I Could Tell You Why. NC-17, Sam/Dean, PWP. The fallout right after Scarecrow.
"Eh. I knew you'd come back."
"Oh, whatever. That's why you called me with tears in your eyes to say goodbye."
"Who said goodbye? I just told you that I understood your need to be a whiny bitch, and wished you the best of luck on Drama Queen Tour '06."
"Okay, that's it." Sam reaches over abruptly, before Dean can figure out what he's doing, and grabs the wheel.
"What the - Jesus fuck!" Dean swerves violently - the Impala goes into something akin to a fish-tail - and stomps on the break, trying to both elbow Sam away from the driver's seat and pull onto the thankfully-present shoulder at the same time. "Are you trying to get us killed? Or wreck my car?"
"Not quite." Sam's seatbelt is unbuckled before the car rumbles to a complete stop in the cloud of dust and kicked-up gravel. He smiles tightly over at Dean. "Back seat. Now."
"Wh - are you serious?" Dean stares, eyes wide with the kind of incredulity that can only accompany a near-death experience that is unceremoniously followed by a sexual proposition. He glances into the back of the car, as though expecting to see some explanation there.
"As a demonic possession."
The crunch of underfoot gravel and heavy slam of car doors ring in Sam's ears as Dean flops down on the other side of the bench seat. The back of the Impala sometimes seems bigger than the front, even with the wadded up fast-food bags that inevitably litter the footwells - but it's still irritatingly cramped and uncomfortable; Sam's knees dig into the back of the passenger seat.
"You can either freely admit that you missed me, or we can do this the hard way."
Dean, seeming to need no provocation, yanks his t-shirt off over his head and throws the crumpled cotton at Sam. "Bring it on, whiny bitch."
In the fraction of time before Sam launches himself across the car, he swears he sees Dean's small, self-satisfied grin - as though he had been expecting all of this, or was just glad events unfolded as such - and then even that fades away, as their mouths crash together.
Dean's a good kisser. Maybe it's from so much practice, or something - Sam half-assumes, when he bothers to think about it, that being a ladies man requires one to put some effort into pre-sex stuff - but he knows what he's doing. He kisses Sam like he's kissing a girl - all wet, probing tongue, with one hand on Sam's cheek and the other working under his t-shirt.
Sam's a little sloppier. Not even two years with Jess could curb his over-eager, horny impulses - he sucks Dean's lower lip into his mouth, biting down on its fullness just to hear a breathless noise of pain. His tongue always seems to coax Dean's into a battle, slipping and thrashing against each other in the vague no-man's land of their lips. Sam approaches kissing like another form of fucking, which is probably why his hands always seem to wind up at Dean's hard-on without preamble.
"I'm gonna fuck you so hard," he mutters wetly into Dean's mouth, and Dean laughs. Even when he's tracing the lines of Sam's teeth with his tongue, he manages to be cocky.
"Attaboy, Sammy," he chuckles, pressing his lips to Sam's in a chaste, mocking little gesture. "Now slap my ass to show me you mean it."
Sam makes a noise of irritation that starts low in his chest, and he slides his knee across the vinyl seat and straight between Dean's legs - all the way to his straining hard-on. He pauses only when his faint pressure draws a rough gasp from Dean.
"Sam-may," he groans warningly, his eyes falling shut and his wet, pink mouth falling open.
"I'll get to your ass later," Sam whispers, leaning his weight down purposefully.
Dean's on him against in an instant - not one for talking, when there's better things for mouths to do - with wet lips brushing against his own indistinctly, and then moving down Sam's chin, across his throat. It's been too long since Sam shaved, and he knows his skin has to be like sandpaper against Dean's, all rough and too-prickly, but Dean just goes with it.
His hand keeps working its way under Sam's shirt, and Sam kind of wants to remind him that he hasn't got any tits to grope, but it's hot. It's hot to think about how many chicks Dean has fucked like this, warming them up with his jokes and winks, and then going in for the kill. His fingers are warm, like his lust is pouring out of his skin, and that damn ring he wears is a cold contrast, skirting up Sam's stomach and giving him these weird little chills.
Sam finally just blurts it out. "Dude, I haven't got tits, okay?"
Dean studies Sam's face with some amusement, and flicks one of Sam's nipples. "These work for me."
"Wh - Dean- " he sputters, but Dean's already pushing his shirt up, and tugging it off over his head. He clambers into Sam's lap nimbly, hard-on pressing against Sam's own.
Sam can barely breathe as Dean's fingers find their way back to his pecs, squeezing his nipples like - like he's a girl. He's not entirely sure why it's so hot, but he can feel his toes curling in his sneakers as Dean licks his - Sam's - lower lip, and then traces his mouth down, down to his right nipple. It's stiff now from the bruising attention of Dean's fingers, but then Dean's mouth is there, hot and wet and slurping.
It's even better than kissing, somehow, and Sam can feel himself throbbing in his jeans.
"The other one," he manages, and Dean - smirking in the two seconds between - complies, working his mouth even harder this time, rougher.
Sam lets his head fall back, squeezing his eyes shut until hazy purple patterns form behind his eyelids. "Oh, you missed me," he gasps, threading his fingers through Dean's hair. He gives a little tug as Dean's teeth brush across their mark. "You were fucking crying all the way to Indiana."
Dean pulls back enough to give Sam an irritated sort of glare, and Sam laughs - half in delight, and half in surprise, as he brings his hand between them, gripping Dean's cock.
"On your back," he breathes, and Dean collapses agreeably onto the warmed vinyl, letting Sam climb back on top of him.
Dean's hard - achingly hard, with veins criss-crossing under the skin and his prick curving up towards his abdomen. His hard-on bobs into sight as Sam unsnaps his jeans and surveys him dispassionately. The head, a ruddy reddish-purple, is already slick, and more precome's oozing from the tip in a messy, pornographic sort of bubble.
"Just like a girl." Sam wraps his fist around the base of Dean's shaft. "All wet in your panties from some kissing."
"Please," says Dean, even as he arches into Sam's grip. "Like you ever made a girl wet. I'm sure even Jess had to warm herself up before - "
Sam slurps the tip of Dean's prick into his mouth, then, cutting off any further remarks. Dean always seems surprised when Sam goes down on him, as though he manages to forget that it happens in the time between rounds - his eyes widen, his breathing gets quick, and he inevitably comes too quickly.
"Oh, fuck, Sammy," he groans, rolling his hips without apparent thought. "Yeah, suck it!"
Precome and spit dribble down Sam's chin as he stretches his jaw. Dean's cock isn't as big as Sam's, but it's a bitch to get down - especially since Dean can just barely reign in his impulse to fuck Sam's mouth. It's a sort of tense push-and-pull, holding down Dean's hips and wresting away control, bit by bit. Sam hollows his cheeks, coaxing in each sticky inch. It's hot in his mouth and slimy on his tongue, seeming so much more fat and heavy than when he holds it. He spares a single look upwards; Dean seems torn between clenching his eyes shut and staring down at the sight of Sam swallowing his stiff prick.
"Aw, Sam," he mutters, flicking his hips forward in shallow, quick thrusts, and groaning in frustration when it gets him nowhere. Dean tosses his head back, letting it bang against the car door, then pounds a steady, thoughtless rhythm against it. "How the fuck - fuck - d'you get so good at that?"
Sam drags his tongue along the underside, pulling back enough to trace the slit. His lips form a tight, sloppy ring around the head of Dean's cock.
He's close. Sam's done this enough to know the signs, the way Dean's abs tighten and his breath gets shallow. He's dripping precome against Sam's tongue, his fingers flexing fitfully as though itching to clutch Sam's head. Cursing, sputtering, Dean arches up off the sticky plastic seat -
- and Sam pulls back, letting Dean's cock fall from his mouth with an audible pop.
"J - fuck!" For a moment, Sam thinks Dean might lose it anyway - shoot off right there, splattering the backseat and Sam's face with no provocation, no friction. He almost hopes he will, so he can mock him for being so messy, for having the control of a thirteen-year-old.
He doesn't, though. Dean sucks in a long, harsh breath, his eyebrows knitted together in pained frustration. He grips Sam's knee so hard it hurts, digging his fingernails into the denim of his jeans, and sinks his teeth into his own lower lip. But he doesn't come. "Dude, what the fuck?"
"Say it." Sam can feel waves of heat rolling off of Dean, and he meets his increduous stare evenly.
"Say it," he demands, wrapping his fingers around Dean's prick. It's slimy and wet in his hand, and his grip slides easily as he leans across Dean's heaving chest. "Say you missed me," he hisses, mouth brushing against his ear. He jacks Dean's cock at a slow, measured pace. "Tell me how sad you were that I left."
"Oh, Christ," snaps Dean. Sam's fingers clench and unclench around him, his thumb tracing a sticky, slippery path along the underside. "Fuck! Dude, yes, I fucking missed you. I didn't - oh fuck -" Sam pulls his hand back, rubbing the flat of his palm against the sensitive, weeping tip of Dean's cock. It's too much stimulation, he knows - too sweet and good and painful, and Dean babbles in a rough, fast voice, "I was - I was going to go to California to get you when the job was done, and I - fuck - "
"Really?" Sam's hand goes limp, and he straightens enough to stare down at Dean's face. "You were - but that's going against Dad. You were going to disobey an order, for me?"
"Shut up, Sam. We are not - going to talk right now." Dean jerks his hips up in an effort to fuck Sam's cupped hand, groaning in frustration when Sam yanks his hand away completely. "God, you are SUCH A CHICK," Dean snarls, punching the back of the seat.
"You were going to disobey one of Dad's orders for me," Sam repeats, sitting back on his haunches. He looks at Dean thoughtfully.
Dean spreads his arms in exasperation. "Looks like. Can we save the hug for later, and please get back to you jerkin' me off?"
"No." Sam keeps staring at him like he's gone a little crazy, but moves away enough to yank his own jeans down around his ankles.
Dean exhales loudly, as though trying to release the tension in the pit of his stomach. "No?" he echoes. "No?"
"Lube these up for me," Sam instructs, shoving two fingers into Dean's open, huffing mouth. Dean makes a choked sort of noise and manages a full-mouthed scowl, but obligingly slurps - as though there were another option - running his tongue back and forth across Sam's fingers. "That's it," Sam murmurs, pushing them a little deeper. He can feel the edge of Dean's teeth, the roughness of his tastebuds. "You wish you had a cock to suck on, don't you?"
Without waiting for a reply, Sam jerks his fingers back. "Roll over."
Dean purses his lips, as though biting back some comment. "That's kinda hard to do with you on top of me, dude."
Sam clutches Dean's jaw. "I am so not kidding. Over. Now."
"All right! Jeez, you're such a control freak."
"And you're an asshole," says Sam, half-shoving Dean as he clambers over onto his stomach, pinning his shoulders down.
Without waiting for a response, Sam spreads Dean's ass and pushes two spit-soaked fingers against his hole. There's no time for awkwardness, or hesitation - just Sam's hands, steady and calm, and Dean's hitching breath. Ruthlessly, Sam works both fingers in at once - there's no power struggle anymore, and his fingers are steady, deliberate as they work their resolute way past Dean's sphincter.
"Fuck," Dean snarls, dropping his forehead against the armrest. Sam can feel him flexing around his fingers, tight and tense. He's panting now, loud and ragged, like he's already being fucked down into the faux-leather upholstery.
The car sways a little as a semi truck roars past, maybe a foot away, and Sam twists his fingers.
"Think he saw you?" he rasps, over the tinkling sound of gravel hitting the Impala. "I think he did. I like you like this, Dean. All spread and ready for me, where anyone could see you."
Dean groans, jerking his hips as Sam's fingers reach deeper, shoving their way inside. "S - "
Sam's fingers are unrelenting, working their way in with plunging thrusts. There's no escape, even if Dean wanted one, from the violation. Another car zooms by on the highway as Sam adds another finger. Slow and deliberate.
"I saw them," he says, rubbing his prick against Dean's ass cheek. "A family. Two kids and a dog in back, and - " Sam laughs, scissoring his fingers, "they definitely saw you."
"Oh, you like it." Sam grinds his cock against Dean's skin, trailing precome. "Probably fucked those kids up for life, but that's good - " Dean arches, first away from and then towards Sam's plunging fingers, "- isn't it? Since the Winchesters don't believe in normal. I'm sure Dad would approve."
"Fuck - "
"What? You like that?"
Dean groans like he's in heat.
"You like me talking about Dad? He still your hero?" Sam grips his own cock with his free hand. "What would Dad think of you getting fucked in the ass, Dean? What would he say if he were here to see this?"
"Damn it, Sam, put it in me!" Dean barks. "And - ungh - don't drag me into your weird issues, I'm not - I don't - "
"You don't." Sam's fingers pause inside of Dean - deep, rigid, and, judging by the way Dean is squirming and shifting, somewhere near his prostate. "You don't get off on thinking about Dad being here," he says, wriggling the tips of his fingers. "Him seeing you getting fucked in the back of car, like some high school girl losing it before the prom, that - that doesn't do it for you? Buddy?"
Dean jerks his hips back, twisting under Sam's hand. Sam can feel his ass clench down around his fingers, knows how much he wants some kind of friction inside of him. "God, shut the fuck up, Sam, and do it. What the hell are you waiting for?"
Sam jerks his fingers out, harsh and abrupt. A car whips by the parked Impala, but Sam doesn't bother noting this one - instead, he fists his own cock, sliding his sticky, wet fingers across the dripping head. He shrugs, even though Dean can't see it. "I'm just waiting for you to call me Daddy."
If Dean was going to lose it for no reason, that would have been the moment it happened.
"Sammy, you are one sick fuck, you know that?"
"Yeah, sure." Sam watches the play of muscles in Dean's shoulders. He doesn't have to see his face to know that Dean is chewing on his fat lower lip, fighting with himself to give in and get what he wants, and throw some kind of amoral hissy-fit about Respecting Dad and Keeping Private Things Private. Almost without thought, Sam brings his open palm down on the ripe curve of Dean's ass, hard and loud. "But so are you."
"Oh my - Jesus, Sam."
"Fuck me! Just - fuck me, Daddy." Dean brings his closed fist down on the seat next to his face, half-choking around the words, voice low and harsh and as demanding as ever. "Fuck me, Daddy. I want it, I want you - and fuck you, I missed you like hell."
"Yes," Sam hisses, jerking his hips forward. Dean's been loosened enough that the head of Sam's cock pops in easy and quick, and Sam shuts his eyes as he slams home, savoring each hot, dearly-bought inch. Dean's hot inside, and it's so worth it. So worth it.
He shakes his hair from his eyes as he bottoms out, and he stays that way for a moment - harsh and almost too-deep, listening to Dean's ragged breathing. He wants to make him beg for more, push him just a little further, but he can't quite make himself speak. The only words circling in his head are four letters long, and he knows, knows with a kind of grim finality that if he opens his mouth, he'll admit things he doesn't want to say. Dean's ass is tight and clenching around him, and so much better than his Sam's own fist in the chilly Greyhound bathroom.
"Bitch," Dean grates. "Better watch your ass, 'cause I'm gettin' you back for this one."
"I'd like to see that," he breathes, lowering his head so that his mouth touches Dean's neck. He lets out a low, deep sigh against Dean's skin as he eases his way back in. "Say what you want, but I know you, man. You just love to get fucked." He threads his fingers through Dean's short hair, and pushes his face down into the armrest. "Tell you what," he says, slamming his hips forward so that his balls slap against Dean's - it makes a slick, smacking sound that is somehow amplifed in the silent car. "At the next rest stop, you can give me a BJ."
Dean twists under him at that, half-propping himself on his hands. The space is too cramped for much movement, but Sam twists with him, letting Dean squirm and shift around his prick.
He places his hands on either side of Dean's, leaning hard and heavy against his back. "You like that?" he breathes into Dean's ear. Their fingers overlap a little, warm and damp, as he ruts into him. "You like me fucking you like this?"
Dean's forehead pushes against the window, and he nods, vague and half-aware - Sam can tell he's breathing through his mouth, sucking in loud, wet gasps of air as he meets Sam's thrusts. Sam's never fucked anyone else who pants like that, all loud and pornographic, and it never fails to make him get harder.
"You sound like a whore when you do that," he says, casual and easy as he props one wet, slippery hand in the window. He moves slowly, pulling out until just the head of his cock is holding Dean open, and then jerking back home. "Are you going to moan for me, too?"
"God, shut up." Dean half-straightens, as though angling for a position that will give him more control. Sam pull him upwards and shoves his knees just inside Dean's, keeping them spread apart. It's actually easier to get into him this way, and Sam moves faster, snapping his hips forward just to hear Dean's barely-stifled groans.
"How quick do you think I can make you come?" he asks, moving his free hand down to Dean's straining cock. "One stroke or two?"
"Man, you are - ah - such a smartass," Dean rasps, leaning back against Sam's chest. He hisses a little as Sam grabs ahold of him - slow and deliberate, like touching himself - and clamps down hard.
"Rather that than a tightass, man." Sweat stings Sam's eyes as he rubs his thumb against the slit of Dean's cock, smearing precome around the head. It's still sticky-wet from his mouth earlier, drippy like Dean's been fucking someone, and it moves easy, easy in his hand. Sam brushes his palm lightly against the underside, his grip loose and teasing.
"Fuck," Dean pants, raw and shaky. Sam's fingers don't move to jerk him, and he rolls his hips helplessly - fucking himself back onto Sam's cock and forward into his hand.
"Yeah, that's it," murmurs Sam. He quits moving altogether, letting Dean ride him in slow, laborious strokes. The plastic of the seat squeaks as Dean rocks on him, back and forth. "You know what to do."
"Damn it, Sammy, fuck me," Dean barks, fingers digging into the taut plastic upholstery as he jerks away from Sam's cock and into his open fist. "There somethin' you want me to call you this time?"
His fingers twitch as Dean drives into them again, angling his thrust down to rub against Sam's slick palm. "I just want to watch you fuck yourself," he says. He spread his own legs a little further, forcing Dean to open wider. "While you're wishing I was doing it."
There's just a second before Dean loses it, when Sam knows it's going to happen. Dean's head is slumped foward, his chin pressing down into his chest in concentration, but Sam can see his throat. His whole chest is flushed pink and covered in a sheen of his sweat, but the muscles of his throat are working in a kind of desperate way, like he's choking around something he can't quite voice.
"Sammy," he finally mutters, thick and throaty, and then he's frozen, pushed back on the fullness of Sam's prick, his own hand closing over Sam's and forcing him to pull faster, harder. The pads of Sam's fingers trace across the veins of Dean's prick in the frantic blur of motion, skimming along the sensitive spots that Sam has learned and relearned. His hands, wet with precome and sweat, smack smack smack perversely at each jerking movement.
Dean throws his head back when he comes; his neck grinds damply against Sam's shoulder and his mouth falls open, damp and shiny and inches from Sam's own. He shoots upwards - messy, quick spurts that splatter across his abdomen and coat Sam's fingers.
"Attaboy, Dean," Sam whispers, his lips against the base of Dean's jaw. He squeezes his hand around Dean one more time - painful and harsh - and then shoves him back against the door.
The rhythm he finds is quick, deliberate. He's fucking for a goal, and Dean seems to know it, stretching out underneath him without argument. The car smells like spunk now, sticky and muggy to every one of Sam's senses. It's disgusting, but his cock throbs in Dean's ass, and he can't quite bite back the nasty phrases that bubble up on his lips. He's close - close enough to taste it, close enough that he wants to draw it out a little, push Dean a little.
"You wanna suck me off?" he whispers suddenly, voice scratchy and loud and straight into Dean's ear. He pushes his way in a little deeper as Dean shudders, seeming to twist away from his mouth and yet moving back onto his prick at the same time. Sam grips one of his ass cheeks, spreading him wider and digging his fingernails in. "I could pull out of your hot little ass right now. Roll you over. Let you blow me."
Dean's back flexes, sweaty and hot, under Sam's chest.
"Would that make you feel dirty? I can just see you," Sam laughs against Dean's neck, " - jerking off in the shower for weeks while you think about how well you followed my orders. Of course..." Sam slides his hand back down to Dean's prick. It twitches in his hand, too sensitive and too spent as Sam's quick thrusts jerk it forward in his hand again. "It'll be hard for you to call me Daddy with your mouth all full of cock, but - ah - I bet I could see it in your eyes. Those - yeah, those sad little boy eyes of yours - looking up at me - "
Sam's fingers slide through the globs of spunk coating Dean's chest. It's already started to cool - jelly-like and thick as Sam smears it in wet circles.
"Yes, sir," he mimics, lowering his voice to a rough imitation of Dean's. He cups two of his fingers as he drags them upwards through splatters of come. "Anything you say, sir. I'm a - " Sam shoves his fingers, drippy and thick, into Dean's open, panting mouth. "I'm a good little soldier."
Dean makes a noise at that, low and sharp, and - and Sam's own mouth falls open as Dean doesn't move to pull away, but obediently tightens his lips around the base of Sam's knuckles.
"Oh, fuck," he gasps. Dean sucks on his fingers like he's sucking on a cock, slurping them in deep and hard. Sam can feel his tongue, a rough, wet friction moving in deliberate little circles against the sensitive pads of his fingers. Dean tilts his head a little, and Sam can see his the darkness of his eyes looking back at him, looking up at him - and it doesn't matter what he can or can't see there, because it's enough that Dean's doing it, that he's looking at him and sucking and -
Sam pulls out abruptly, his cock hitting wetly against the curve of Dean's ass, and yanks his fingers free. Dean's teeth snap together audibly as Sam grasps his own cock, jerking roughly, mindlessly. Once, twice, again - rubbing Dean's spit down his shaft, his own fist recreating the warm, tight memory of Dean's ass, and he's coming - splattering seed in thick ropes across Dean's back, across the seat. A string hits the window, slouching thickly down the glass as another vehicle zips past. He works his fist through each spurt, and works it even after he stops, milking out every last drop of come as Dean slouches against the car door.
"Fuck," he gasps again, and collapses back into the other side of the seat - the only part of the back not occupied by Dean.
They say nothing for several minutes. It's enough to simply lay there, damp and limp. Sam's cock seems to still be throbbing, even as he stares blindly out the window, at the empty highway.
Dean rolls over after awhile, slow and careful, like he's attempting to not sprain something. "This is just freakin' lovely," he says, fishing Sam's t-shirt out of the footwell and mopping at his chest. He scrunches his features up in disgust. "I'm covered in jizz."
Sam laughs, a little breathless. "That's all you can say?"
"Dude." Dean swipes an errant smudge off his chin, and spreads his arms. "I'm covered in jizz. The fuck you want me to say?"
Working his hands - still damp, still sticky - across his face, Sam shakes his head. "Nothing in particular, I guess. I - " he licks his lips, eyebrows coming together as he looks directly at Dean. "I missed you too, you know."
Dean groans, popping the car door open and shoving the come-drenched shirt in Sam's face. "Shut up, bitch. I'd miss me, too."
notes: I'm sure this has been done before (what hasn't?), but I liked the concept too much to not give it a whirl. thanks to valiant — for the beta and encouragement!