FINALLY POSTING THIS I GUESS LOL
Title: Dying For It (The Blues)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2850
Disclaimer: Nope.
Warnings: Crack clichés taken seriously. PWP. Self-indulgence.
Spoilers: Set somewhere late-ish in season three, I guess, not that it matters much to the story. Vague spoilers as to the premise/atmosphere of the season, but that's about it.
A/N: Welp! This is my first time writing this pairing ever, even though it's been my OTP for nearly half a year now. I hope it is acceptable. ;_; Also, I suck at titling, but I love the Vaselines. I'm dying for something, oh what will it be/You know, I'm dying for you do something to me
I started this back in November, when I first got into SPN. Uh, clearly writing and I aren't really friends. This is a million different sorts of Wincest cliché, but I figure hey, porn is porn. And this is has no plot to speak of. I am not apologetic. On the other hand, it doesn't really fall under the commonly accepted definition of porn at all. It's more like ~3000 words of supernatural-plot-device-induced-sexual-f
Yeah, so it's Dean's gut instinct to call for his brother whenever he's got himself into something he can't handle himself. Force of habit, and all that. That doesn't make it any less awkward when Sam bursts into the warehouse clutching a shotgun, sweaty hair clinging to his forehead and that ridiculous, determined, I am going to save you expression on his face, to find Dean, just Dean, the thing they're hunting long gone, sunk to his knees on the damp concrete, jeans unzipped, rocking forward into his open palm and shouting hoarsely for Sammy, Sammy like his life depends on it.
Sam stares at him from the doorway, wide-eyed, too shocked even to muster up the appropriate incredulous expression, and Dean shuts up fast, bites his lip.
"Well, this is awkward," he says, or tries to say, but his voice comes out low and raspy and Sam gives no sign that he's heard him.
"Sam," he tries again, and that works a bit better, Sam's eyes flickering up from the glint of Dean's ring as his hand slides slow and uncontrollable over the shape his cock makes beneath the fabric of his boxers.
"Don't do anything," Sam says, and he looks more than a bit nauseous but his voice is as panicked as it's ever been, "don't do anything until we've figured out what this is." Dean wants him to say holy shit, Dean, I did not need to see that or you really need to get laid, man; it's the fact that he doesn't that turns Dean's view of the situation from stupid and really embarrassing to downright alarming. He does manage to smother the disappointed whimper that threatens to escape when he disentangles his hand from his jeans, and, really, thank god for small victories.
Sam relaxes when they get to the car without incident, tenses up again when Dean hands him the keys without prompting and collapses miserably in the passenger seat, head against the window and shallow breaths making small clouds on the glass.
"Dean—" Sam starts, car growling to life as he turns the key in the ignition.
"Talking is the last thing I need right now, Sammy," Dean snaps. Gravel crunches under the tires as they pull out of the parking lot.
--
"I don't see why—" Dean says, sitting uncomfortably on the edge of his bed, the one near the door, weight rumpling the freshly-made sheets. His legs are splayed, boots planted solid and wide-apart on the carpet; he hasn't bothered to do up his fly, and Sam has totally been looking, startled glances flickering his way and back to the laptop, at which point Sam pretends that's where his attention's been all along. Dean knows better, knows Sam.
Sam doesn't reply, still pretending to be engrossed in the computer. Dean's hands twitch restlessly in and out of fists on either side of his thighs, and Sam cringes at the high, barely-there zip of his nails against the floral polyester of the comforter. Dean digs them in harder. Sam frowns.
"I really don't give a fuck if this makes you uncomfortable," Dean says. "Go research in the bathroom or something. I need to get off."
"Dean, we don't even know what this thing was," Sam says, exasperated, eyes fixed on the screen as he continues scrolling down a page. "There's—there's succubus lore everywhere—Persia, Japan, the Roman Empire, but it's all different, and that wasn't like any sort of succubus we've seen before. We have no idea what the rules are. Just, um, certain things could make it worse. You might need—" He breaks off, sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth.
"Find something?"
"Yeah, but you're not going to like it."
"Awesome," Dean says. "Hit me."
"It wasn't a shapeshifter, right? It couldn't even look human. Most succubi are, you know, hot. That's how they lure their prey. The only stories that match up with this one are Egyptian. The venom binds them to their victims, and then they, um, feed on their... life force or something. It's really quick and really nasty. Sex is supposed to seal the deal. But it—it doesn't have to be with the succubus itself. It just specifies an orgasm, Dean."
"Wait," Dean says, slowly, like he's just waiting for Sam to jump in and contradict him. "I come, I die?"
"Basically, yeah. There's a time limit, though."
"How long?"
"Twenty-four hours."
"I can do that," Dean says, pulling off his boots. "Hand me the remote."
"No porn," Sam says, tossing it at him. Dean rolls his eyes at him and puts on the Food Network, stretching out on his back and sighing as he settles his hands behind his head. This kind of sucks. He'll deal.
A commercial break and a half later, and he's not dealing. Putting up with Sam's bullshit was one thing, but now, the knowledge that jerking off's not just ill-advised but completely off the table makes him hyperaware of every nerve ending, of the unrelenting pound of blood in his cock, dull and heavy and insistent. Alton Brown drones on, and Dean shuts off the TV, fed up, pressing the button so hard he nearly breaks the remote. His shirt is soaked through in places, clinging to the small of his back, to the sides of his ribcage when he moves, and it's too hot everywhere; the room's stifling. He peels it off and tosses it off to the side disgustedly, flopping back onto the bed.
"You okay?" Sam asks, eyes tracking over his chest, tongue darting out to wet his lips and fuck, Dean can't help it, his brother's hands are starting to look really good right now, strong and broad and graceful and so big where they've stilled on the keyboard. The insistent throb of his cock is just getting worse, makes it impossible to concentrate on anything but sex, and he shuts his eyes tightly, lets his hand slip just an inch closer to where he needs it, fingers hot against his thigh through the denim. It's not as big as Sam's, will feel too familiar wrapped around his dick, but Sam's hands are familiar too, have all the same calluses, and if he tries he can recall every nick and burn on them—the ones he was there for, the ones he stitched up afterwards, the ones he should have prevented—and he can imagine what each one would feel like against his skin, rubbing just right over the slit of his cock, stroking slow and presumptuous just under the head, teasing the skin behind his balls. Dean's fingers dip below his waistband; he opens his eyes and Sam's gone back to his laptop, wouldn't even notice if Dean just, oh god—
"Handcuffs."
"What?" Sam asks, bemused.
"I can't do this," Dean croaks. "Handcuffs. In the trunk."
"Are you s—"
"Would I ask if I wasn't?"
"Okay. Just—just hold on."
Dean's not sure, afterwards, how he makes it through the time Sam's gone, even though it can't have been more than five minutes. He stares at the ceiling for a while, then closes his eyes, puts his hands above his head and tries his best to pretend they're already cuffed there, that trying to move them is useless.
The door opens and shuts gently. Sam's sigh of relief when he finds Dean still here, still okay, is painfully audible. Then there's cold metal against Dean's wrists, the click of the handcuffs soft and familiar when Sam shackles them to the headboard.
The click comes again, and again, binding Dean's ankles fast to the bedframe. His eyes snap open.
"I didn't say—" he starts, jerking his legs ineffectually against the cuffs. Sam shushes him.
"Just in case."
--
The cuffs help a little, but after a while his muscles start to ache, caught too long in an unnatural position. Dean flexes his arms, shifts in another futile attempt to get comfortable and gasps, low and shocked and helpless, when the head of his cock nudges at the teeth of his open zipper, pushing his hips up into it and twisting them to chase what little friction he can get. He doesn't know if it's enough to get him off—probably not, maybe, in this state—but he really doesn't want to find out, because it's torture if it can't, Hell if it can.
"Sam, can you—can you please," Dean says, forcing it out through teeth grit tight with humiliation and the effort of self-restraint. He flaps his hand in the direction of his jeans, which is really the only direction he can still wave it in anyway.
"Oh," Sam says, "of course," like it's obvious, like he should have thought of stripping his brother nearly naked already, by himself. He uncuffs Dean's ankles, gentle as he tugs off his jeans, and then his hand is hesitating at the waistband of Dean's boxer-briefs. "Would it—would it help?"
Dean nods, doesn't trust himself to speak, wants to wrap his legs around Sam's thighs and pull him down until Dean can feel the length of his brother's body pressed flush against his own, can mouth at Sam's neck and buck up into him until he comes, which, god, wouldn't take long at all.
It does feel good to have his dick free, even though Sam puts the cuffs back on as soon as he's got Dean's underwear clear of his legs, looking away in what Dean suspects is politeness as much as it's revulsion. He licks dry lips and looks down, and, well. He knew he was hard, of course he knew he was hard, it's all he's been able to think about, but seeing it is something different, is almost painful, because he's harder than he can ever recall being, cock flushed dark with blood, and he can picture his hand around it, Sam's mouth around it, all too well.
"I need it, Sammy," he whispers. "I don't—I don't care what happens."
"Don't," Sam says shortly, and then, softer, "I care." He goes back to his computer, but he doesn't seem to be doing anything on it, just clicking aimlessly.
Dean spends all of five minutes lying still, trying to calm his heartbeat if he can't calm his dick. He can't wipe the sweat that's dampening his hairline; it tickles, and it's something to concentrate on that isn't how much he wants—needs to get off right now, but even that only distracts him for seconds at a time, and eventually he starts twisting restlessly against the bed, then full-on writhing. He knows what he looks like (wrecked), but Sam—Sam looks like he's enjoying it, actually, lips parted and pupils blown, eyes lingering too long to be simple concern when he glances over at Dean, and that's weird, that's really weird, and ten different kinds of fucked up.
That's weird but he'll take what he can get, tries to look less desperate, spreads his legs as far as the shackles will allow and tries to calm the abortive twitching of his hips into something else—something subtler and drawn-out and fucking begging for it—without looking like he's trying too hard, like he's up to anything. He lets his head fall back farther against the pillow, bares the flushed line of his throat, lips parted on a gasp of "Sam, Sam please," and yeah, it works, of course it works, but not in the way he wanted it to.
Sam's not looking, but he hears him, shuts his laptop far too forcefully and stands up, all twelve feet of him, looking absolutely scandalized. "Dean, what—" he says, and then, "oh. Oh, Christ."
"Sammy," Dean says again, eyes tracing slow and wanton over Sam's body, over the way he's unmistakably hard in his jeans.
Sam clears his throat, stares at the floor. "I'm—I'm gonna," he says, jerking his head at the bathroom. "God, I'm sorry."
"Wait," Dean croaks, and Sam freezes. "Let me watch, at least let me watch you."
Sam looks like he's considering it, he really does, against his better judgement, staring at Dean like he's caught between moving towards him and away, and Dean's impossibly hard already, but he feels his cock twitch at that, and Sam startles, eyes flickering to the curve of it against Dean's belly, the precome that wells up at the tip when he can't tear his eyes away.
"I can't," Sam says, voice like it's really hurting him to say it, and looks away.
The bathroom door slams.
--
Sam's never been very good at keeping quiet, which is probably why he never jerks off when Dean's around, entirely too worried about his privacy or his virtue or something like that. He really should've realized by now that Dean gives him way more shit for not jerking off than he would if Sam just went for it like any normal dude. God knows Dean's pretty much indiscriminate about these things, as adjusted to life on the road as Sam ought to be. It's not like he does it while his brother's in the room, or anything, but really, what's it to Dean if Sam overhears him going at it in the shower every once in a while? It's healthy, is what it is.
Anyway, Sam's pretty much incapable of getting off without breaking out the full-on pornstar noises, and Dean knows this to be fact 'cause he's heard him a few times when he's thought Dean was out or dead to the world. So when sounds start filtering out into the main room, low, pathetically muffled groans and cut-off curses, that's not surprising, not surprising at all. What's surprising is the force of the pictures that come with them, pictures of Sam's head tipped back against the unappealing green of the bathroom's tiles, the curl of Sam's long fingers, the sheen of sweat that he'd love to taste at the nape of Sam's neck—pictures that make Dean whine low in his throat, shuddering breaths burning in his lungs and shackles clinking as his toes curl.
The bathroom door is flimsy, plywood under thin veneer, and Dean doesn't even need to raise his voice that much to know that it carries.
"Sam, I need..." he rasps, distantly aware that when all this is over everything will be so fucked up, fucked up past repair. But that really doesn't matter right now. "Need to get my hands on you more than I need to touch my own dick right now, and that's fuckin' saying something 'cause I really need to touch my dick."
"Dean," Sam says, and it's all too easy for Dean to put an expression to the sour tone of his voice, "for god's sake."
As far as he's concerned, Sam has no right to be complaining.
"Can't believe you want this, Sammy," he continues. "What're you thinking about? Do you want me—" he breaks off, shutting his eyes against another onslaught of images. "Do you want me like this, on my back? Want to see my face when you push into me? I wouldn't let anyone else; I've never—"
There's a shocked, abortive moan from the other side of the door, then silence.
"But when this is over I want—I need you inside me. Even just your fingers would be—god, Sam, you don't—you don't know what you do to me."
"Don't stop talking," Sam says wildly, voice muffled, and yeah, Dean can definitely count this one among his successes.
"You gonna leave me tied up here when the curse is up? I'll still be hard for you, you know that. You can do whatever you want to me, and I'll just have to—"
"I'm close," Sam pants, "fuck, I'm close, you're so—"
And Dean comes, he can't help it, Sam's voice in his ears as he spurts untouched over his stomach, and this is retarded, has got to be that goddamn venom, because he'd never—oh. The venom. Well fuck.
"Shit," he whispers, "Sam, I think you should..."
He doesn't feel like he's dying. He feels like he just came his brains out through his dick, but he's got a sneaking suspicion that dying would feel a lot worse. Still, when Sam comes out of the bathroom to find Dean's come drying in sticky lines over his skin, his expression turns from sheepish to stricken so fast that Dean's surprised he doesn't break something in his face.
"Oh my god, you—are you—are you okay?"
"No," Dean says patiently, "I'm handcuffed naked to a motel bed, and the only other person in the room is my brother. Who's a freaking idiot, because I'm clearly not dead. I'm awesome."
"Oops," Sam says. "Um. You're sure you're okay?"
"Wanna—" Dean says, and pointedly rattles his cuffs.
"Yeah," Sam says. "I—listen, Dean, we should—I'm sorry."
"We are not talking about this," Dean says, and curls newly-freed hands in the front of Sam's shirt.
"Dean, what—" Sam says, and Dean kisses him. Sam settles long fingers over his jaw and kisses back.
YEAH, I DON'T KNOW EITHER.
...
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2850
Disclaimer: Nope.
Warnings: Crack clichés taken seriously. PWP. Self-indulgence.
Spoilers: Set somewhere late-ish in season three, I guess, not that it matters much to the story. Vague spoilers as to the premise/atmosphere of the season, but that's about it.
A/N: Welp! This is my first time writing this pairing ever, even though it's been my OTP for nearly half a year now. I hope it is acceptable. ;_; Also, I suck at titling, but I love the Vaselines. I'm dying for something, oh what will it be/You know, I'm dying for you do something to me
I started this back in November, when I first got into SPN. Uh, clearly writing and I aren't really friends. This is a million different sorts of Wincest cliché, but I figure hey, porn is porn. And this is has no plot to speak of. I am not apologetic. On the other hand, it doesn't really fall under the commonly accepted definition of porn at all. It's more like ~3000 words of supernatural-plot-device-induced-sexual-f
Yeah, so it's Dean's gut instinct to call for his brother whenever he's got himself into something he can't handle himself. Force of habit, and all that. That doesn't make it any less awkward when Sam bursts into the warehouse clutching a shotgun, sweaty hair clinging to his forehead and that ridiculous, determined, I am going to save you expression on his face, to find Dean, just Dean, the thing they're hunting long gone, sunk to his knees on the damp concrete, jeans unzipped, rocking forward into his open palm and shouting hoarsely for Sammy, Sammy like his life depends on it.
Sam stares at him from the doorway, wide-eyed, too shocked even to muster up the appropriate incredulous expression, and Dean shuts up fast, bites his lip.
"Well, this is awkward," he says, or tries to say, but his voice comes out low and raspy and Sam gives no sign that he's heard him.
"Sam," he tries again, and that works a bit better, Sam's eyes flickering up from the glint of Dean's ring as his hand slides slow and uncontrollable over the shape his cock makes beneath the fabric of his boxers.
"Don't do anything," Sam says, and he looks more than a bit nauseous but his voice is as panicked as it's ever been, "don't do anything until we've figured out what this is." Dean wants him to say holy shit, Dean, I did not need to see that or you really need to get laid, man; it's the fact that he doesn't that turns Dean's view of the situation from stupid and really embarrassing to downright alarming. He does manage to smother the disappointed whimper that threatens to escape when he disentangles his hand from his jeans, and, really, thank god for small victories.
Sam relaxes when they get to the car without incident, tenses up again when Dean hands him the keys without prompting and collapses miserably in the passenger seat, head against the window and shallow breaths making small clouds on the glass.
"Dean—" Sam starts, car growling to life as he turns the key in the ignition.
"Talking is the last thing I need right now, Sammy," Dean snaps. Gravel crunches under the tires as they pull out of the parking lot.
--
"I don't see why—" Dean says, sitting uncomfortably on the edge of his bed, the one near the door, weight rumpling the freshly-made sheets. His legs are splayed, boots planted solid and wide-apart on the carpet; he hasn't bothered to do up his fly, and Sam has totally been looking, startled glances flickering his way and back to the laptop, at which point Sam pretends that's where his attention's been all along. Dean knows better, knows Sam.
Sam doesn't reply, still pretending to be engrossed in the computer. Dean's hands twitch restlessly in and out of fists on either side of his thighs, and Sam cringes at the high, barely-there zip of his nails against the floral polyester of the comforter. Dean digs them in harder. Sam frowns.
"I really don't give a fuck if this makes you uncomfortable," Dean says. "Go research in the bathroom or something. I need to get off."
"Dean, we don't even know what this thing was," Sam says, exasperated, eyes fixed on the screen as he continues scrolling down a page. "There's—there's succubus lore everywhere—Persia, Japan, the Roman Empire, but it's all different, and that wasn't like any sort of succubus we've seen before. We have no idea what the rules are. Just, um, certain things could make it worse. You might need—" He breaks off, sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth.
"Find something?"
"Yeah, but you're not going to like it."
"Awesome," Dean says. "Hit me."
"It wasn't a shapeshifter, right? It couldn't even look human. Most succubi are, you know, hot. That's how they lure their prey. The only stories that match up with this one are Egyptian. The venom binds them to their victims, and then they, um, feed on their... life force or something. It's really quick and really nasty. Sex is supposed to seal the deal. But it—it doesn't have to be with the succubus itself. It just specifies an orgasm, Dean."
"Wait," Dean says, slowly, like he's just waiting for Sam to jump in and contradict him. "I come, I die?"
"Basically, yeah. There's a time limit, though."
"How long?"
"Twenty-four hours."
"I can do that," Dean says, pulling off his boots. "Hand me the remote."
"No porn," Sam says, tossing it at him. Dean rolls his eyes at him and puts on the Food Network, stretching out on his back and sighing as he settles his hands behind his head. This kind of sucks. He'll deal.
A commercial break and a half later, and he's not dealing. Putting up with Sam's bullshit was one thing, but now, the knowledge that jerking off's not just ill-advised but completely off the table makes him hyperaware of every nerve ending, of the unrelenting pound of blood in his cock, dull and heavy and insistent. Alton Brown drones on, and Dean shuts off the TV, fed up, pressing the button so hard he nearly breaks the remote. His shirt is soaked through in places, clinging to the small of his back, to the sides of his ribcage when he moves, and it's too hot everywhere; the room's stifling. He peels it off and tosses it off to the side disgustedly, flopping back onto the bed.
"You okay?" Sam asks, eyes tracking over his chest, tongue darting out to wet his lips and fuck, Dean can't help it, his brother's hands are starting to look really good right now, strong and broad and graceful and so big where they've stilled on the keyboard. The insistent throb of his cock is just getting worse, makes it impossible to concentrate on anything but sex, and he shuts his eyes tightly, lets his hand slip just an inch closer to where he needs it, fingers hot against his thigh through the denim. It's not as big as Sam's, will feel too familiar wrapped around his dick, but Sam's hands are familiar too, have all the same calluses, and if he tries he can recall every nick and burn on them—the ones he was there for, the ones he stitched up afterwards, the ones he should have prevented—and he can imagine what each one would feel like against his skin, rubbing just right over the slit of his cock, stroking slow and presumptuous just under the head, teasing the skin behind his balls. Dean's fingers dip below his waistband; he opens his eyes and Sam's gone back to his laptop, wouldn't even notice if Dean just, oh god—
"Handcuffs."
"What?" Sam asks, bemused.
"I can't do this," Dean croaks. "Handcuffs. In the trunk."
"Are you s—"
"Would I ask if I wasn't?"
"Okay. Just—just hold on."
Dean's not sure, afterwards, how he makes it through the time Sam's gone, even though it can't have been more than five minutes. He stares at the ceiling for a while, then closes his eyes, puts his hands above his head and tries his best to pretend they're already cuffed there, that trying to move them is useless.
The door opens and shuts gently. Sam's sigh of relief when he finds Dean still here, still okay, is painfully audible. Then there's cold metal against Dean's wrists, the click of the handcuffs soft and familiar when Sam shackles them to the headboard.
The click comes again, and again, binding Dean's ankles fast to the bedframe. His eyes snap open.
"I didn't say—" he starts, jerking his legs ineffectually against the cuffs. Sam shushes him.
"Just in case."
--
The cuffs help a little, but after a while his muscles start to ache, caught too long in an unnatural position. Dean flexes his arms, shifts in another futile attempt to get comfortable and gasps, low and shocked and helpless, when the head of his cock nudges at the teeth of his open zipper, pushing his hips up into it and twisting them to chase what little friction he can get. He doesn't know if it's enough to get him off—probably not, maybe, in this state—but he really doesn't want to find out, because it's torture if it can't, Hell if it can.
"Sam, can you—can you please," Dean says, forcing it out through teeth grit tight with humiliation and the effort of self-restraint. He flaps his hand in the direction of his jeans, which is really the only direction he can still wave it in anyway.
"Oh," Sam says, "of course," like it's obvious, like he should have thought of stripping his brother nearly naked already, by himself. He uncuffs Dean's ankles, gentle as he tugs off his jeans, and then his hand is hesitating at the waistband of Dean's boxer-briefs. "Would it—would it help?"
Dean nods, doesn't trust himself to speak, wants to wrap his legs around Sam's thighs and pull him down until Dean can feel the length of his brother's body pressed flush against his own, can mouth at Sam's neck and buck up into him until he comes, which, god, wouldn't take long at all.
It does feel good to have his dick free, even though Sam puts the cuffs back on as soon as he's got Dean's underwear clear of his legs, looking away in what Dean suspects is politeness as much as it's revulsion. He licks dry lips and looks down, and, well. He knew he was hard, of course he knew he was hard, it's all he's been able to think about, but seeing it is something different, is almost painful, because he's harder than he can ever recall being, cock flushed dark with blood, and he can picture his hand around it, Sam's mouth around it, all too well.
"I need it, Sammy," he whispers. "I don't—I don't care what happens."
"Don't," Sam says shortly, and then, softer, "I care." He goes back to his computer, but he doesn't seem to be doing anything on it, just clicking aimlessly.
Dean spends all of five minutes lying still, trying to calm his heartbeat if he can't calm his dick. He can't wipe the sweat that's dampening his hairline; it tickles, and it's something to concentrate on that isn't how much he wants—needs to get off right now, but even that only distracts him for seconds at a time, and eventually he starts twisting restlessly against the bed, then full-on writhing. He knows what he looks like (wrecked), but Sam—Sam looks like he's enjoying it, actually, lips parted and pupils blown, eyes lingering too long to be simple concern when he glances over at Dean, and that's weird, that's really weird, and ten different kinds of fucked up.
That's weird but he'll take what he can get, tries to look less desperate, spreads his legs as far as the shackles will allow and tries to calm the abortive twitching of his hips into something else—something subtler and drawn-out and fucking begging for it—without looking like he's trying too hard, like he's up to anything. He lets his head fall back farther against the pillow, bares the flushed line of his throat, lips parted on a gasp of "Sam, Sam please," and yeah, it works, of course it works, but not in the way he wanted it to.
Sam's not looking, but he hears him, shuts his laptop far too forcefully and stands up, all twelve feet of him, looking absolutely scandalized. "Dean, what—" he says, and then, "oh. Oh, Christ."
"Sammy," Dean says again, eyes tracing slow and wanton over Sam's body, over the way he's unmistakably hard in his jeans.
Sam clears his throat, stares at the floor. "I'm—I'm gonna," he says, jerking his head at the bathroom. "God, I'm sorry."
"Wait," Dean croaks, and Sam freezes. "Let me watch, at least let me watch you."
Sam looks like he's considering it, he really does, against his better judgement, staring at Dean like he's caught between moving towards him and away, and Dean's impossibly hard already, but he feels his cock twitch at that, and Sam startles, eyes flickering to the curve of it against Dean's belly, the precome that wells up at the tip when he can't tear his eyes away.
"I can't," Sam says, voice like it's really hurting him to say it, and looks away.
The bathroom door slams.
--
Sam's never been very good at keeping quiet, which is probably why he never jerks off when Dean's around, entirely too worried about his privacy or his virtue or something like that. He really should've realized by now that Dean gives him way more shit for not jerking off than he would if Sam just went for it like any normal dude. God knows Dean's pretty much indiscriminate about these things, as adjusted to life on the road as Sam ought to be. It's not like he does it while his brother's in the room, or anything, but really, what's it to Dean if Sam overhears him going at it in the shower every once in a while? It's healthy, is what it is.
Anyway, Sam's pretty much incapable of getting off without breaking out the full-on pornstar noises, and Dean knows this to be fact 'cause he's heard him a few times when he's thought Dean was out or dead to the world. So when sounds start filtering out into the main room, low, pathetically muffled groans and cut-off curses, that's not surprising, not surprising at all. What's surprising is the force of the pictures that come with them, pictures of Sam's head tipped back against the unappealing green of the bathroom's tiles, the curl of Sam's long fingers, the sheen of sweat that he'd love to taste at the nape of Sam's neck—pictures that make Dean whine low in his throat, shuddering breaths burning in his lungs and shackles clinking as his toes curl.
The bathroom door is flimsy, plywood under thin veneer, and Dean doesn't even need to raise his voice that much to know that it carries.
"Sam, I need..." he rasps, distantly aware that when all this is over everything will be so fucked up, fucked up past repair. But that really doesn't matter right now. "Need to get my hands on you more than I need to touch my own dick right now, and that's fuckin' saying something 'cause I really need to touch my dick."
"Dean," Sam says, and it's all too easy for Dean to put an expression to the sour tone of his voice, "for god's sake."
As far as he's concerned, Sam has no right to be complaining.
"Can't believe you want this, Sammy," he continues. "What're you thinking about? Do you want me—" he breaks off, shutting his eyes against another onslaught of images. "Do you want me like this, on my back? Want to see my face when you push into me? I wouldn't let anyone else; I've never—"
There's a shocked, abortive moan from the other side of the door, then silence.
"But when this is over I want—I need you inside me. Even just your fingers would be—god, Sam, you don't—you don't know what you do to me."
"Don't stop talking," Sam says wildly, voice muffled, and yeah, Dean can definitely count this one among his successes.
"You gonna leave me tied up here when the curse is up? I'll still be hard for you, you know that. You can do whatever you want to me, and I'll just have to—"
"I'm close," Sam pants, "fuck, I'm close, you're so—"
And Dean comes, he can't help it, Sam's voice in his ears as he spurts untouched over his stomach, and this is retarded, has got to be that goddamn venom, because he'd never—oh. The venom. Well fuck.
"Shit," he whispers, "Sam, I think you should..."
He doesn't feel like he's dying. He feels like he just came his brains out through his dick, but he's got a sneaking suspicion that dying would feel a lot worse. Still, when Sam comes out of the bathroom to find Dean's come drying in sticky lines over his skin, his expression turns from sheepish to stricken so fast that Dean's surprised he doesn't break something in his face.
"Oh my god, you—are you—are you okay?"
"No," Dean says patiently, "I'm handcuffed naked to a motel bed, and the only other person in the room is my brother. Who's a freaking idiot, because I'm clearly not dead. I'm awesome."
"Oops," Sam says. "Um. You're sure you're okay?"
"Wanna—" Dean says, and pointedly rattles his cuffs.
"Yeah," Sam says. "I—listen, Dean, we should—I'm sorry."
"We are not talking about this," Dean says, and curls newly-freed hands in the front of Sam's shirt.
"Dean, what—" Sam says, and Dean kisses him. Sam settles long fingers over his jaw and kisses back.
YEAH, I DON'T KNOW EITHER.
...