wasn't lying about the jerking off. Not just that summer, but pretty damn regularly for most of the last fourteen years, and his dick is talking for him.
"Not scared," Dean says. Sam sees Dean's dick poking out between his raised thighs, red head swelling again, smears of come drying on its length.
Sam doesn't say anything, doesn't trust himself to, just watches as Dean slithers off the couch onto his knees, reaches up to take Sam's heavy, aching cock in one hand. "Not scared," Dean says again, voice shaking a little.
"Dean," Sam starts, somehow about to find the words to say it's okay, Dean doesn't have to do this, but then his brother's lips and tongue press against the head of his dick, slide wetly down underneath before opening to take him inside, and words are the farthest thing from Sam's mind.
Dean's grip is painful around the base of Sam's dick, more a frantic clutch than a helping hand, but he's glad of it because the wet suction feels incredible, and Dean looks like about a hundred of the most amazing kinds of sin, and without that grip, Sam reckons he'd shoot faster than Dean had.
"Mmngh," Sam manages and buries a hand in Dean's hair, tugging, trying to communicate god only knows what. Whatever it is, it makes Dean loosen his fingers a little and look up.
Jerking off was never like this. Not remotely.
Sam fucks forward, can't help it, and Dean's hands fly to Sam's hips as his eyes fill with tears. He only pulls off to gasp once, though, and then opens his mouth again, eyes on Sam's face, still glittering, but not looking away as Sam slides forward again, more slowly this time, watching himself disappear into Dean's obscenely stretched mouth. Sam stops, but Dean pushes on until Sam feels the constriction of the back of Dean's throat and Dean jerks backwards, coughing, saying, "Sorry, fuck, I'm sorry," wiping his mouth with the back of one hand.
He's vulnerable in a way Sam never imagined him when he was still the younger brother and Dean was nothing less than brave, strong, amazing and perfect. It makes Sam want to hold him and soothe him, kiss the tears off his cheeks and tell him that everything is going to be okay and nothing will ever hurt him. It makes him want to hold Dean down and fuck him, feeling the heat of Dean's flushed skin against his cheek as Dean shivers and jerks underneath him.
Before Dean can start again or run away, Sam sits himself down on the sofa and pulls his brother up so he's straddling Sam's lap, half-hard dick nudging Sam's balls, friction-pink lips the perfect height for kissing. He practically melts into Sam's arms, a restless-hot weight on Sam's thighs, gasping and whimpering into Sam's mouth.
Reaching down between them, Sam shifts until his dick is riding the crack of Dean's ass, and then grips Dean's hips so he can control his brother's movements. Dean throws his head back, arms tightening around Sam's neck for balance, and he starts moaning, struggling against Sam's rhythm, trying to move farther and faster than Sam is inclined to let him.
"Feel good?" Sam leans forward to whisper in Dean's ear. "All that friction against your hole? Slick with all that sweat and the way you make me leak—you like that?"
"Sam," Dean gasps, "Fuck, Sam," and he believes Sam's story or is playing along, but either way hearing his brother say his name like that makes Sam jerk up, a movement that would have shoved Dean onto the floor had they not had such a tight grip on each other.
"I want to," Sam almost begs. "Gotta, Dean. Gotta fuck you."
Color floods Dean's face, and he's slack-jawed and wide eyed, the most debauched thing Sam has ever seen in his life. "I've got—" is all he says, but Sam remembers finding a strip of condoms and a tube of KY in Dean's drawer when they lived in this house, and so he stands, lifting Dean with him, and carries Dean back to the bedroom, arms around Sam's neck and legs wrapped tight around his waist.
"I haven't ever—" Dean says, sprawled where Sam dropped him while Sam opens the bedside drawer.
"Don't worry," Sam hushes him. "I have."
Dean's bed is so much smaller than Sam remembers, and lying next to Dean, Sam takes up all the space left. He turns Dean on his side and pulls him close, kissing him, smoothing a hand up and down Dean's spine, trying to get the hunch out of his shoulders. When Dean's pliant again, making little hitched-breath noises and rocking into the cut of Sam's hip, Sam reaches for the lube and slicks his fingers before sliding his hand lower and stroking along Dean's crack.
The heat makes him crazy, but he holds back, goes slow, just teases his fingers over Dean's hole, presses up behind his balls, stroking them for a minute before going back and circling again and again, soft-firm pressure, flirting and moving away. By the time he pushes a fingertip inside, Dean's got his face buried in Sam's chest, rocking his head from side to side as he pleads, wordless keening noises made understood in the clutch of Dean's fingers and the bucking of Dean's hips.
"Shhh, baby, I've got you, got you," Sam says, pushing one slick finger further into the heat of his brother's ass.
"Oh!" Dean gasps, jerking back to look at Sam's face, clenching and then relaxing around Sam's finger. "Oh," he says again when Sam moves out and then deeper in.
"So hot, Dean, so fucking hot. Wish you could see yourself. Want you so fucking bad."
Dean nods, mouth open, and then tries to kiss him but ends up just mouthing at Sam's chin.
Needing more room, Sam uses his free hand to hook Dean's thigh up over his hip, and then squirts more lube on his fingers.
"Cold," Dean says, and Sam pulls out to rub his fingers between Dean's cheeks again, warming the fresh gel before pushing at Dean's hole with two fingers. Dean flinches; he can only get the tips in and it's too hot and too tight. He is not fucking going to last, except if he doesn't get to do this, he will never get another chance, and Sam cannot live with that.
"Baby, shhh, baby. Just relax," he says, and kisses Dean slow and wet, tongue exploring, somehow keeping his fingers where they are, resisting the need to push inside and lay claim.
"Hurts," Dean pulls back to whisper. "Want it but it hurts."
"I'll go slow," Sam promises, and pulls his second finger out, pushing in with just one again. "Okay?"
"Mmmm," Dean says and tries pushing back a little. "Feels good."
It does. Better than anything, and Sam slides almost out and then all the way in again, out and then in with two. This time both fingers slide in up to the second knuckle before Dean whimpers a little in protest. But he doesn't flinch this time; he arches his back and pushes down, and suddenly Sam is all the way in. He uses his thumb to fondle Dean's balls and press up behind them, crooks his fingers and rubs and then pulls out, massaging just the outer ring of muscle, pushes back in, crooks and rubs, out to massage, and Dean is clinging so tight to Sam's shoulders it aches and has his leg clutched tight on Sam's ass. He's rocking and moaning, pleading now in words, "More, Sam, more, more, moremoremore," so Sam adds a third finger, still alternating between pushing in against Dean's prostate and rubbing and stretching him open, until Dean's shaking, begging, "Fuck me, please, fuck me."
It nearly kills Sam to stop long enough to find the condoms again and get one on, but somehow he manages, telling Dean to turn on his stomach, get his knees underneath him, ass in the air. He has to tell him twice, and then move him into the right position. Sam wants to see Dean's face while he fucks him, but he knows that ass-up hurts a lot less to start with, and he wants this to be good.
"Ready?" he asks, and Dean nods shallowly, face buried in the pillows. "Look at me," Sam says and drapes himself over Dean's back, leaning in to kiss him. His dick slips over Dean's ass, finds the groove and nudges forward to bump against Dean's balls. Sam straightens up and guides himself into Dean's hole and Dean turns back into the pillows.
The room is bright, windows at the back of the house with no curtains letting in the late morning sun, and Sam watches, entranced, as Dean stretches around the head of his dick. It's impossibly huge, half again the width of Sam's three fingers, and he's sure Dean isn't nearly prepped enough to take it, but pushes forward, staring as sweat beads on the small of Dean's back, and his thighs shake with the strain.
"Stop?" Sam asks, not totally sure he can, but needing to know, needing to hear Dean say it, but Dean doesn't stop him, pushes back of his own accord until the wide head of Sam's cock pops inside and all he can see is the pink-taut skin of his brother stretched around his shaft.
"Fuck, Dean," Sam chokes out, and Dean makes a broken sound in reply. He turns his head again to look at Sam, eyes filled with tears, and that's it. Sam can't do this. But when he tries to pull back, Dean flings a hand out to grab him, says, "Stop, stay, just move," and Sam slides forward instead.
So much pressure it's like his dick is in a vise and Dean has got to be hurting even worse, and Sam stops half-way in, rubs Dean's back, runs soothing fingers over Dean's hips, down between his legs, up to press gentle circles into his belly.
"Move," Dean gasps again, and relaxes just a fraction so Sam can do as he's told.
He pulls back first, just a little, and pushes in towards where his hand is flat just above Dean's cock. Out a fraction, lift Dean's hips just higher, and back in farther this time, and now he's moving through slick heat, and he can feel Dean's breathing, the rise and fall of his ribs under Sam's fingers.
The sun moves, bathing Dean's shoulders in direct light, and highlighting the dusting of freckles there, bringing the flush on his skin up bright instead of rose, and Sam has to taste the light with his lips, not just his fingers. Leaning forward tilts Dean to a better angle, and as he licks the curve of Dean's shoulder blade, Sam slips the rest of the way inside, making them both suck in a harsh breath.
"Full, god," Dean says, just as Sam breathes, "So tight," and they squirm against each other, each trying to find some leverage to thrust.
Sam pushes himself back up on his arms, taking some of the weight off his thighs so he can move, shushing Dean, saying, "I've got it, got you, okay."
Then they both find their balance and they're fucking. Really fucking, Sam moving in and out, Dean still gasping, whimpering, clutching the pillow, face flushed and streaked with drying tears, but he's rocking his hips, and saying, "Yes," when he can form words out of the sounds he's making. Sam reaches up and laces his fingers with Dean's left hand, pulling Dean's right one down to wrap around his cock where it's hanging soft between his legs.
"Gonna get hard for me while I'm fucking you?" Sam asks. "Want you to, please, baby. Want you to feel good." He sits back on his knees so he can see where his cock is moving in and out of his brother, fuck, his little brother who was always so damn huge in Sam's eyes, even once Sam grew, got taller and broader. Dean was always so much larger than life, cocky, smug, and now he's curled under Sam, hips so narrow Sam can span around Dean's pelvis with his hands, skin so smooth and almost unmarked, void of more than half the scars Sam came to know and want to taste. Nothing like this now, untested, fine-pored, almost hairless, glowing.
Dean's fingers are griping Sam's like he is never going to let go, and his other hand is moving fast and slick on his cock, mostly hard, when Sam reaches down to feel.
"Talk," Dean asks. "Say something," so Sam starts babbling.
"So fucking hot, Dean, so tight. God, filling you right up. Can see your hole all stretched around me. Wish you could see it, see how wide I have you open, how fucking amazing you are for me, slick shiny hole, stretched so fucking open, pushing your balls against mine with your fist, good, so good, Dean, god, how is this even—" and then Sam's jerking Dean back hard by his hips, shaking, coming, wishing he didn't have a condom on so he could see his come dripping down Dean's thighs, making a mess, marking him.
Spent, Sam collapses, shifting only enough to let Dean straighten his legs when Dean protests, waiting until he can breathe again before he pulls out, turning Dean until he can kiss him.
Dean's eyes are closed, and Sam kisses his eyelids, his nose, his cheek, hoping Dean will look at him. When he reaches Dean's lips, he finally says, "Look at me," needing to see that Dean's okay.
The look he gets is fleeting, and then Dean ducks his head and starts to suck at the skin below Sam's collar bone. "Dean?" he says again, and Dean doesn't answer, just wriggles closer. "You need to tell me you're okay," Sam continues.
He feels Dean's teeth tug at him as Dean nods, and Sam figures that's all he's going to get right now, and wraps his arms more tightly around his brother. Sam is almost asleep when he notices that Dean is rutting against his hip, and remembers that Dean hasn't come again since the over-too-quickly hand job that seems hours ago now.
"Think I can do better than Alexis," Sam says into Dean's hair, stroking a hand down over Dean's ass. "Gonna let me try?"
Dean rolls onto his back and says, "You really think you can? She's blown half the football team." He's got the teasing grin on his face that Sam hasn't seen on his brother in longer than he can remember, and it's even more beautiful than his wide eyes or the dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks.
"Is that a dare?"
"Think you're up to it?" There is still a tiny edge of fear in Dean's eyes, fear no one but Sam would ever be able to see, that says he's not sure if he's pushing too much or if this is okay.
Sam finds the easy grin he used to have before Cold Oak, Dean's deal, Lilith, and lets Dean see it full force before he moves down to lick at Dean's ribs, his nipples, the just-visible muscles of his stomach. Dean laughs shakily, murmurs, "That tickles," when Sam looks up and raises an eyebrow, and then laughs loud and swats him when Sam blows a raspberry just below his bellybutton.
"How am I doing so far?" Sam asks.
"Well. She actually sucked my dick, so you know," Dean says, but it's a little breathless because Sam's sucking a hickey into the top of his thigh as soon as Dean starts talking.
Once he starts putting marks on his brother, Sam doesn't want to stop, but he turns his attention to Dean's dick, no intention of going back on his promise. Dean's watching him, head propped on his fist and both pillows, and Sam holds his gaze and swallows Dean's dick down to the two fingers he's using to hold it steady.
Dean squeaks, and Sam chokes laughing and has to stop for a second to breathe, kissing the curve of Dean's hip when Dean swats at him and says, "Don't laugh, jerk."
When he starts again, Sam just sucks the tip, using his tongue, lips, cheeks, stroking the length with his thumb and fingers, teasing, wanting this to last. In a minute, maybe ninety seconds, he has Dean writhing, bucking against the grip Sam has on his hip, clutching at Sam's hair, his shoulder, the sheet, his own thigh, and Sam stops to say, "Now? Do I measure up?"
"Fucking christ! She's not even in your league. Suck me already," Dean says, and Sam gets back to what he was doing.
Dean's dick hot and heavy on his tongue, Sam reaches down and feels Dean's hole, still slippery and lose enough for two fingers to push in with minimal resistance. That makes Dean swear almost as colorfully as he will in a hotel room fourteen years in the future, and Sam smiles as much as a guy can with a mouth full of dick. That's about the end of making things last, though, and with a shout muffled by the crook of his arm, Dean shoots into Sam's throat. Sam's out of practice, and there's no warning, so he ends up spitting half of it down Dean's dick and his own chin, but he couldn't care less.
Dean is babbling, "Thank you, oh my god, thank you, fuck that was—fuck," and Sam feels like he just won the lottery.
He wipes his chin on Dean's stomach and lets Dean tug him up into a kiss. Sam falls asleep with his head on Dean's chest and Dean's fingers threading through his hair.
When he wakes up the light has shifted to the wall by the door, and Dean is snoring softly. Sam can't see a clock, but it must be late afternoon. His young self will be home soon, and he can't be here when that happens.
Sam finds his clothes, and pulls them on, picks up the used condom and takes it and hides it in the bathroom trash can. Wanting to let his brother sleep, he covers Dean with a sheet, not admitting to himself that he doesn't have any more idea how to say goodbye to this Dean than he ever has.
Now that he's up and ready to go, Sam wonders how the hell he's going to get back to his own time. He tries to identify the area of floor where he landed, but it looks just like the rest, and nothing happens. There are no hot spots or cold spots, no coat closet to explore, but the clock in the kitchen says it's almost four PM and he really needs to get out of here. Maybe he needs to get back to the hotel in this time, go back through the same wardrobe he left from. With a last look back at Dean's bedroom, Sam heads for the front door.
It turns out there is no need to steal a car or make the trek back to Louisiana. Sam opens the front door to leave, and before he can step onto the porch, he's sucked back into the bright spinning void, landing in a heap under a pile of coats.
He hears his name and tries to answer, getting a mouth full of fur for his trouble. By the time he has himself untangled, Dean is standing in the doorway, looking concerned.
"What the hell are you doing?" Dean demands. "Aren't you done with this floor yet? Quit playing dress-up."
"I'm not—" Sam obviously wasn't gone nearly as long for Dean as he was for himself, and wonders if he actually went anywhere at all. "I'm not playing dress-up. That wardrobe is…" He doesn't have the slightest clue how to finish that sentence, because he's pretty sure a portal to the most amazing sexual fantasy ever is not where he should go right now, so he trails off.
"Let me guess. There's a magical land filled with snow and fauns and there's never any Christmas, but you can eat Turkish Delight 'til you pop." Dean wrinkles his nose. "What the hell is Turkish Delight, anyway? You'd think harem girls, but I'm pretty sure you can't get them in fancy boxes, and they don't let little boys eat them in children's books."
"Dean, you're disgusting."
Dean says, "Heh," and then much to Sam's surprise steps closer and brushes something out of Sam's hair.
Even more surprising, he leans in and kisses Sam, full on the lips, like it's a promise of more later.
"Dean?"
"What? No one is here to see. Now come on. Let's finish searching already. I have plans for you."
Sam is sure—one hundred percent certain—that when they arrived at this hotel he and Dean did not have the kind of relationship where they kissed and had eyebrow-raising plans for one another. But now, it seems, they do. And there is only one explanation he can think of.
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if you want to see the pictures that inspired this fic, some of them are here.
now also available from Dean's POV: He is the Wind in the Door
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