rivers_bend

I posted this over to dreamwidth a few weeks ago, but I've decided I want it here as well.

Title: When I get to where I wonder
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Words: ~6,000
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Enticements: bottom!Sam, Sam is 14
Summary: Sam knows what he wants from Dean and is determined to get it.



Sam is torn. On the one hand, now he's fourteen he's finally old enough to be left alone—to be treated like Dean got treated when he was half Sam's age. On the other hand, left alone is left without Dean, and it already feels like it's been a hundred years since they had more than a few minutes alone together.

Dad checked Sam into the room, left him enough food for the thirty-six hours he reckoned to be gone, and told Sam not to leave or do anything to call attention to himself. He promised he and Dean would only be gone one night—nothing dangerous, just research, but it's going to involve dealing with the police, and a fourteen-year-old kid doesn't really fit with their cover.

Sam's not scared. He isn't. He just misses Dean.

He's also pretty sure Dad didn't look too closely at what kind of motel this was before he left his youngest son here.

In the four hours he's been in his room, he's seen three different men go into the room next door, their arrival followed by loud sex noises each time. There's a condom machine next to the ice machine outside his door. Both seem popular with the motel's guests. The good thing about the situation, as far as Sam's concerned anyway, is that the TV plays five-minute previews of all the films you can then pay to watch.

After discovering this, Sam carefully closes the curtains—he has no interest in being mistaken for one of the motel's regulars, thanks—and settles on the bed with the lotion he pocketed the last time he was in a drug store, and the TV's remote.

The first channel has a bored-looking blonde with blood-red talons prying open another woman's girl parts. (Vagina, Sam's brain supplies, mindful of his sex-ed class, and then pussy, which is Dean's favorite, but Sam doesn't much like either of those alternatives, so sticks to girl parts.) It looks dangerous and not very sexy, so Sam changes the channel.

The next clip is much better: a dark-haired woman bobbing on a large purple dick. The man has one hand on the back of her head, and he's jerking his hips, fucking her mouth. It looks like he's choking her a little, but she also looks like she's enjoying it. Sam knows porn movies are as likely to be fake as normal movies, but it could be real. Sam thinks he might like it if Dean did that to him. Especially if Dean made the noises the guy on the TV is making. Not that Sam wants to be choked, but Dean's always so careful—letting Sam press his lips there, and use his tongue, but pulling Sam up to kiss him whenever Sam tries to take Dean into his mouth, tries to suck him. Dean's never held Sam's head or taken charge like the guy on screen.

The preview ends before it gets more interesting, and so Sam moves on. The next video is two men, both thick with muscle and sporting Marine haircuts. Sam is a little disappointed neither of them looks more like Dean, but he's fascinated by what they're doing. His grip on his prick tightens and it feels like his chest is on fire.

The darker man is standing behind the paler one who is bent at the waist and has his chest plastered to a table. There are broken-down guns on a green cloth at the other end. The man's legs are spread in a wide V, and his hands are cuffed together at the small of his back. The standing man is fucking his ass with sharp jabs of his hips. Every time he moves forward, his balls slap against the fuckee's (there must be a better word, but Sam doesn't know what it is) and both men grunt loudly.

Sam knew that men could fuck each other. That they did fuck each other. He'd just never really thought about what that meant. What it looked like. His fantasies up to this point involved touching, rubbing, kissing—anything that would get him closer to Dean. Sitting on Dean's lap, arms wrapped around his neck, legs around his waist, their dicks hard and slippery between their stomachs; Dean's hand slick with lotion or snagging with sweat and rushed need on Sam's dick; nothing but soap and hot water between them pressed against each other in the shower; or Sam's favorite: Dean on top of him, holding Sam's wrists above his head, hovering with his lips just far enough away Sam can't quite reach when he strains to kiss him, the tiny frictions of hipsbelliescocks not quite enough until Sam's begging, "Dean, please, Dean!" and Dean finally kisses him, lets his hands go free to grip tight, pull closer, move just the right way so they can finally come.

But this. God. The thought of Dean inside him. On top of him like that, holding Sam so he can't move, can't do anything but feel Dean—Sam comes, shaking, just as the clip ends and the ad suggesting he buy the rest of the movie starts.

It's not enough, not nearly enough; Sam's still buzzing with need—wants the ad to end and the clip to start over. Dropping the remote—he doesn't plan on changing the channel, maybe ever—Sam uses his t-shirt to rub his jizz into his stomach with one hand and fumbles for the lotion with the other. He squeezes too hard, squirts it on his wrist and the bedspread before he gets it on his fingers and smears it around. The muscles in his arms are twitching with nerves and excitement. He's not sure which hand he should use—his right, which is his "smarter" hand, or should he use his left and keep his right for jerking off?

Left, he decides, and he scootches down so the small of his back is flat on the bed, then reaches between his legs with his left hand, feeling for his hole. The lotion is cold and he feels suddenly silly doing this while the woman on the TV tries to seduce him into putting Jar Heads 6 on his credit card, but he keeps going, rubbing his fingers along his crack and over his balls until it's all slippery and warm. Between the sensations, the excitement, and the thoughts he's having about Dean doing this to him, Sam's getting hard again already. His thighs and ass are clenching and relaxing, clenching and relaxing. He feels crumpled up which makes it hard to breathe, so he adjusts the pillows which not only makes breathing easier but gives him a better view of the TV just in time for the "marines" to return, groaning, grunting, mid-fuck.

The camera is zoomed in on the pale guy's hole, stretched bigger than Sam could have imagined by the other guy's dick. His own hole is puckered tight against his fingers when he tries to poke inside. Sam takes a deep breath and watches the screen, rubbing instead of poking, and he feels his muscles relax a little. One fingertip dips in, a strange sensation: it feels deep in his ass, but only a sliver on his finger. It feels good but in a squirmy way that's unfamiliar.

Pushing harder hurts, a sharp shocky pain, so he jerks his hand away breathes again, draws his knees up and open, and tries more lotion. This time he knows to rub first, and with his finger slicker, it slides inside more easily. It feels better now he knows what to expect, and he grips his dick with his other hand, tries sliding his finger in and out a little while he slowly jerks himself. He can't think, his brain rapid firing between thinking about Dean's finger inside him like this and his own finger inside Dean. It's too much and too good, and he has to stop moving, just catch his breath.

Sam focuses on the men on his TV, tries to imagine the tight grip on his finger relaxing enough to get something as big as a cock up there. Tries to imagine how much fuller he'd feel. He wiggles his finger and pushes at his opening with a second one. He gets it in and it hurts, but a stretchy rather than a shocky pain, so he doesn't stop, just pushes more, rubbing his balls and pulling on his dick until both fingers are straight together as deep inside as he can reach. Shallower and gentler, but in time with the men on screen, Sam fucks himself with his fingers, getting used to the sensation, the stretchy-full feeling.

Why didn't Dean ever tell him about this? Sam knows his brother has watched porn movies without him, so he must have seen butt fucking before. Sam can't imagine Dean is scared to try anything; he's the bravest person Sam knows except for maybe Dad. But maybe Dean thinks Sam is too young or he needs protecting from this for some reason. Dean is always thinking Sam needs protecting from something.

Sam doesn't want protecting from this though. It's good. Really good. And it would be even better if it were Dean kneeling between Sam's legs, sliding his fingers inside, feeling how hot Sam is for him. Sam can tell that it's not going to be as easy as he thought to take Dean's dick, but they can practice, and the practicing will be almost as good.

It's getting back to the part of the clip where it's going to cut off, and Sam jerks harder, fucks himself faster, trying to come before the credit card lady is back. He fucks upwards, trying to ease the cramp forming in his wrist, and it feels even better, all tingly in his balls and like he wants more. He gets just the tip of a third finger in before he comes, stomach and thighs clenching.

His ass is clamped tight around his fingers, and it hurts to pull them out, but Sam likes the feeling, too, and he wants to do it again. Wants Dean to come back now so Sam can show him, can make him put his fingers inside Sam's ass. See if he'll let Sam do the same to him. Tomorrow night can't come soon enough.

But in the mean time, Sam intends to keep practicing. As soon as he gets his breath back.


The next night Dad calls at 9 PM , says, "We'll be there in a few hours, be packed and ready."

Sam shoves his come-stiff t-shirt into his duffel, getting out one that is at least marginally clean, and goes in to have a shower. The hot water wakes up the stings and aches in his ass and on his dick. He's masturbated more in the last thirty hours than he usually does in thirty days. Every time he thought he would stop jerking off, the ass-fucking clip would start over, or he'd think about Dean pushing his legs open and holding him down, fucking him, and he'd start again.

Around midnight last night, he went out to the condom machine, just to get some air, and saw something called AstroGlide that he thought might work better than the lotion he had, so he dug around in his bag until he found four quarters, and bought it.

It wasn't just a little better; it was way better. He turned off the TV, got up on his knees with his ass in the air, and, going slow, imagining Dean watching him, Sam managed to get three fingers all the way in to the last set of knuckles. It felt so good that he thought he might be able to come just from that, but he'd already come six or maybe seven times since mid-afternoon, and in the end had to rest his weight on his shoulder and jerk his dick while he twisted his fingers in his ass. It hurt to come, with practically nothing left in his balls, but it was enough, and Sam finally fell asleep.

This morning he took a bath when he woke up, debated whether he could risk walking down the highway to find something other than granola bars for breakfast, decided not to—not that he thought Dad would catch him, just, well, it would suck if something happened and Dad caught him—and then settled down with his book. That lasted less than an hour before he was back to fucking himself with his fingers while he fantasized about Dean fucking him in every imaginable position.

He ended up sleeping most of the afternoon, filthy with his own come, and so when Dad calls, he doesn't mind as much as usual that it sounds like they're going to be driving all night.

The knock on the door comes at 11:30 PM. Sam is glad to see just Dean on the other side of the peep-hole.

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean says, stepping inside and sniffing deeply," Did you do anything but jerk off while we were gone?" He has his annoyed voice on, but he is also pushing Sam up against the wall with his palm hot on Sam's dick, so Sam is pretty sure he's faking the tone.

"Not really," Sam admits, giving Dean his best and what are you going to do about it? look.

Dean cups Sam's head with both hands and kisses him hard and deep, moaning when Sam wraps his arms around Dean's back and pulls Dean closer, hooking a leg around his thigh.

"Where's Dad?" Sam asks when Dean finally pulls away to gasp in some air.

"Convinced him—" Dean kisses Sam's jaw, "—to go get gas—" bites Sam's neck hard enough to ache deliciously but not to mark, "—while I woke you up, made sure you were packed."

"Of course I'm packed," Sam says, stung that Dean would think he wouldn't be ready.

"I know. But I missed you." He kisses Sam again, lifting his face, holding him tight. "And we can't exactly do this in the back seat while Dad drives."

Sam would say, "Good point," except that would be wasting time he could be kissing Dean, so he does that instead.

He squeezes his hand between them, fingers the shape of Dean's dick through his jeans, thinks about sucking it, kneeling at Dean's feet with Dean holding his head just like he's doing now, fucking into Sam's mouth.

"I want to suck you," Sam says.

"Jesus, Sammy—" Dean shudders, his hips jerking against Sam's. "You can't say that when Dad's going to be back to get us in two minutes."

"I do though," Sam insists. "And I want you to fuck me." Might as well put it out there when there's no time for Dean to argue—give Dean a chance to get used to the idea before Sam states his case. Because Dean is going to argue, same as he always argues with anything new that's Sam's idea: wash the bloody clothes separately in cold water, stay home alone, suck Dean's dick.

"I don't think—" Dean starts.

"I do," Sam says, and then giving Dean one last quick kiss, he wriggles away, saying, "Dad will be here soon."

"Sam—" Dean's frowning, looking at Sam like something's happened while they were gone—like maybe Sam's lost his mind.

"I want it, Dean. I'm big enough. Ready. We can talk about it later."

Dean looks skeptical and pulls the curtain aside to peek out the window. "Later," he says, "Dad's back, anyway."

Sam grabs his bag and opens the door.

They drive all night, John and Dean taking turns behind the wheel and sleeping in back, Sam curled in the passenger seat using his sweatshirt as a pillow. They get to Lincoln, Nebraska about seven in the morning, and Dad pulls into a motel. Sam hopes he's going to get them two rooms—sometimes he does—but he just gets one, asking for a roll-away bed. They stay three days there, Sam going completely insane watching Dean be a dutiful hunter, unable to touch him.

Finally, Dad gets what he needs from whoever they were here to see, and they're off again, south and west, towards the desert. Dad doesn't say where or why, just puts them in the car and goes. When they get there, "there" is an old mobile home up on blocks at the back of a ranch.

Dad pulls up next to the aluminum Airstream and finally outlines his plan. But Sam doesn't listen after "you boys will be safe here for a couple days," because he's going to be alone with Dean, half a mile or so from Dad's friend in the ranch house, and miles from anyone else. Nowhere for Dean to go, no one to interrupt them; whatever Dad is doing is of less than no interest in comparison.

Sam is imagining the cramped quarters as his and Dean's private getaway spot from the moment he opens the door and sets his duffle down on one of the bench seats. His eyes drink in the double bed at one end and the kitchenette at the other, the little door that he knows from experience goes to a tiny toilet and shower, and his imagination fills with images of him and Dean living here, just the two of them, living off the land, having sex whenever they want, not having to—

"Sam!" Dad interrupts his train of thought. "Are you even listening to me?"

Not having to follow Dad's orders all the time.

"I said let's go," Dad continues. "I need to have a chat with Archie up the house. You and Dean can drop me off and go get some supplies. You'll need some food. Figure on three or four days to be safe."

Dean's already out the door, so Sam just picks up his sweatshirt and follows Dad out to the car.

While Dean's waiting at the deli counter, Sam heads down the pharmacy aisle where he grabs a bottle of lube, then another—a different brand—not sure how long one bottle lasts or what the best kind is. Always be prepared is one of Dad's mottos he can get behind.

Somewhere between the toilet paper and the deli, the bottles disappear into the folds of Sam's clothes. Too many conversations he's not ready to have yet if they find their way into the shopping cart.

When they get back, Sam figures Dad will take off, but he stays, spreading papers out on the trailer's small table, asking Dean questions about their last few stops, forcing Sam to take off instead, head out to where a pile of rocks stands up in the distance, because if he doesn't get his hands on himself he's going to come in his pants the next time his brother looks at him.

Sam jerks off into the dirt, back against a sun-warmed boulder, and when he's done, he climbs to the top and lies down, looking out over the teeming nothingness until the sun sets and Dean comes to find him.

"He's leaving at first light," Dean promises. "But he's gonna be sleeping right next to us, so we've gotta—"

"I know," Sam says. He's not stupid. He's seen the looks Dad's been giving them lately when he comes to wake them and finds them draped over one another. Noticed that Dad's been getting a roll-away more and more often. They need to be discreet. He gets it. But that doesn't mean he has to like it.

Not that they have to worry about being discreet tonight, because Dad takes the double bed and leaves the bench seats on opposite sides of the table for Sam and Dean. No need to be on your guard against accidental cuddling when there's a table between you.

Sam is awakened by a loud crash when the sun is barely a sliver on the horizon; It seems Dad let the wind bang the door against the side of the trailer when he went out to put his stuff in the car.

"Sorry," John says when he comes back in and spots Sam peeking bleary-eyed from behind the table. "Go back to sleep. Be good for your brother."

Sam nods and puts his head down, but doesn't go back to sleep, instead staying alert for the sounds of Dad driving away so he can drag Dean to the bed, sleep with him there. It seems to take forever for Dad to go, but the sky out the window is still glowing pink when the impala's engine fades into the distance. Dean's hard to rouse, but Sam manages to get him over to the bed where he curls up in the curve of Dean's body and closes his eyes.

When he wakes again, it's to a patch of hot sunlight on his feet and Dean, head propped on one fist, staring at him.

"What?" Sam asks, reaching to touch the sheet-wrinkle mark on Dean's cheek.

"Just wondering if you were ever going to wake up." Dean rolls on top of Sam and kisses him.

At the feel of Dean's weight holding him down, Sam goes from dozy to desperate in moments, and, aware that they are truly alone, he moans aloud as his hips find their groove against Dean's.

"Missed you," Dean says, "missed you."

They buck and twist together, kissing, licking, biting, writhing, coming before either of them can organize getting their PJs off.

Lying there afterwards, grinning at each other, almost laughing, Sam remembers when Dad leaving them meant sulking and complaining on his part and worry and bossiness on Dean's. He likes this better.

When Sam's stomach starts growling, they get up and eat, taking toast out onto the steps, sitting in the sun, Sam between Dean's knees, Dean with one hand down the wash-worn collar of Sam's t-shirt tracing idle lines over his collar bones and between his nipples.

"I think we should have sex today," Sam says when he's finished his toast.

"I thought that's what we were doing."

"No, I mean like fucking. I think you should fuck me."

Dean's hands still and Sam can feel his thighs tense around Sam's ribs. Before he can protest, Sam continues. "I've been practicing. You won't hurt me. I promise."

Cupping Sam's chin and tilting his head back so he can look him in the eye, Dean says, "What do you mean, you've been practicing?" He looks scared and angry like the time Sam ran off in the park when he was six.

"With my fingers. Please, Dean. I can't stop thinking about it. Want it so bad."

"Fingers are different." Dean lets go Sam's chin and goes back to rubbing Sam's chest. "It's different."

"Well, you can just use your fingers then," Sam says, thinking he has a better chance of convincing Dean once Dean sees how much Sam likes it. "Please?" he adds when Dean doesn't say anything. Reaching back to hook an arm around Dean's neck, he twists and pulls himself up so he's sitting across Dean's thighs and can kiss him. When Dean relaxes into the kiss and pulls him closer, Sam figures he's won.

The airstream is really a little small for Dean to be carrying Sam bride-over-the-threshold style, but Dean doesn't let that stop him, just relies on Sam to keep his gangly legs from knocking anything over. When he gets them to the bed he tosses Sam onto it, and with a hungry grin on his face, Dean pulls his t-shirt off over his head.

His shoulders look huge and his arm muscles flex and bulge as he pushes his sweats down over his hips. Sam is too distracted by the sight to take his own clothes off, thinking of the things he hopes Dean is going to do to him. Then Dean tugs at the ankles of his pajama bottoms and Sam hooks the waistband below his dick, totally willing to help.

Once his pants are off, Sam sits up which allows him to pull his shirt off and reach for Dean's wrist so he can get him on the bed and within kissing distance.

Sam loves the feel of his brother naked; too often they have to fumble quickly under clothes, under blankets, under cover of darkness, being still and quiet as possible. Now he wraps his legs over Dean's, uses his feet to feel Dean's calves, the back of his thighs, Dean's leg hair crisp and tickly on his soles. He palms over Dean's back, down over his ass, trying to tug his brother closer though they are plastered together already.

They roll across the bed, kicking the covers to the floor, gasping out "please" and "yes" as fingers and lips find almost the right, just the right spot, until they're flushed and panting, lying on their sides, Sam's leg hooked high over Dean's hip, Dean's hand on the small of his back, stroking, but stopping short of going where Sam wants him, needs him.

Sam brought the lube over while Dean was in the bathroom earlier, hid it under the edge of the mattress, and now he twists and dives down, saying "Just a second" when Dean asks where he's going, pressing it into Dean's hand when he's pulled himself back onto the bed.

Dean looks at it and then at Sam like Sam's just handed him a tarantula.

"C'mon," Sam cajoles. "It feels so good. Want it. Please, Dean." He takes the bottle out of Dean's hand, flips the lid, and pours some of the goop onto Dean's fingers. "Just try it," he adds and then pushes and wiggles until they're back on their sides the way they'd been before.

Finally giving in, or just not sure what else to do with his lube-slippery fingers, Dean rubs them down Sam's crack, flirting over his hole, making Sam whimper and try to press back into them.

"You said we'd go slow," Dean says, then kisses Sam, rubbing down over Sam's hole, pressing in at the familiar spot behind Sam's balls.

Sam wants to beg, to grab Dean's hand and put it where he wants it, almost does, but Dean's as stubborn as Sam is and then some when it comes to what he thinks is good for Sam, so Sam focuses on kissing instead, acting like he's patient and not about to fly out of his skin if Dean doesn't fuck him now.

Tilting so Dean has a better angle and Sam can get a hand between them, stroke his thumb over the crown of Dean's dick, seems to do the trick. Dean stops teasing and rubs a finger over Sam's hole with enough pressure to push a little ways inside. It makes Sam claw at Dean's shoulder, and Sam's belly jerks against his fist where it's wrapped around Dean's cock.

"Okay?" Dean asks.

"Yes. God, yes." It's all Sam can do to stay still, not fuck back, force Dean in farther. "More," he begs, and wiggles a little.

Dean pushes in more, and his eyes go wide. "Fuck," he gasps. "Oh, Sam. Fuck."

Eyes riveted on Sam's, Dean moves in a fraction more, pulls most of the way out and then pushes back all the way, until Sam feels Dean's knuckles hard against his ass crack. Sam can feel Dean's arm shaking where it's resting along his thigh.

"You can move," he whispers, thinking maybe it's a strain for Dean to hold still.

"It's so—" Dean trails off, still frozen and staring.

Sam is scared suddenly that Dean isn't moving because he thinks it's gross or something. "Do you like it?"

Dean answers with another question. "You like it?" Sam listens carefully to Dean's tone, and he doesn't sound disgusted.

"Yes." Sam rocks a little on Dean's finger, assessing just how very good it feels. "Even more amazing than I imagined it."

Dean flinches back, sliding halfway out before Sam clenches on his finger, stopping him. "You said you tried it," Dean admonishes.

"I did." Sam relaxes, pushes back, hoping Dean will take the hint. He does. "I just knew it would feel even better when it was you. Didn't know how much better, though."

That seems to reassure Dean, because he starts fucking his finger in and out then, and when Sam responds, fucks back, he doesn't stop.

"I can take more," Sam says, and Dean doesn't protest, eases a second finger in alongside the first.

He doesn't go as deep, but Sam feels stretched wide around him. Like Dean is taking him, making room. Sam gets his hand as far around both their dicks as he can from this angle, and the pressurefriction makes both of them start humping in earnest, driving Dean deeper, forcing a keening noise from Sam's throat.

It's good, amazing, a burning stretching fullness, Dean fucking him with his fingers now, no longer hesitant. Until Sam begs for more.

"Another one. Please, Dean."

But Dean just says, "This is good," like he knows best, and kisses him.

Sam doesn't want to be patient anymore. He reaches back and pushes his finger in beside Dean's. Dean tries to stop him, but Sam's arm is trapping his, and while Dean's stronger, Sam is a hell of a lot more determined.

"Jesus," Dean says when Sam puts a second finger in, making two of his and two of Dean's.

Sam is frantic with the sensations: his ass so full, Dean right there clinging to him, the twitching heat of his ass, Dean's knuckles slippery under his fingertips, and Sam is going to come—so close—but he wants Dean's cock in him first. Needs it.

"Fuck me, fuck me, fuck, Dean."

Dean looks shell-shocked as Sam pulls their fingers out of his ass, grabs for the lube again and spills way too much on Dean's dick.

"Fuck me," he says again as he gets on his knees, spread wide as they can go.

He pokes his brother in the ribs when Dean just stares at him, and to his surprise, that actually gets Dean up and kneeling behind him.

"My god," Dean says. "Sam, I don't—"

But Sam gropes over Dean's hip and down until he finds Dean's dick, not interested in what Dean doesn't want or doesn't think. His grip is slippery, but he manages to tug Dean forward, line him up, and push back onto Dean's dick as he guides it inside.

It's a different shape than fingers, flared at the end, blunt, and as he pushes it in, there's the shocky burning pain again. Sam gasps, muffling it against a pillow, and then takes a deep breath as Dean jerks back.

"I told you," Dean says, "you're too young. This is a bad idea."

"No." Sam grabs Dean's thighs and holds him, hips tight to Sam's ass. "I just got excited. Went too fast."

Dean leans down, wrapping his arms around Sam's chest, crushing him in a hug. "I don't want to hurt you." He's kissing Sam's neck and shoulders, quick pecks interspersed with the words.

"I want you. Please, Dean." Sam doesn't say that the hurt feels good, that he wants Dean to just push into him and make him feel it; he just grips Dean's dick with his ass cheeks, holding Dean in the heat there, until Dean sighs and lifts up, letting Sam take him in his hand and guide him forward again.

Remembering what he did in the hooker hotel, Sam rubs Dean's dick against his hole, teasing himself with it until Dean's practically hyperventilating and Sam thinks he's going to go insane if he doesn't get his brother inside now. This time it doesn't hurt, just fills him up with stretchy-burny fullness.

Dean doesn't move a muscle once he's inside, just crouches over Sam like he's afraid of setting off a bomb if he so much as breathes. Sam moves instead, arching and then pushing back. Lube is dripping down his thighs, and he thinks about what it will feel like when it's Dean's come. The thought has him grabbing his dick, jerking it, and begging, "Move, Dean. Fuck me. Want you to come inside me."

That gets the response he was hoping for.

Once Dean starts moving, Sam has trouble staying up on his knees. Before long he gives up trying, getting driven flatter with each thrust until he's half on his stomach on the bed, one leg out behind him, the other folded up by his chest, Dean's weight heavy on his back. There's no room to jerk himself anymore, but every thrust pushes his dick through the cuff of his fingers, and that, plus the feeling of helplessness, Dean huge over him and inside him, is making Sam sob, "yes, yes, yes," every time Dean shoves into him.

Dean is babbling, has one hand fisted in Sam's hair, the other gripping the thigh Sam has folded underneath him, and Sam feels trapped, caged, yet like he's flying, totally free, and it's all overwhelming him. Then Dean starts shaking violently, shouts Sam's name and he's coming, unh unh unhing with every jerk of his hips.

Sam comes too as Dean collapses even heavier on top of him and Sam feels his brother's come dripping hot down his balls.

He can't breathe with Dean's full weight on his ribs, but manages to elbow Dean until Dean moves, tipping them both on their sides, Sam spooned against his chest. Dean's dick feels weird slipping out of Sam's ass, but it's comforting nestled in his crack, nudging up against his balls.

Their hands find each other, their fingers weaving together as they shift until they fit, Sam's head tucked under Dean's chin. "I told you," Sam whispers.

"You did," Dean says, and Sam can feel his cheek moving in a smile against Sam's temple.

"You didn't hurt me."

Dean just nods and tightens his grip.

"And you liked it, right?" Sam's pretty sure Dean liked it. But he wants to check just in case.

Dean's laugh is a burst of air against Sam's ear, and a jerk of Dean's chest against his back. "Yes, Sam. I liked it." He chuckles again and then nibbles on the shell of Sam's ear. "I really fucking liked it."

Sam squeezes Dean's fingers and wiggles his ass a little until he's perfectly, exactly comfortable."I told you," he says again, huge grin on his face.

"You told me," Dean affirms, and Sam lets his eyes close, feeling snug and safe in Dean's arms.