Like Dr. Jekyll and Donna Reed

(Previously posted at my LJ and Ao3)

Title: This Ain't Thirty-One Flavors
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 1589 words
Summary: Sam doesn't need kinky.
A/N Written for salt_burn_porn, for lavishsqualor's prompt: "Don't fix what ain't broke"

The motel room is slightly nicer than their usual, which means the pillows are unusually fluffy and numerous and the bed is a queen, so they can both lean comfortably back against the same headboard. They're watching TV, if you use term "watching" loosely. Sam isn't following the plot (if there is one), but there are lots of car chases, which makes Dean happy, and the program isn't the point anyway. The point is that they've got beer and the time to just lounge around in their t-shirts and boxers (in Dean's case), or sweat pants (in Sam's) for a few hours for a change. It's the little things.

"You know what sucks about our job?" Dean asks.

"How much time have you got," Sam says, deadpan.

"No, I mean, have you ever really thought about all the stuff that we're ruined for?"

Sam side-eyes him, frowning slightly.

"Have you had a stroke, Dean? Because I'm pretty sure I've spent half my life cataloguing…"

"Like blood play," Dean interrupts, like Sam hasn't said anything at all.

Sam turns his head to look at him full on.

"What?"

"You know, kinky shit, where you cut each other for kicks…we might have enjoyed that except for how getting sliced up is an occupational hazard and all," Dean says contemplatively.

"Er, okay…" Sam says, turning back to the TV and taking a sip of his beer, hoping this is just one of Dean's shorter mental side trips and that they'll veer back onto the main highway soon.

"Or breath play," Dean says.

Sam does a spit take with his mouthful of beer, laughing and wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

"What are you talking about, Dean?" The thought occurs to him that the weirdest thing about this conversation is that the simple fact that they even have a sex life with each other is almost certainly a side effect of their job, their lifestyle, but he pushes that aside. It doesn't matter, and Dean keeps talking anyway.

"I'm just saying…you get choked enough as it is without doing it for recreation. It's just weird that a crazy job like ours makes our sex life so vanilla. You'd think it'd be the other way around."

Oh, Sam thinks. He considers a moment, then sets his beer carefully down on the side table. Deliberately, he reaches for Dean's bottle, takes it from him and leans across Dean to put it on the opposite side. The motion brings his face close to Dean's and Sam stays there for a long moment, watching Dean's face, the way his impossibly beautiful eyes widen slightly at Sam's proximity. It's a look of anticipation.

"You're a ridiculous human being, you know that?" Sam mumbles fondly, and then he kisses him.

It's not hard or urgent or demanding, although it holds the potential for all those things; it's soft and slick and sensual, their tongues sliding together, tangling in a familiar dance that's evolved over the many years and miles they've been doing this. Sam lingers, sucking the yeasty taste of beer from Dean's tongue, enjoying the sweet give of his perfect lips under Sam's.

Sam pulls back after a minute, but only a little, waiting there. Dean opens his eyes and his expression has gone all soft and heavy-lidded, his lips curved into a tiny smile. Sam smiles back and then reaches for the hem of Dean's t-shirt and pushes it up toward his chest, leaning over to press sucking kisses into Dean's bared abs. Dean hums appreciatively and arches, pulling his shirt off over his head.

They don’t need words for this, and they aren't shy about it; Sam moves away just far enough to strip his own clothes off, coming back to a fully—gorgeously—naked Dean. He slings one leg over Dean to straddle him, leaning in to kiss him again, more urgently this time, firm pressure and deep claiming licks and Dean responds in kind, gripping Sam's hips in both hands and sucking on his tongue, the rhythm of Dean's suction matched by the responsive throbbing pulse of Sam's cock. He grinds down against Dean as he keeps kissing him, not trying to escalate but just unable to help himself, instinctive seeking of pressure and sweet friction. Sam is all over him, rocking sinuously against him, burying his face in the crook of Dean's neck when he breaks away to breathe, and sucking hard at the thin skin over his pulse.

"See?" Dean pants. "We're so fucking vanilla it's pathetic."

Sam breathes a laugh next to Dean's ear and Dean shivers, just like Sam knew he would.

"Shut up," Sam says, and slides down Dean's body to take Dean's cock in his mouth, all the way to the root, sucking, pressing his tongue against the underside.

Dean doesn't shut up, really, but the curses that he spews and the filthy hot sounds he makes are an excellent substitute for silence. Sam works him with every little trick he has, using everything he knows about Dean against him, until he has Dean arching off the bed and clutching at his hair, and Sam's other hand is wrapped around his own fever-hot length, rubbing carefully, just enough to take the edge off but not enough to make him come too soon.

Finally he pulls off Dean's cock and gets up to grab the lube out of his bag. Dean like this—sprawled loose-limbed and flushed, naked and panting—it just never gets old for Sam. His brother is still the hottest thing he's ever seen and he doesn't want anything or anybody else. And he wants Dean to understand that too.

He comes back to the bed and as he crawls up between Dean's legs, Dean bends his knees, letting Sam in, accepting him, and it makes Sam swallow hard. He looks Dean in the eye, maintaining the contact as he pushes a slick finger inside. Dean's gaze meets his in return without wavering, except for the little flutter of his eyelids as Sam breaches him, and his expression is serious and tender and so full of love that Sam's heart constricts in his chest.

Dean takes Sam inside himself pretty easily these days, and that's still a source of wonder and awe for Sam, that Dean lets him do this, that he loves and accepts this part of him too, along with everything else.

He can't stand to wait any longer after that, wanting so much, wanting to show Dean, so he slicks his cock quickly and pushes inside Dean carefully and steadily, watching Dean's face through it all, the way his eyes close on the inward stroke, how his mouth goes slack when Sam pulls out and then fucks back in, Dean so tight around him, hot like burning, making Sam gasp, Dean's wrenched-out grunts that sound like sobs.

"Dean," he says, low, and Dean opens his eyes, as Sam intended. He reaches for Sam, smoothes a hand up each of Sam's biceps, holding and steadying Sam. "Tell me, Dean…tell me if it's good for you," Sam breathes, working for a slow rhythm, subtly adjusting the angle to find the sweet spot inside of Dean.

"Hmm, yeah…good, Sammy," Dean says, grunting softly between the words, in time with Sam's thrusts. "Still vanilla, though," he adds.

Sam has to smile a little at that, but he knows what to say now, what's needed here.

"This," he says, punctuating the word with a sharper thrust that makes Dean cry out. "This is all I need, Dean. Not…crazy kink…not variety…just…this," Sam says, between panting breaths.

Dean's expression is puzzled for a split second before it goes soft as he surges up onto his elbows, seeking Sam's mouth and Sam gives it to him, kisses him wet and messy for a few seconds until Dean collapses back onto the bed again.

Sam fucks Dean slow and steady, watching Dean's cock straining between them, twitching up toward Sam's belly, leaking slick until it puddles in the hollow of Dean's navel. Dean's skin is flushed, with a thin sheen of sweat, and he is the single most beautiful thing Sam has ever seen in his life, now and always, but when Dean starts talking, Sam nearly loses it.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean grits out. "Give it to me…want it…come on, harder," he says, and then he takes himself in hand, working himself hard and fast for all of about five seconds before he groans, arches and comes, spurting hot all over himself, his body squeezing around Sam so tight it takes Sam's breath away.

Sam follows him over the edge a moment later, orgasm surging out of him in an eruption so intense, it feels like every ounce of fluid in his body is emptying into Dean's. The thought is oddly hot and it makes him grind harder against Dean, groaning and digging his toes into the mattress for leverage, hips pushing against him in little circles until it's over.

He catches his breath with his forehead braced on Dean's shoulder. Dean pushes his sweaty hair back from his face, petting it lazily, still panting slightly too.

"Sorry I didn't get around to the handcuffs and spanking," Sam says, to Dean's chest, which shakes slightly with Dean's answering laugh.

"Eh, maybe next time," Dean says, giving Sam's hair a final ruffle before he shoves at his shoulder, signal for him to get off of Dean. "Besides, vanilla's a classic."

"Damn straight," Sam says. He pulls out carefully, enjoying the soft sound Dean makes as he does it probably more than makes sense. Retrieving Dean's discarded underwear from the foot of the bed, he wipes the worst of the mess off them both and then pulls Dean close, ignoring Dean's token grumbles of protest before they both fall asleep to the muttering of the TV in the background.