Supernatural Rave

Everything is A-OK

Pairing: Sam/Dean

Rating: NC-17

Summary: That thing where the MotW thinks Sam's throat is just delicious? Yeah, Dean's got it, too.

“Sam…” Dean’s thumb is gentle across the swell of tendon. Nail digging for a second, drawing down. “I can see why they do it.”
   
Sam tries to push him away. “Fuck off. What are you talking about?”
   
“Your neck.”
   
“Huh?”
   
Dean shakes his head and folds himself upright. “Nothing. I’m hungry. You hungry? I could eat. I’ll be back.” Toes his boots on, snaps his jacket in place, and slams the door.
   
Sam says, “What?” to the empty room.

 ~*~

“Dude, is this normal?”
   
The words are raspy, whistling through tight corridors, hollow here and there with the drag of whirlpool air.
   
“I… don’t know,” Dean says. He stares down at his hands, tracing the tensing lines of fingers and palm with a laser gaze. “Not really, I guess.”
   
“Well, don’t stop--” Sam chokes as Dean’s grip tightens.

~*~

Sam can’t talk this time. He can’t see; darkness blurs and blots, his body is long and vast, infinitely tiny; the atom that began the universe; the collision of silently travelling universe branes.   
   
Above him, Dean groans and screws himself deeper. Sam’s fingers twitch against his brother’s concrete-hard arms, lets his eyes roll back, and pushes himself deeper into the searing ember of ecstasy soaring all around him.

~*~

Sam is never lacking bruises, now. Dean tries to keep them below his collar, but there’s only so much thinking he can do when he’s got his dick up a willing, shivering ass.

~*~

Sam does it to himself, one day. Tosses a silky stretch of nylon rope over the shower curtain rod, pushes the lasso loop over his head, tucks it up under the sharp points of his jaw. It works; he comes all over the tub, and barely manages to let himself down before passing out, but Dean’s panic-- and later, his jealousy-- are enough to make him swear off solo acts forevermore.

~*~

A while later, a selkie has him on his knees at the edge of the ocean; brown seawater soaking up through his jeans and socks and the edge of his sweater. Her face is livid above his, her hands preternaturally mighty. He scrabbles at her, clawing her naked chest and her bloodshot eyes, but it’s only a half-hearted struggle, because he’s choking, and her cold hands are solid around his throat.
   
Dean blows her head off and screams at him for being such a fucking stupid goddamn asshole, motherfucking idiot. Sam wheezes in the shallows, smelling low tide and garbage, and thinks about how hard he’s getting.

~*~

Orgasms clear congestion, Sam notices. Too bad being held down by the throat starts it up again. Buckley’s it is.

~*~

He tries it on Dean, once. A half-hesitant Well, you never know sort of experiment. Dean doesn’t freak out, not like Sam thought he would. Just slides away from the careful grip and shakes his head and says, “Not my thing, Sam.”
   
Which Sam doesn’t mind.

~*~

Dean sits on his lap, sometimes, when there’s not even the smallest possibility that anyone will see-- when they’re on the moon, at the North Pole, sixteen miles underground in a sealed nuclear holocaust bunker. That kind of thing. Sam counts his blessings and slides his wrists along Dean’s sides, feeling cotton slither under his skin. Feels Dean’s ankles lock around the chair legs beneath them, feels the grind of his pelvis down, feels the arching scrape of Dean’s fly against his belly.
   
“Aluhyoo,” Dean says into his shoulder.
   
“What?” Sam tries to lean back.
   
“Nothing.” They’re still for a while.
   
Sam thinks Dean is gorgeous; he really does. He loves Dean more than anything; he’d be happily monogamous and enthralled forever if the concept ever came up. But it’s not easy getting hard without something pushing down on him, holding off his breath, and Dean knows it. Apparently isn’t offended by it, because he brings up the subject with fingers and gripping more often than Sam does.

~*~

“I’m thinking of getting you a tattoo.”
   
“Oh, are you?”
   
“Yeah. It’ll be here.” Soft brush of knuckles just above collarbone.
   
“What’ll it be?”
   
“I don’t know yet.”
   
“‘Grab here for good time’?”
   
“Not very subtle, asshole.”
   
“Sorry.”
   
Tick of engine cooling. Sam’s thighs are cramping, a little. He doesn’t say anything.
   
“Something official. Not ‘Property of DW’ or anything lame like that.” Dean laughs at himself. “Something invisible, a ward, maybe.”
   
“Like… ‘To survive, don’t grab here’?”
   
“Yep. Just a thought.”
   
Sam slides the tips of his fingers under Dean’s shirt. The sleek vinyl of the seat sticks to his forearm. “I’ve already got a tattoo.”
   
“I guess,” Dean says. His feet are hanging out the open door, toes digging at the gravel shoulder of the road. Sam looks up at the ceiling and thinks about when his baby seat was back here, strapped in and facing the wrong way; facing away from the road. He shifts his shoulders and knocks his head back against the door. Dean’s arm tightens around his middle.
   
“I don’t need a protecting ward,” Sam tells the thick heat of the car. “I already have you.”
   
Dean presses his face against Sam’s ribs and doesn’t answer.