the reluctant lobotomist (fourfreedoms) wrote,
the reluctant lobotomist
fourfreedoms

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FINISHED MY FIRST TIMESTAMP, OMG!

Title: This Space Will Never Get Tired of You
Disclaimer: Supernatural is owned by a bunch of heartless network suits.
Summary: Sam and Dean's first time after Sam's integration. Immediately follows the events of This Is The Sun Gone Down.
Pairing: Wincest
Word Count: 2300
Rating: NC/17
Notes: balefully requested this timestamp, so this one's for her. I hope you like it, darling.



The sun goes down late so far north, the room gradually swallowed by darkness because they’re too lazy to get up and turn on the lights. Sam watches the wall, eyes intent, still. For a minute Dean thinks he’s having a house meeting, but then he remembers, now the only person Sam talks to in his head is himself.

“Whatcha doin’?” he asks, pulling a chair up to sit beside him.

Sam’s gaze doesn’t waver. “The electric sockets glow.”

“Huh?” Dean doesn’t see anything, just Sam’s laptop power-source plugged into the wall and garish flocked wallpaper.

Sam reaches out to bridge the space between them. Fingertips trail across the back of Dean’s hand, and he knows, he knows that really, it is never possible for atoms to meet, that at the level of his most basic building block, he is still miles away from Sam. But when Sam touches him, they fuse together, and the electric socket jumps to life with light. It’s glowing green, fizzing, just at the very edges of the outlet.

He’s hard, pants constraining him almost unbearably, and he’s gasping, swallowing air to fill his surprised lungs. Sam lets go. The socket blinks out. Dean can still feel Sam’s power making his heart pump harder, beat out of time.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, keeping his body arched carefully away.

“Is this what it’s like for you?” he asks when he’s caught his breath.

Sam looks at him hard for a long moment before his gaze drops to Dean’s pants. He colors, pink spreading across his cheeks. “No, no it’s not.”

And Dean knows then, that it hurts, just as much as the nightmares. It aches and burns and leaves Sam withered and dry. And that’s what makes him different from all the others who fell so easily: his ambition, his need for revenge does not outweigh the pain.

He wants to touch Sam, to tighten his arms around him until the edges of him bite into Dean’s flesh. He wants to move with him, and trail his hand up Sam’s back in the way only lovers are allowed. But he doesn’t know where the line is, it’s only been two weeks, and it’s still too new. But his erection isn’t going down. He climbs gingerly to his feet, ready to take a shower and take care of it, because he’ll be damned if he asks Sam for help.

“Dean,” Sam stops him. “Are you honestly going to go jerk off while I’m standing right here in the next room?”

“Just like the 8 million times before it?” Dean grins. “Yes, I think so.”

“What is wrong with you?” Sam snaps. “I can do that.”

Dean blurts out “But you’ve never…with a guy—” at the same time Sam says, “I’ve done this before you know.”

Dean’s mouth is frozen open. He shakes his head. “You have not.”

Sam breathes deep, turns back to the wall outlet. “Marc, Alicia—”

“But that’s not you!”

Sam spins around, gliding into Dean’s space with Maxwell’s preternatural speed. “Oh, let me show you how wrong you are.”

Sam’s hand runs down his thigh, fingertips gathering at the bunched fabric behind his knee, yanking up so that Dean’s leg brackets Sam’s hip and their groins are in direct contact. Sam tips Dean’s head back with another hand at his neck, and leans in, mouth brushing over his. Dean doesn’t have space to move or think or worry. His synapses have ceased firing anything but good, good, oh god, good to his brain, and his dick is throbbing, brushing against Sam and the unforgiving line of his zipper.

Sam’s tongue flicks in and out of his mouth, a slow wet slide that moves in counterpoint to the hips he rocks into Dean. Dean’s skin is on fire and he wants past the clothes. He wants to guide Sam back to that bed, strip him bare, line their cocks up and take his pleasure until he’s choking with it. But the resolve isn’t there.

Sam can feel his muscles tighten, knows how to read the tension in his body far better than he should. “No.” And Sam is cutting the kiss off, tossing him out of the bar, like the drunk he’s become. “You’re afraid to cross the line? Then you don’t get to cross it at all.”

He takes culpability out of Dean’s grasp, draws him to bed with fingers splayed across his ass, and dirty words in his ear. Dean doesn’t like it, even as he rocks his body into it. He’s older, he’s safe, he’s not going to…dissociate. Sam knows it, has his entire body listening for it as he shoves Dean down on the bed, climbs up his body to kneel over him.

Dean has never felt small in his life except in the presence of Sam. Sam holds his hands to the bed, tangles them up in his jacket when he pushes it past Dean’s shoulders so he can’t struggle. “You’re going to stop making it about me.” There’s that bright shining look on his face, triumphant, determined, just a little bit manic. His teeth scrape over Dean’s pulse, and his weight comes down over Dean’s dick, the soft swell of his ass pressing agonizingly against it, until Dean is crying out, arching his spine away from the mattress.

Sam’s lips slowly melt into a grin, and Dean expects to hear the dirty soft gravel of Alicia’s voice say something lascivious, Ride ‘em, cowboy, but it’s Sam, and his personality can’t fit all the pieces of the others in it. He grinds into Dean’s dick, swirls a line down Dean’s throat with his tongue.

“Gonna make me beg, jackass?” he finally manages in a voice shot to hell, the pressure of Sam’s hands run over his body, nails setting his skin on fire where Sam has pushed his t-shirt back.

“It’s not crossing the line if I gotta give it to you,” Sam says, little-brother smug grin practically singing in his deep voice. Dean moans, lips parted, trying so damn hard to feel more of Sam with the little leeway he’ll allow.

“Let me touch you, let me see you, God, let me see you.”

Sam leans back, lets Dean shrug his own jacket and shirt aside before raising up to tear Sam’s shirt away from his body. Sam laughs, color arcing back across his cheeks, head bowed bashfully, and Dean wants it all.

Sam tangles their fingers together, leans back in to kiss him, draping himself over Dean. Their heartbeats are pressed together, beating arythmically.

Sam loves his lips, he fastens his teeth into them, and runs his tongue over the curve of the lower one. Dean moans and wraps his arms around Sam’s waist, drawing him in tighter. That edgy good feeling expands in his body, drawing his muscles tight.

He’s still asking himself where they’re going to stop, and Sam’s answer is to pull back and strip them both of their jeans. Dean’s boxers drag over his cock when Sam tugs them down, and he has to shut his eyes, or the look on Sam’s face will be enough to set him off.

Their cocks meet up, slide together at the same time that Sam bends to tongue his nipple. Slow, slow, slow, and Dean is vibrating, trembling. Where are they stopping? He won’t let Sam—his brain pauses, hiccups. Sam parts Dean’s thighs and thrusts down the groove of his ass, cock running over his perineum and his hole. Dean’s hands tighten on Sam’s biceps, and his eyes are squeezed so tight he sees stars.

“You mark the line, Dean, if you can’t handle it anymore.”

“F-fuck you,” he stutters, closes his teeth on Sam’s shoulder, the taste of Sam’s sweat, the salt of his skin hitting his tongue. Sam’s dick, still running teasingly back and forth over Dean’s entrance, hardens further, aided by a sudden slip-slide of precome.

“Oh no, I’m fucking you,” Sam grins, and who is that? Which one gave him that ability to reduce Dean to this shivery mess? Had it been Sam’s own power all along? “You better say if you can’t handle your baby brother fucking you.”

Dean growls, clamps his thighs tight around Sam’s hips. “I have always been able to handle you.”

Sam presses a quick sweet kiss to Dean’s mouth, and it throws him one, because nothing about this has been sweet, but he doesn’t have much time to think on it, because Sam is reaching over to the night stand, rummaging around until he finds the tube of KY Dean snuck in there.

And Dean knows never to buy a weapon unless you intend to use it, but he can honestly say he wasn’t sure what his intentions were when he picked it up.

Sam concentrates, wraps one long-fingered hand around Dean’s cock, and reaches back with two slick fingers to push at Dean’s hole. He strokes around it, once, twice, while his thumb presses on the soft head of Dean’s dick. And Dean wants to shout, I don’t need it slow, but Sam is a little bastard, and he’ll only drop it down another notch if Dean protests.

He’s nearly out of his head with pleasure when Sam finally slides two fingers inside, scissoring them, stretching him open. Dean doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He sketches out Sam’s body in his mind by touch, drinking in the inches and inches of smooth soft skin. Sam breathes hard, pushes another finger inside, and has to grab the iron rung of the headboard to steady himself when Dean shoves down on Sam’s hand.

And Dean waits for the day when he can take Sam apart bit by bit, pay him back for every moment of this sweet agony. “Looks like you’re losing momentum, Sammy,” he taunts. “That line show up a little sooner than you expected?”

Sam shakes his head, draws his fingers out, and pours lube onto his cock, slicking it up while Dean watches, suspended. “I know what you’re doing, Dean.”

“Nah, I’m too fast for you,” Dean nearly chokes on the words as Sam fits himself against him and slowly pushes into place. “Fuck,” he whispers, filled with Sam, bursting with him, feeling at last like that infinitesimally small distance of atoms has closed.

Sam has to take a deep breath, wait it out, because he can feel it too. Dean knows it like he knows Sam’s eyes are hazel, and the way Sam feels at his side, and how deep Sam’s dimples lie in his cheeks. Sam finally thrusts in, powerful enough to send the headboard slamming against the wall. Dean reaches down, fingers sunk into Sam’s buttocks, pulls him inside.

His lungs are barely working. He doesn’t know how, because Sam sits up, drags Dean up his thighs, and slams home, perfectly nailing his prostate. Dean eyes open wide, a cry bursting past his lips, and he wants to ask if Mark practiced with a target to get that right. Sam keeps doing it, headboard banging hard, and they’ll be lucky if the neighbors don’t call the cops. Dean pulls himself partway up using the iron rungs because he’s got to have Sam’s mouth, he’s got to be a part of him in as many ways possible.

And he’s there, he’s right at the edge, he just needs a little bit more to ride out, but when he reaches between them to grip his cock, Sam bats his hand away.

Dean struggles to say, “You think you can make me come without touching my dick?”

Sam eyes open wide, iris flooded with pupil. He grabs both of Dean’s palms, forces them back to the bed like he did at the beginning. “Yes, I can.”

And then the lights flare on with green, wall sockets glow, and Dean can even see it edging round the hibernating laptop. His body goes still, taut, and then his orgasm runs right down his body like the electricity he can see in the walls. He’s coming all over the place: Sam’s chest, his belly, and Sam keeps thrusting through it. He shouts, thrashes on the pillows, can’t remember how to think.

He bears down on Sam with his inner muscles, head tipped so far back into the pillows he feels like his neck might snap. Sam calls out his name, drops his head to Dean’s chest, and comes, shaking.

Dean can feel Sam’s heartbeat again, thrumming over his ribs, and now it’s in time with the beat of his own blood.

When Dean looks again at the electrical cables, they are dark, but the glowing impressions have been burned onto Dean’s retinas. “That was a dirty trick,” he says finally when he can string sentences together again.

Sam laughs weakly. “And who taught me how to fight that way?”

Dean’s legs are still wrapped around Sam’s middle, and Sam gingerly pulls out, dick softened. The burning glide past his inner walls is nearly too much for him.

Sam’s breath is steady; he rolls off of Dean, but leaves his arm draped over Dean’s abs.

Dean’s entire body feels heavy. He’s too lazy to reach down and gather the blankets, so Sam does it. And this part should be special, this part should be different, but it’s not the first time he’s slept in a crappy hotel bed with the one he loved. The first time was after Dean’s entire life burnt down in a Best Western off the highway in Kansas, bed pushed against the wall so that Sammy wouldn’t roll off.

When Dean looks for the line all he can find is the horizon.


*

fin
Tags: d.i.d sam, fic, sam/dean, supernatural, this is the sun gone down
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