Author: Regala Electra
Word Count: 2,074
Spoilers: References to S2, S4, & S5
Warnings: Sexual Content, Language
Summary: The theory goes like this: eventually, it won’t be the worst sex ever.
Author's Note: Written for the salt_burn_porn challenge for deirdre_c's prompt: "making the worst of a good situation." Thanks to memphis86 and ignited for the beta work.
The end kicks off with Shut up, I’m trying to concentrate and When are you gonna come? a hissed Not in the face and If those get any bigger, I bet could tittyfuck you. The end is a stammer and a slump, slap of balls across the chest and a strangled laugh at the sudden slide, gravity taking Dean down hard.
He scrambles up from his clumsy fall, half-leaning over the bed. “We suck at this.”
But Sam’s too busy smothering his laughter with the one clean pillow left. He’s not sure when he’ll be able to look Dean in the eyes again without thinking of Dean slip-sliding off of him as he was caught off-guard by the slick surface of sweat and come between their bodies.
The theory goes like this: eventually it won’t be the worst sex ever.
It starts with recriminations. With Dean pressed up against him, his erection digging into Sam’s thigh, his breath hot on Sam’s neck as he fists Sam’s cock and delays the fleeting final moments of his orgasm.
“Dude, are you crying?”
This, Dean asks, as if Sam hadn’t witnessed him crying at the thought that he’d have to shoot Sam after getting attacked by the Croatoan-infected nurse.
Admittedly, tearing up while coming is a little different.
“No,” Sam sniffs, blinking his eyes quickly to prove how very much he isn’t crying. “I’m fine, okay?”
“Fine,” Dean echoes, dubious. His mouth is hot as he trails his lips from Sam’s jaw to his mouth and the kiss is much better than fine. Breaking from the kiss, Dean licks the last of the come off his fingers, not hiding the pleased smirk.
When he starts unbuckling his pants, Sam sighs, resigned.
“I’m just not—”
“What, you don’t want to suck me off?” He leans in closer, nearly rocking against Sam. “C’mon, Sammy.”
But Dean catches Sam’s grimace and he backs off, striding back around the car and getting into the driver’s seat with a decidedly pissed slam. The echo of the door reverberates against Sam’s back.
Sam should probably think about hitching his jeans up.
“Well, fuck you too,” Sam says under his breath. It’s not that Sam has a problem sucking Dean’s cock, in fact he’s learned he lacks a gag reflex and Dean’s very vocal about what’ll get him off quickly, so it doesn’t qualify as a chore when he can regularly get Dean off in under ten minutes. No, the problem is that Dean’s come tastes awful.
It’s not surprising with the wretched diet Dean’s faithfully maintained, but every time Sam gets a hot swallow of it, he has to will himself not to gag at the shock of its potency. He’s only got a fifty-fifty chance of not gagging on Dean’s cock, which is just awkward when it happens, and spitting out semen doesn’t wash out the taste of come when it lingers at the back of his mouth.
The taste of dick, he’s got no real issues with that, it’s the bitter salt that leaves Sam with a foul stomach for hours.
He takes a deep breath and gets himself together, settling into the passenger seat. Barely even winces when Dean turns on the stereo at full volume, he kind of deserved that one.
The drive is awkward and neither of them bother to alleviate the tension. It’s the ultimate form of chicken, this, and Sam is too guilty to attempt winning this round.
He speaks when there’s a break between cassette tapes, Dean pawing through his box for the next ear-shattering selection. “Have you ever thought—”
“Y’know, Sam, let’s not.” After tossing the box back in the backseat, Dean drums his fingers on the wheel for a moment he says, “What’s wrong with us? I mean, it’s sex. Sex.”
“I’m aware,” Sam says, dryly.
“It’s supposed to be good. Awesome.” Dean makes a hand gesture that Sam decides not to interpret but he’s pretty sure Dean just mimed something from the Kama Sutra. “But you’re crying and I’m not getting any, ‘cept when I am, and it’s awful.”
“Well. Thanks for that.”
“Dude. You know what I mean. We’re really bad together. You gave me a black eye the last time we fucked.”
“You already had that black eye!”
“Oh so your elbow clocking me was just a fantasy I was having when you were fucking me?”
That is a good point and as it is the truth, Sam doesn’t really have a leg to stand on. Much like that time they tried fucking in a shower and wound up falling through the curtain. Sam got the major bruises that time, though.
“Now, I don’t suck in bed.” Dean considers this fact, proudly, flipping through his mental rolodex of infinite, questionable hookups. “Unless every woman’s been lying to me.”
There’s another long pause.
“Shut up, I’m awesome.”
“I didn’t say anything. Look, Dean, maybe it’s not a good idea to have sex after nearly dying. Maybe that’s the problem.”
“That’s a damn lie. That’s the best kind of sex.” Sam doesn’t even have to say anything before Dean concedes. “Except when it’s not.”
“Maybe you should eat more fruit,” he mutters.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Okay, I didn’t want to bring it up,” Sam says, feeling the burden of the secret lifting even before saying the words, “but you taste disgusting.”
Sam’s anticipated many ways for Dean to reaction, all unpleasant, what he didn’t expect with a derisive snort.
“Is that it? Dude, it’s come, you don’t taste like fucking beer and skittles.”
“The fact that you know what beer and skittles tastes like together is exactly the problem.”
“You don’t have to swallow, Sam. I’ll still respect you in the morning. Hell, you can just let me come in your face. That would be hot, too.”
Sam stares at Dean, dumbfounded.
“I’m not letting you come on my face. Knowing us, it would probably blind me.”
It muddles on like this.
Dean frantically fisting him in the dead of night, and Sam isn’t one to make noises surrounded by the strange silence found in rundown motels in the middle of nowhere. It’s hurried; Dean’s desperate to get him off as Sam bites down on the callused pad of Dean’s hand over his mouth, urging him on as the edge of pain finishes this messy work, Sam shooting across Dean’s belly.
In the shower, afterwards, Sam can make Dean out in the dim light as he beats off, his back faintly outlined in the shadows, water pounding off his skin. When he comes, his ass flexes one, twice, and no more, and Sam hears rather than sees Dean slap the tiled wall as though trying to smack the come into the steady stream of water.
When Dean gets out of the shower, he pulls on whatever clothes he was wearing during the day, surreptitiously taking a long pull from the bottle of Jack he keeps under his bed.
They don’t share beds because they never have. In the darkness, there’s no way to offer comfort as Dean works his way into a drunken stupor.
They keep going on because there’s no other way.
Dean leans up from the vicinity of Sam’s crotch, glaring.
“My mouth isn’t a fucking miracle worker. I can’t heal the blind, deaf, or soft.”
Sam doesn’t bother pointing out that The Miracle Worker wasn’t about healing Helen Keller. “Maybe I’m not in the mood.”
“You were eyefucking me the entire time that siren forced us to fight.”
“Maybe that was the siren making me look at you like that.” His voice sounds petulant, he knows this, but he can’t help it when he’s this pressured and he cannot get hard and that’s not for lacking of trying.
“C’mon, Sam,” Dean says, his fingers cleverly working at Sam’s balls, in a way that usually can get Sam rock hard in an instant. “I’m horny.”
That much is obvious, Dean’s cock is thick and nearly blushing red. There’s beads of pre-come at the tip and Dean’s doing a very good job of not taking his dick in his hands and taking care of himself even though it looks like he’s close to doing just that.
“Do you trust me?”
“You don’t,” Sam says, flatly, which only makes it hurt more. There’s too much death between them, and time is running out. How can they just do nothing; or worse, spend their time fucking while seal after seal gets broken? And now Dean’s mocking him because he can’t get hard.
“Sam,” Dean says, a sudden tug taking Sam out of his thoughts. “I’ve got your balls in my hand.”
But that doesn’t mean Dean trusts him.
“I know.” Sam looks away. “I can’t.”
“Fine. What the fuck ever.” Then bitterly, Dean asks, “You have this much trouble getting it up with the good doctor?”
“No,” Sam says. “But then, funny thing, Dean. When I looked in her eyes, I knew she wasn’t afraid of me.”
“Well you sure can ruin the fucking mood.” But Dean doesn’t deny it, either.
Apart, the heart is supposed to grow fonder. The memories are not supposed to splinter and become sharper. Instead they should be transformed into faded, sepia-toned ghosts that promise that all can be made better, that there is a simple way of living and that once they knew that secret.
They know what ghosts truly are, and know that what they lived is hard-earned hurts and betrayals. They know what it is to die for each other and that their sacrifices left them emptier than ever.
So together, then. That is the only solution.
Far too imperfect to call it bliss, but there’s no denying his need for it; the feel of Dean over him as he waits for that moment of initial pain, followed by the pressure giving way and leaving something decidedly not terrible behind.
That they’ve gotten this far is an accomplishment since their best achievement so far has been in the neighborhood of awkwardly acceptable.
“Yeah, I know you’re gagging for it.”
“Fuck, Dean, how do you do it?”
“Well, lots of lube, lots of making you stop squirming against my fingers, and natural talent.”
Sam can’t see Dean’s face but he knows Dean’s gloating. What he says next is sure to ruin that look. “No,” Sam says, pushing back against Dean’s cock, “how the hell do you always make this sound like the worst porno ever?”
“Giddyup, Sammy,” Dean says, smacking him on the ass.
The smacking? Slightly hot, much to Sam’s surprise. The rest of it, he could do without. He shoves back, knocking into Dean who doesn’t lose his balance but he does roll over with a sharp hiss, clutching his left knee.
“You’re kidding. Did I just hurt your knee?”
“No,” Dean lies, as he slowly lowers his leg to lie flat, wincing all the way. “Just a twinge. Ugh. Maybe I need an icepack. Hang on.”
As Dean slowly ambles to the fridge, pulling out the icepacks he’s begin stocking like his precious cans of semi-awful beer, Sam huffs, rolling over on his side.
This was supposed to the night that changed everything. The Holy shit you’re alive! I’m alive! reunion sex where finally every little problem of theirs would be fixed. Such delusions have been a pleasant source of comfort and now once again it's turned into a comedy of errors.
Sam scrubs at his face for a moment, thinking. “I could ride you.”
Dean’s half-hunched over, wrapping his icepack to his knee with an ace bandage. He bites back a laugh tinged with bitterness. “Only if you don’t do something stupid and hurt my other knee.”
“Can’t promise that,” Sam says as he gets off the bed, roughly kissing Dean like he’s tongue-fucking him into submission. It’s too wet and messy to be any good, but that’s the best they can do.
“Well, what’s the worse that can happen?” Dean says, agreeing.
Stupid question, but they manage to make their way to the bed anyway.
It doesn’t work at all. In the morning, they’re both bruised and aching; wondering why the fuck they can’t break out of these floundering patterns, where nothing ever seems to leave them thoroughly fucked into happiness.
That doesn’t mean that they’re about to stop trying.