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[personal profile] elohvee
the tiny room and the single bed.
Supernatural. Sam/Dean. NC-17. This is plotless and schmoopy and porny. That's all, really. Warnings for incest, sex, and some language. About 1,520 words, which for some reason took forever to write, crawling along sentence by sentence. But [livejournal.com profile] la_folle_allure kept me sane and carried me through it, basically let me write this in her IM window and even added a few wonderful lines herself. Love you so much, baby. *squishes Kate tight* Title from Harry Chapin.

Two, three in the morning and the TV's down to the soft, background noise level that only works if you've seen the movie too many times to care. Windows open to a humid Savannah nighttime and a ceiling fan turning lazily over their heads. It can go faster, make it nicer in the room, but any more strain and it rattles and rains loose plaster and chips of paint down onto the bed. They tried.

They sat atop the rumpled covers, hands easy and fast over the worn deck of cards Dean usually keeps in his jacket pocket, pinched and held together with a cracked rubber band because the box fell apart years ago, its fuzzy, grey folds and seams finally giving in. Three games of War earlier, they talked, taunted, laughed. Not about work, not about dad, just about anything. Everything. The kind of conversation you can only have when you're comfortable. When it doesn't matter.

Now, Dean rests his head in Sam's lap, both of them quiet and thinking over the buzz of the television, tinny screams and sound effects following desperate characters this way and that. They've watched it enough to know that the kids will always split up, always die alone.

Dean clings loosely to the remote, Sam's fingers dragging absently over his scalp, his hair still damp with his evening's shower and summer sweat. Above them, the fan clicks quietly on every turn, even at this speed.

On the screen, the image fades to a daytime view. Their room brightens accordingly. Dean squints, closes his eyes. Sam's beer bottle settles onto the nightstand with the soft knock of glass on wood, and Dean shifts his weight a little and presses a dry kiss to Sam's stomach, just left of his navel. Another, just above his belt. To the side. Halfway up Sam's chest. He spells out a trail like a drunk driver's, weaving first here then there.

Sam smiles and tips his head toward the television. "Turn it off," he says, almost like a whisper, and catches the quick glint of Dean's smile in the split second before the noise stops and the room goes dark.

Click click click above them and the sheets rustle and whisper below. Drunk-slow hands fumble with buckles: Dean's fingers get caught in Sam's belt loop and he laughs, ragged and almost too loud for the room. He grins up at his brother and peels the denim back, slowly tugs at the waistband of Sam's underwear, scrapes his teeth across the thin stretch of skin over Sam's hipbone.

Still leaning against the headboard, Sam's head falls back against the wall with a thunk and his eyes flutter shut. Dean says, "Lift up," and Sam kicks his jeans away. They land in a tangled heap at the foot of the bed and Dean nods once approvingly. "Better," he declares, and his fingers ghost up Sam's thigh. He follows with the barest touch of his tongue: curving, swirling lines over his brother's skin but never right where he wants it, never quite close enough.

"Dean," Sam says, his hands fisted in the sheets and his whole body twisting this way and that, looking for contact. For anything. Dean ignores him, licks a line up Sam's body, over his nipple, a pause to suck at the skin of the hollow of his throat. A minute later, change of direction but not speed. Sam makes a whining sound and his hips jerk; his erection bumps Dean's chin and his breathing hitches, just from that. "Dean, please," he says, and Dean laughs.

"In an awful hurry, Sammy," he says, drawls, alcohol-lazy and, for the moment, content just watching this, watching Sam. His hand leaves Sam's hip and moves, still teasing, still so fucking slow to Sam's dick, hot and heavy against his fingers.

Sam's breathing stutters and his fingers tighten around one of the wooden bars of the headboard. He arches up and into Dean's touch but his brother's too quick for him; his hand is gone. "Goddamn," Sam manages through gritted teeth.

Dean clicks his tongue, shakes his head. "Language," he warns with a smirk, and tightens his grip for one real stroke, one that leaves Sam shaking, before he returns to the teasing again.

"Please," Sam says at the same moment Dean bends his head over his brother's lap, breath hot over Sam's cock. He stays there, two seconds, three, four, five—and Sam's quiet encouragements are suddenly a string of pleas, promises, profanities, Dean.

Dean raises his head again to look Sam in the eye and he rolls his eyes. "All right, all right. What's the rush." Before Sam can curse and protest, Dean's mouth is over his cock, around, down... His tongue flickers along the underside and up over the head, and Sam loses all natural ability with coherent speech.

On some level, maybe he can hear himself, but he sure as hell can't understand the sounds he's making. They're nothing resembling words. The most articulate thing he can discern is a short, desperate, "Oh, oh," that comes out too high and too girly to be Sam's own voice, and Dean, the bastard, thinks it's funny because he's laughing and Sam can feel it and, and—fuck.

He's coming down Dean's throat before he has time for a warning, before his brain can be bothered to supply the necessary words, but Dean swallows anyway, doesn't gag. When he finally pulls off Sam, his mouth and lips are wet and red and his breathing's just as ragged as Sam's.

Sam pushes himself slowly up until he's sitting, leans carefully against the headboard, because he's not entirely sure he can actually support his own weight just yet. He stops when he gets a good look at what Dean's doing. Somehow, Dean managed to get rid of his clothes without Sam noticing or even caring, and now he's watching Sam with dark, shining eyes while his dick slides through his own fist, hard and blood-dark, Dean's fingers and cock wet with precome and spit.

"Jesus," Sam groans, and for a few long moments, it's quiet, just heavy breathing and the desperate wet sound of flesh on flesh and the scraps of moans and whimpers Dean can't quite hold back. Sam swallows hard and says, "No. Stop." Dean blinks slowly and his hand stops, mouth slightly open and panting. Sam wraps his fingers around Dean's wrist and jerks his hand away. "No," he says again, leans in to kiss his brother and then whispers in Dean's ear, "Let me. Mine." He sighs, shaky, and says, "You're mine."

Dean bites his lip hard and nods once. "Do it," he says. "Please, Sammy, I want—"

"Shh." He licks a line down Dean's throat and says, "I'll get you there. Lie down." Dean doesn't hesitate. He moves rigidly, lies down and Sam drops his hand to Dean's thigh, nudging his legs apart and settling onto his stomach. Sam bends his head over Dean's lap, opens his mouth over Dean's cock, and the moan's only halfway out of Dean's throat before Sam's moving away.

"Dude, the fuck," he protests, except he stops when he realizes. And he says, "Shit. Shit, Sammy, I—" Dean can barely hear Sam laughing over the sound that tears out of him when his brother pushes apart his ass cheeks and bends his head, teasing with short flickers of his tongue.

"Fuck," he curses. Then, "Fuck me. Sammy, do it. C'mon."

Sam's tongue disappears, and a slick, circling finger replaces it. Sam's chin balanced on Dean's thigh, and he laughs like a child chasing butterflies when Dean's whole body jerks and he groans low in his throat, biting back another plea. He slips the finger in and pushes evenly, crooks it a little and Dean feels Sammy's hair tickle his thigh when he shakes his head. He says, "Nah," and presses in with another finger. "I like this."

"Sam." It doesn't even sound like him.

Sam's fingers stroke and Sam's mouth is suddenly on Dean's dick, his tongue rasping over the underside and the head brushing over the back of his throat, and fuck if anything else matters, if anything else even exists right now, in this moment. Dean knows he's begging, knows he's loud and whining and sounds like a girl, and he doesn't give a shit.

Sam pulls back, his lips barely touching the tip of Dean's cock. Soft and low, he says, "Come on, baby," and goes back down. And that's it, that's just fucking it, and Dean's not entirely sure he doesn't black out, but when he shudders back into himself, Sam's hand is pulling away and his brother's moving to lie beside him.

Sam's smiling in this annoying, triumphant sort of way, but happy. Still little-kid happy. He leans in like he's going to say something in Dean's ear, but he just scrapes his teeth over the shell instead and then settles down into the mattress, jerking the blanket up over them. He murmurs, "Night, man," and Dean sighs and lets his eyes fall shut.
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