Author: Regala Electra
Warnings: Sexual Content, Language
Spoilers: S3, The Kids Are Alright
Summary: It’s the Fourth of July and Sam and Dean are finally—blissfully—alone after a prolonged hunt that’s left them on edge in more ways than one. A vignette where Dean employs his super awesome seduction skills, Sam is a total cockblock, fireworks make an appearance and there is profound domestic love.
Word Count: 3,119
Author’s Notes: A coda to Ben Has Two
When Dean gets like this, Sam has learned not to question it and to just nod his head and go with the flow or Dean will actually stop this before it gets to the point that Sam wants. Which is the sex. Yes, sometimes Sam also can have a one track mind especially when a simple hunt wound up being two intense weeks of everyone on top of each other. Without any time to resolve the pressures building as the hunt grew more complicated, the fight or fuck instinct turned to the former instead of the latter.
There was also the interesting revelation that Ben and Dean have quite similar short fuses and the delay in finishing off the hunt had made them extremely annoying to live with. By the time they successfully killed the monster porcupine—Sam really doesn’t want to relive that hunt ever again—Sam was barely keeping it together himself.
And as Sam unfortunately knows, a Dean without the regular sex he is accustomed to is a very annoying Dean to live with.
So now that Ben is at Lisa's for the Fourth of July (Ben’s favorite holiday that doesn’t include presents she explained to Dean), Dean is looking to get laid. A lot.
Shocking, Sam knows. Sure, Sam is desperate for something because other than half-assed jerk off sessions in brief showers, he has gotten way too accustomed to regular, guaranteed sex. Meanwhile, Dean’s kind of obsessed with never being bad in bed, which is why Sam has the freedom to mock him whenever he can't stave off orgasm long enough.
However, that doesn’t mean Sam’s going to just give in. Not when it’s Dean.
See, Dean has rituals. A kind of sex dance can be involved sometimes if there is music and Sam tries to make sure that is not the case.
Because Sam has gotten blown to Feel Like Making Love and getting hard to freakin' Bad Company is a whole world of wrong. Even worse, Dean had hummed during the chorus. As a result, Sam has now banned music when they hook up.
Oddly enough that's what Sam sometimes considers it, a hook up. But at least it's not a booty call as Dean once called it. Yeah, Sam’s going to hold that over Dean’s head forever.
Dean had called up Sam after dropping Ben off to the movies with a girl Ben had been interested in at the time, and said, “you better be ready, Sammy, ‘cause I'm dying for it.”
“Dude did you just—”
“Hell yeah, Sammy. I’m totally booty calling your ass.”
Dean is now begging by slowly stripping off his clothes, leaving them all over the other bed. Even though they rarely have need for it, it's a habit that neither of them can break: ordering a motel room like this, one with two beds.
The motel room’s seedy and horrible but the bed’s perfect and Sam's leaning forward, pointedly not staring at Dean. No, he's going to make Dean suffer. What he concentrates on is the fine decor, the excellent metalwork of the beer can sculpture mystifyingly attached to the wall. Not on Dean wearing nothing but jeans and his boxers, belt coming off and Dean sighing in relief.
Sam is really not noticing how the two weeks have been good to Dean, that all the running they’ve been doing has added some new definition to Dean’s stomach and how two weeks is a very, very long time. The taste of Dean’s skin could have very well changed and Sam hasn’t had an opportunity to test that. And now he can, freely and it’s really been way too long.
So. The carpeting’s completely not attractive. Sam decides to concentrate on that for a bit. Because he’s already beyond half-hard and if he wills it down, well then, Dean would have to make Sam get hard and Dean’s really amazing at that.
"I have been dying to do this." Dean hisses in relief, scratching the side of his hip, fading bruise a forgetful kind of purple.
"You’ve been packing on a few," Sam says. “Maybe you need to punch a new hole in your belt.”
"Oh, fuck off," Dean says, good-natured but it's completely insincere. This is Dean's version of seduction, jeans slipping low, tight band of boxers exposed.
All right, Sam’s a sucker for it each and every time.
Sam might be hard as a rock but it's like giving up if he pounces on Dean before he has Dean totally out of his mind trying to get Sam to do something.
Dean touches him first. It’s just a brush of his fingers skimming across Sam’s right shoulder, finding that little knot at the top of his shoulder blade. A glancing touch that shouldn’t mean the world but it’s so carelessly done and nearly clumsy, as though Dean has been resisting touching him like this for days (and he has) that Sam leans back and almost lets that be the moment, where Dean wins.
Thankfully, Dean ruins the moment, a deep laugh starting in his throat, and he asks, “Shoulder still hurting?”
“It’s going to heal. I think I’ll ice it now.”
“Hell you will.” Dean’s weight on the bed is sudden and Sam reflexively counter-balances, shifting on the bed to accommodate him. “Pressure and heat,” he says, decisively. “That’s what you need.”
“What I need?” Sam can’t turn his head, can’t let Dean make him stupid with just a kiss. Dean’s angled himself back so he can knead Sam’s back, easily taking care of some cricks that have gotten the best of Sam. “Or what you want?”
Dean’s mouth is hot and a little dry, pressing briefly at the edge of Sam’s collar, giving a little bite to tug at Sam’s shirt. He’s rubbing his face as though he’s able to move, to put his lips on Sam’s neck but he decides against it at the last moment. Sam forces himself not to audibly moan. Because what he needs is Dean to tell him how much he wants this.
“Maybe both,” Dean says, low. Working both shoulders now, making slow progression towards the back of Sam’s neck and then, working out the aches always there in Sam’s back, the years taking their cruel toll. “That make things any different?”
Responding would be a good idea but with Dean’s hands working that knot, god yes, that one right there, Sam’s at a loss for words. Sometimes, it seems like Dean’s goal in life is to embarrass Sam in any way possible, loud and noisy sex nine times out of ten topping the list.
Sam always protests because he has to, can’t let Dean get away with everything. Because then he’ll be worse than he is now, half-hard bulge that Sam spots out of the corner of his eye as Dean moves up against him, fingers working magic on Sam’s back.
Figures that the older he gets, the more he aches—and he isn’t old yet, but it’s a strain on him, on them both. Continuing to hunt has made them age faster and not enough breaks—gotta show Ben the ropes as Dean always says—in between hunts hasn’t helped them much this year.
It’s a conversation Sam’s been meaning to have, one he knows will be impossible to start, about settling down for just a few weeks. Dean might have off-handedly spoken about it and Lisa’s been firm on the matter, but Ben’s almost fifteen and maybe setting up a temporary base would be a good idea.
But then Sam thinks of the ache of having to move away, of having to pack up and just go and how that was the worst part of always moving around as a kid. He doesn’t quite know what to do. Ben’s got a wanderlust in him that’s beyond Sam’s understanding and while Dean’s tried to tamp down on the dreams of a real home, has said in as few words as possible that family’s his home, always will be, maybe it’ll be good for them, stop somewhere just for a couple of months and see what’ll happen.
Because Sam and Dean only have this—Dean working his back to get Sam relaxed and completely under his spell—and Sam craves more of it, too much of it. He wants to see what it’ll be like to not have the possibility that one slip up on a hunt will end all this. Wants to see if they can just be and maybe, just maybe, he wants to know for sure that this is working. That this can survive day-to-day banality.
Sam exhales, loud yawn that he fakes to cover up a moan threatening to slip out. Dean’s fingers skim along the top of Sam’s jeans, an utterly shameless maneuver. “A hidden massage technique, huh? Dean, didn’t you use to try this on all the girls?”
“No, just the ones I called back the next day,” Dean murmurs, rough scrape of stubble against Sam’s neck as Dean shifts his weight. “And the real tall ones. With stupid hair and caveman foreheads and fucking huge feet.”
“That isn’t many.” Sam rolls his shoulders as Dean presses a little too hard in one sore spot. “Ow. Watch it.”
“I’m trying, Sasquatch.”
“You’re a horrible masseuse,” Sam lies, curling his hands into fists, restraining himself from twisting around and pushing Dean back onto the bed when Dean starts skimming along his sides, like he’s threatening to wrap Sam into a big bear hug. He pulls away at the last moment, teasingly working fingers along the edge of his jeans, dull scrape of nails against his lower back.
“That’s ‘cause I got better things to do with my hands, if you get my drift.”
Sam snorts, shakes his head, tight little shake to register disgust at Dean’s horrific come-on. Sadly, that’s probably the best one he’s used in over six months.
And with that, Dean stops. Nearly bounds off the bed to get away and before Sam can ask him what he’s doing, Dean’s shucking down his jeans and boxers.
“Thinking of taking a shower?”
“Fine,” Dean says, extremely pissed off, horny, and desperate, “you win. Can we fuck now?”
“Actually,” Sam says, smiling indulgently, a long, sweeping scan of Dean, because two weeks might feel like forever and Sam wants to make sure everything’s exactly as he remembers, “Thanks to your massage, I think I’m going to take a nap.”
“You are the worst…” and here it is, name it, the challenge, only Dean struggles with it, can’t dare give it a real name, not even after all these years together. Finally he says, “Fucking lay in the universe.”
Now the game’s over. Sam has won and his prize is this: he gets up and stalks over to Dean. And what’s best is that he does feel wonderful, so many aches are already stolen away, and it’s those endorphins and the fact that he’s so hard now, that’s got him almost light-headed. His cock is thick and nearly twitching at the sight of Dean’s naked body, that final, perfect touch and he’s victorious in pushing Dean to his last limit.
Sam loves a good challenge.
He crushes Dean’s mouth to his, holds Dean’s face so Dean can’t back off but gives him enough leeway that Dean could, if he wanted to, stop this. But that won’t happen. Making a quick path to the side of Dean’s face, he notes how there’s a few new silver hairs at the edge of Dean’s sideburn that weren’t there the last time Sam kissed that spot right before Dean’s ear.
Sam says, low, “I bet I’ll get you to come in less than five minutes, Dean.”
Dean’s breath is ragged and harsh, his chest shuddering hard against Sam’s. But when he presses the heel of his hand against Sam’s dick, that’s all the answer needed. Sam does not need to do a striptease to get naked. They start pulling off clothes as quick as possible, Dean fisting Sam’s cock before Sam’s even got his jeans pushed down past his hips.
“How many times you wanted me to do this to you, Sammy? How many times you jerked off thinking about me?”
“Every—fuck—every time,” Sam gasps, because he’s a moron and loves that brilliant gleam in Dean’s eyes, the stark relief that Sam still wants this, as though Sam would ever want to stop, as though Sam would ever leave.
“Don’t hold back, don’t you fucking dare,” Dean commands and Sam should shut him up somehow. Oh, he has an idea, wrapping his hand around Dean’s cock, that familiar twist on the upstroke that gets Dean throwing his head back, veins visible in his neck, jaw clenched tight. “Fuck, Sam, I wanna—so bad—need you.”
The fumble towards the bed is awkward to say the least. Dean pushes Sam back and then climbing over him, traps Sam in a messy kiss of need, tongues twisting. Lips are sucked and bitten, Dean pulling back and bumping his nose against Sam’s, a mumbled apology mixed in with other noises.
Sam’s jeans are still only pushed down just past his hips and Dean moves down, sucking a wet path down, grumbling, “When the fuck is your goddamn stomach gonna go soft? So freakin’ insane.”
It’s the most blatant compliment Dean can willingly give and Sam decides to be extremely magnanimous and point out he’s not the one attempting to keep up with the nonstop eating habits of a growing teenager. The fact that Dean’s finally stripped Sam of the rest of his clothes is in no way influencing Sam’s decision to keep quiet. And Dean whole-heartedly and without any hesitation licking the head of Sam’s cock doesn’t short a fuse in Sam’s brain and have him nearly slamming his hips forward in need of that wonderful wet heat of Dean’s mouth.
Sometimes Sam has a definite suspicion that Dean prefers giving blowjobs over receiving but then he’ll see Dean getting antsy and know that Dean’s in desperate need of a blowjob and wait, why is Sam letting his brain work when Dean’s tongue is doing that wonderful thing to him?
Dean’s hand is tight around the base of Sam’s cock, staving off the impending orgasm—it’s been building up for too long—and he releases the head of Sam’s cock, all shiny with Dean’s spit and pre-come, to say, “Four minutes.”
“Wha—?” is all that Sam’s able to get out because Dean opens his mouth wide and takes him, not slow, inch-by-inch in that fabulous torture-test way that Dean often does. Just pushes in as much as possible, forcing past the back of his mouth, into his throat and that is it, all that Sam needs because to watch it happen is too much but to feel it?
His body could burst and he does, bursts into Dean’s mouth and Dean’s prepared, has his free hand pushing down on Sam’s belly, keeping him from rocking forward, from pumping too hard, lets Dean control the aftershocks.
It takes a while to come back to the world. The sight’s extremely welcome because Dean’s close enough that Sam can steal one of those kisses that he loves the most but can’t ever admit it, slow and sweet, the taste altered with his own come.
Sam’s limbs feel heavy and sluggish but that doesn’t stop him from reaching out, skimming a hand down and finding a mess of sticky and wet, Dean’s dick softening. Sam raises an eyebrow, brushing damp hair out of his eyes. “Um.”
“Dude, you know I haven’t heard you shout like that in a while, okay? It’s—fuck, you’ve been teasing me all night,” Dean says, not looking Sam in the eye.
“Well,” Sam says and now’s a good time to stop the torture because while sleep might be good later on, he’s still a little too wired and can’t find any good reason to stop, “I guess I’m just sorry I missed it.”
“Unless I was blowing someone else who happens to have the same exact dick, I think you were here, Sam.”
“No,” Sam says, stopping the building skirmish between them with a series of pointless kisses, one deep and careful, biting Dean’s bottom lip before breaking away. “Not that. Wanted to watch you lose it. Been thinking about it. And I missed out.”
“Hey, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good. I’m not either.”
“I know,” Dean says and Sam almost believes him.
It’s a hell of an effort but Sam does it, gets on hands and knees, positioning himself on top of Dean. When Dean smirks, making a move to pull Sam down to him, Sam avoids that. Instead he goes down, licking off Dean’s come and the string of curses Dean lets off is a wonderful thing. There’s a twitch of interest in Dean’s dick but it’ll take a while for him to get hard again.
“You’re getting old, man.”
“Yeah, well you ain’t getting any prettier, so it’s a fair trade. You—Jesus—just keep on doing what you’re doing there. Fuck yeah.”
“I plan on it,” Sam says, lazily, biting the slight soft round over Dean’s hip.
“So fuckin’ bitey.”
Sam carefully files that away in order to mock Dean at a later point. Talking during sex has never been sacrosanct between them not after Dean revealing the exact litany of words and phrases Sam always said when getting fucked.
Sadly, Sam is not particularly original and he begs a lot. Which isn’t all that different from Dean except Dean bitches a hell of a lot more when he’s the one taking it up the ass, as though that somehow makes it less gay.
Pressing a finger against Dean’s hole, wishing that one of them had the foresight to leave the lube out within arm’s reach, Sam almost misses the first cracking sound bursting all around them. He sits up and there it is again, more cracking, familiar and not at all like gunshots, different and—
“Fireworks,” Dean says, laughing a little. “It’s freakin’ fireworks.”
“And they’re funny because…?”
“Dude, we’ve been hard up and finally get to fuck around and someone’s shooting off fireworks. That’s funny.”
Sam stares down at Dean, who is nearly convulsing in laughter, hand clutches over his chest, holding his amulet in place. “You are so lucky that I—”
“Yeah,” Dean cuts in, patting Sam’s side of the bed, “I know I am. Now shut up and let me hear shit blowing up.”
“You don’t want to look?”
Dean considers this and then turns to look at Sam. “Nah. I like the view here.”