ht_murray | Pieces of You, NC-17, Dean/Sam

Title: Pieces of You (Come Apart for Me)
Author:

tru_faith_lost
Rating/Genre: NC-17, slash, wincest
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Summary: Sam needs Dean to understand he's not just a type, and he's got a whole bag of tricks to make his point.
Words: 6300
Spoiler: Season three up through 3.2
Warning: Graphic m/m sex. It gets kinky. There's nose!kink, rimming, some bondage, a little D/s, foreign objects. I don't usually write this stuff and didn't research any of it. It's probably not safe or sanitary. Just go with it or don't read.
Disclaimer: All made up. No harm intended, no disrespect, and no money for my troubles.

Pieces of You (Come Apart for Me)

     It starts with a yo-yo, small, just the way such things always had to be when they were kids, the way they still have to be even though there's not much child left in either of them. The trunk of the Impala can only hold so much, and Sam's duffel can hide even less, but a yo-yo fits just fine, tucked down between his last clean pair of boxers and the pair of socks with the fewest number of holes in it. (Not a pair, but who’s going to see?)

     Sam's been looking for something, some token, for the day when Dean finally talks to him, a little something to show he already knows and is okay with Dean taking his time. A yo-yo's not his first choice, but it jumps out at him when they're in the dollar store stocking up on Peanut M&M's that are three months past the sell by date. It's tricky buying it and sneaking it out of the store without Dean noticing, and he’s sure as Hell not about to take the chance on being caught shoplifting a yo-yo of all things. Instead, he putzes around until Dean finally pays for his candy and goes to wait in the car. Sam buys the yo-yo and some cheap-assed plastic razors. The yo-yo he stashes deep in his pocket, and the razors he tosses on the back seat.

     "For shaving the hair off your ass the next time you take one for the team and need stitches in your bikini area," he explains. "No way we’re using mine again after last time." He borrows one of Dean's eyebrow waggles for emphasis. For his trouble, he gets a hard candy to the temple.

     "I’ll have you know all my hair is soft and silky. Ought to be, anyway, as much as you pay for that shampoo I’ve been using on it."

     "You didn’t..." Sam stops himself in mid-rant. There’s really no question that, yes, Dean really, really did, so he shrugs but doesn't retaliate. It's a better reception than the joke deserves, and the objective here is not to draw attention to himself. At least, not that kind of attention. He straightens his jacket and slouches down in the seat.

     Somewhere between the on-ramp and halfway to nowhere, the yo-yo manages to fall through a hole in his pocket, ends up in the lining of his jacket. The comfortable slouch he usually assumes when they're headed nowhere in particular becomes, by necessity, a crooked lean as he tries to decide if he prefers his yo-yo jammed into a kidney or rubbing against his tailbone.

     Fucking yo-yo's have always been a pain in his ass. Ever since that first one from when Sam was four, and Dean entertained him for hours "walking the dog" and "loop-the-loop"-ing. Yeah, it was all fine and good until Sam decided to try it for himself when Dean and Daddy were in the other room. Couldn’t try it when they were watching. Dean would’ve teased him to no end for doing it like a girl. Sam’s not sure whether his downfall in that instance was, in actuality, yo-yoing like a girl, but he does remember the cheap toy ended up wrapped so tightly around his fingers, he couldn't get it off without screaming for help. Just a stupid toy. Cheap plastic on a flimsy string. But still, there'd been that moment of, "Oh my God, it's stuck, and I can't move my fingers, and I'm gonna have this thing stuck to my hands for the whole rest of my life," paired with "Dean's gonna kill me."

     Sam pulls his jacket front around a little tighter and sniggers into his hand, the now-hilarious memory of irrational panic and faulty childhood logic just as clear as the bad home movies they never got to make. Dean's too busy head banging to ZZ-Top to notice. Thank God.

     Sam leans back against the seat, gaze fixed high enough above the road to glimpse the horizon and nothing else but sky. What he remembers of "the yo-yo incident," comes back like the circulation back into his fingers once the string came off. Dean hadn't killed him, obviously. Sam figures he must've been a sight, fingers all purple, cheeks flushed with pain and waxed in crocodile tears, because Dean hadn't protested at all as Dad cut the string of his precious yo-yo. Instead, he held Sam's hand still and shushed into his ear.

     "Shh, shh, I got you, Sammy. I got you."

     The painful knot of plastic against his kidney is forgotten, massaged away by the thrum of nostalgia in his veins. Sam slides his hand across the space between the seats and laces his pinky finger in one of Dean's belt loops, strokes over denim with his thumb. Dean stops his head-banging. An odd falsetto note from the chorus of "Legs" catches in his throat, leaves his Adam's apple convulsing around it.

     "Last lodging sign said it's another hundred miles to the next motel," Dean says, almost a hiccup.

     Sam laughs at the squeak in his voice and leans across the space between them. His lips press to Dean's ear, just the way Dean's were to his all those years ago. When he speaks, it’s with a growl. "Pull over now."

     Dean does.

#

     They’ve never been big on baseball. Sam always liked soccer, and Dean, if he noticed anything other than the cheerleaders on the sidelines, liked the American variety of football. He played center, where apparently bowlegs are an asset. Baseball just wasn’t their thing. They’d always had plenty of baseball bats around, some hollow in the middle and filled with lead B.B.’s, some with removable headcaps over sharpened stakes. All the better to bludgeon or disembowel you with, dear baddie. Playing a game with them would’ve been like using a gun barrel as a crazy straw and sipping chocolate milk shakes. Though, now that Sam thinks about it, gun barrels would probably have been much easier to suck milk shakes through.

     Sam bends to pick up the baseball from beneath the bush, shakes his head so his bangs sweep his mind out of the gutter. He spends entirely too much time thinking about sucking.

     This ball’s been used as lure by the disgruntled spirit of Robert Coulter, ball park groundskeeper who was bludgeoned to death by the father of a Little Leaguer who suffered a career-ending knee injury by sliding into a home plate that wasn’t properly tamped into the ground. It’s not the same baseball he broke Dean’s nose with fifteen years ago, but it’s the first one he’s touched since then.



     "C’mon,. Sammy, throw it back. You’re making me look bad."

     It is, of course, the absolute wrong thing to say. What does Sam care if Dean’s stupid friends laugh at Dean while he tries to bribe a ball away from his little brother? They’re the ones who said Sam throws too much like a girl to play with them. Sam crosses his arms over his chest, the ball tucked under an armpit, and shakes his head.

     "Hurry up, Winchester. Kick his snotty little ass and get back in the game!" Stupid Craig Daniels, whose own little brother is best known for hiding under the porch. Surely, Dean would not listen to him. Sam raises his eyes from the tops of his Keds and meets Dean’s. He’s not above begging so long as he doesn’t actually have to do it out loud.

     For a second, it seems to work. Dean looks down, a tight little frown in the corner of his mouth and a dimple in his bottom lip where Sam knows he’s chewing it on the inside. Sam wins for that small second, that one moment when he knows Dean actually thinks before opening his mouth.

     It’s a short second.

     Dean’s eyes raise again slowly, the tightness moving from the corners of his mouth up into his eyes, and his bottom lip pops free of his teeth as his chin sets. He turns with a cocky swagger and yells, "Can’t. My Daddy always told me not to hit girls."

     He only makes it halfway back around before Sam gives him the ball...right between the eyes.



     Sam stares down at the ball in his hand, tries to remember one other time he’s held one since then and can’t.

     "Sam! Look out!"

     Oh yeah. The part about this ball being bait hits Sam about the same time as Coulter’s Louisville Slugger. Only Dean’s quick trigger finger and shotgun full of rock salt keep the blow glancing, just a whap over the bridge of Sam’s nose that throws his head back as blood gushes down over his chin. It’s not hard enough to keep Sam from snatching the bat, saturated with Coulter’s dying blood, and tossing it to Dean. It’s enough of a blow, however, to leave Sam staring at the blood on his shirt in a daze while Dean torches the bat and the ghost.



     Blood, so much blood, and Sam doesn’t care if he’s crying like a girl. Dean’s a mess, gushing all down the front of his Led Zeppelin t-shirt while the other boys scream and run for home. Sam did that. Sam did it, oh God, and Dean’s...broken.

     Dean’s broken, but Sam’s the one hyperventilating in the bleachers, head between his knees.

     "Sam, Sammy, hey!" Dean’s words burst against the wall of panic in Sam’s head like bubbles from an aquarium aerator, just so much fizz that eventually gets through enough for Sam to take a deep breath. Dean’s on his knees in front of Sam, one hand on Sam’s shoulder, the other pressing the tail of his shirt over his nose, no doubt to keep Sam from seeing all the blood. Too late. "Hey, hey, kiddo, don’t worry about it, okay. I had it coming." He shakes Sam’s shoulder like he’s just told a joke Sam doesn’t get. "Now, c’mon. We gotta get outta here before someone comes to see why all my so-called friends ran away screaming like girls." Sam sniffs and lets Dean help him up and push him toward their apartment with one hand between his shoulder blades. "Hell of an arm you got there, Sammy. Ya little bitch."

     Sam smiles, even though he stubbornly tries not to. "Jerk!"



     The rough stitching on the ball barely registers in Sam’s foggy periphery as Dean’s face swims into focus in front of him, giant thumb in the forefront smearing the blood away. Sam’s eyes cross as the thumb moves over his nose, and ow, that hurts, so he lets them float into widescreen again, watches Dean worry over him.

     "Well, I don’t think it’s broken," Dean says. Relief pools in the dark shadows under his eyes, mixes with the weariness already there, comes out a little bitter. "Were you planning to pull your head out of your ass before or after the ghost knocked it off your shoulders?"

     It’s not funny, well, not that funny, and Dean’s got every right to be pissed. Sam can’t help if he meets Dean’s eyes, finds them wide and a little too bright, and grins like a loon as he leans in for a kiss. He waits until some of the tension melts from Dean’s jaw, then leans back until just the ends of their noses are touching. "Trust me, baby. Your head’s the only one in my ass from here on out." Sam feels Dean’s forehead furrow then smooth out in the shock wave of his pupils blowing out. He’s pretty sure Dean doesn’t notice him sliding the baseball into his pocket as they fall back in the grass.



#



     Sam buys two dollars worth of rubber super balls out of a toy vending machine in a Wal-Mart lobby while Dean slips into the Health and Beauty Supplies department to buy some of that tingling lube he saw advertised on television. As long as they’ve been together together Sam would think Dean’d be up to doing that kind of shopping together. He’s not, and Sam’s fine with that. If Dean’s still worried about projecting his red-blooded heterosexual male image in public, then Sam doesn’t have to worry about other pretty boys trying to horn in on his territory. Girls can look all they want. Sam’s pretty sure he could take them in a fight. He’s also pretty sure there wouldn’t be a fight.

     He thinks maybe he went a little overboard buying two dollars worth of rubber balls. It’s not as many as it used to be. When they were kids, two dollars would’ve bought twenty clear, inch-wide balls with glitter molded inside the rubber. Now, he’s got four, two-inch balls that completely fill the plastic container the machine spits them out in, and much to his chagrin, they’re all fluorescent pink. Ah, well, beggars can’t be choosers, though he really doesn’t know if there are enough empty spaces in his duffel anymore to hide four gawdy pink balls. If they glow in the dark, he’s probably screwed. That doesn’t keep him from stuffing the balls in his pockets and sprawling out on the bench to wait for Dean, nothing but his memories to keep him company.



     The tornado whistle’s been wailing for the last twenty minutes, and Sam’s scared. They’re huddled in the motel bathroom, under the sink, waiting for the wind to stop blowing, and the rain to stop pounding, and the lightning to stop flashing. It’s a freak afternoon thunderstorm, but it’s almost completely dark since the lights went out. There’s just the one little vent window above the toilet and a fluorescent lantern Daddy left with them before he went on his last job. Sam flinches and buries his head deeper in Dean’s chest when the next bolt of lightning flashes, listens as Dean counts under his breath. When the thunder claps, it’s a full count farther away than the last one, and Dean softens a little under Sam’s head.

     Sam’s not convinced. The whistle’s still blowing, and yeah, the thing has been known to get stuck. Some days the noon whistle goes off until twelve fifteen or whenever the one guy in town who knows how to shut it off can get over there and reset the damned thing. But this isn’t the noon whistle or the six o’clock whistle. It’s the tornado whistle. Tornados kill people.

     Another flash of lightning, a thunder clap that’s another half a count delayed from the last one, and Dean shifts under Sam, shakes him gently. "Hey, Sammy, look what I found."

     Sam looks down into Dean’s hand where the super ball he lost three days ago glows weakly in the lantern light. "It was behind the toilet," Dean explains. Sam doesn’t really care. Fat lot of good a rubber ball’s gonna do them when the roof caves in.

     Dean rolls the ball around between his fingers for a few minutes, still counting under his breath when the lightning flashes. Whatever glow-in-the-dark juice is inside it glows steadily brighter the longer Dean holds it in front of the light. With the next bolt of lightning, Dean flicks his wrist and the ball zings across the bathroom. They’re in a handicapped room, because there was some crazy craft fair in town the day they checked in, and it was the only one left. There’s no tub, just a walk-in shower stall, all tiled and smooth...perfect for bouncing a ball off.

     The ball pings off the shower wall and floats through the shadows, back to Dean’s hand like a firefly. Dean catches it on the first bounce, flicks it back without pausing, pla-plunk, pla-plunk, back and forth twice before the thunder claps.

     Sam doesn’t hear the thunder.

     Pla-plunk, pla-plunk, pla-plunk, Dean just keeps bouncing the ball, and after several minutes, Sam can’t help himself. He sits up and snatches it out of the air, catches Dean’s proud grin as well. "Good catch, kiddo."

     Sam tosses the ball, but doesn’t get the speed or the trajectory just right. Pla-pla-pla-ppppp-pppp. It pings between the three walls of the shower stall for several seconds before getting stuck behind the toilet tank and stuttering to a stop. Dean fishes it out, hands it back to Sam, and Sam doesn’t even mind that Dean musses his hair.

     Eventually, the whistle stops, as does the lightning and the thunder. The pla-pla-plunking goes on through the afternoon until Daddy comes bursting into the room and scoops them both up, smothers them in apologies and relieved hugs.



     With a grin, Sam does his best to hide his treasures before Dean comes back. He decides trying to stuff four balls in his pockets is just asking to get himself caught and gives two away to a brother and sister in a shopping cart coming out of the store. Their mother gives him a suspicious look, and even though she softens under one of Sam’s trademark smiles, he’s half convinced she takes the toys away as soon as they’re out of sight.

     Doesn’t matter. They’re not the kid Sam wants to give them to, anyway.



#



     It’s the kite that finally gets Sam caught. He’s not entirely sure why he buys it in the first place. They never had kites as kids, but they always had plenty of string. Handy stuff, that kite string, good for making impromptu crucifixes out of sticks, trip wires, and for soaking in holy water to tie up mojo bags and possessed chickens. You know, that kinda stuff. A part of him is convinced he can roll up the cheap, plastic kite and bend the frame pieces without breaking them and still get them in his bag without Dean noticing. The rest of him, well, it’s pretty sure he wants to get caught. Enough is enough already. If Dean won’t talk, then Sam will just have to make the first move.

     His first move is ‘accidentally’ getting the kite sticks jammed sideways in his duffel bag and then spilling the entire contents of said bag onto the floor under the pretense of stuffing it under the bed as Dean comes into the room. He looks up, all innocent puppy denial, as six months worth of stashed toys roll, bounce, and whirr, hippity-hop, clippety-clop, onto the carpet. Dean sees Sam’s innocent puppy and raises him an eyebrow and a lopsided smirk.

     "Is there something you wanna tell me, Sammy?"

     "Is there something YOU wanna tell ME?"

     "Like what?" Dean stoops, picks up a secret decoder ring, and jabs an index through it a few times in what can only be considered an obscene gesture. "I mean, I’m all for toys, when the mood calls for ‘em, but these aren’t exactly my kinda kink."

     Sam doesn’t know where the annoyance comes from. He didn’t really expect Dean to "get" what this is about, but okay, it would be nice not to have to come out and say it. "Cut the crap, Dean." He stalks one step over the mess and snatches the ring out of Dean’s hand. "They’re not for you."

     "So, there’s someone else you’re planning to have kinky toy sex with..."

     "They’re for Ben."

     He says it mostly to his chest.

     "Who?"

     "Ben."

     A little louder, like decibels equate to comprehension.

     Dean just shrugs, forehead raised and bottom lip curved downward.

     "You know? Ben? The nephew you still haven’t told me about." Sam recognizes the instant Dean realizes what Sam’s talking about, misinterprets the duck of Dean’s gaze as denial. "C’mon, man. I mean, I get it, you know. I get why you don’t want to get involved with him, knowing you might be on your way out, which you’re NOT," Sam emphasizes with a shove against Dean’s shoulder that turns him around enough to at least be ducking his gaze in Sam’s general direction. "I get how it wouldn’t be fair to him to walk into his life and then out again. But Dean," and Sam has to swallow, because the goddamned anger he’s been using to bolster his courage in this confrontation has gone and turned to fear itself, "If you don’t get out of this deal, which you WILL, he’s the only family I’ll have left. You should’ve told me."

     "There’s nothing to tell, Sam."

     "You have a kid! I think that’s something..."

     "He’s not mine."

     Exasperated, Sam flicks the ring over his shoulder and onto the bed, raises his hands in surrender. "What kind of idiot do you think I am? I only met the kid the one time, and it wasn’t all that hard to figure out. Same freckles, same mannerisms, same cocky attitude, and just the right age..."

     "She had a type."

     "What?"

     "Lisa. She had a type. Something about guys in hair band t-shirts and leather jackets." Dean grabs his own jacket off the back of the chair as he speaks, twists it between his fists for a second like it’s a habit he wishes he could break, then gives up and shrugs it on. "I don’t blame you for thinking he was mine, Sam. I mean..."

     Sam doesn’t miss the way Dean swallows around his next words the way he swallows every time he admits there’s something he might want for himself.

     "...I kinda thought so myself. But I asked her, okay? I was ready to take responsibility. I’m not some dick with kids all over the country he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about. But she says he’s not mine. Just another guy with a cocky attitude and a leather jacket..." He swallows again. "Just the type she always picked up back then."

     "I don’t believe it. You should’ve asked for a blood test."

     Dean waves his hand over the mess on the floor and turns away, shushing Sam in his protest. "Pick up your toys, Sammy. I’ll be back in a little while." The door’s shut before Sam can argue.



#

     Sam’s maybe a little drunker than Dean when Dean gets back. Maybe. A little. Who needs a cheap biker bar and two dollar drafts when you’ve got a bucket load of emo and a teeny tiny refrigerator full of long necks? He can’t really pinpoint what it is he’s feeling when Dean slips into the room without turning on the light--anger? heartbreak? guilt? disappointment? fear?-- probably a whole shit load of things all made nice and blurry by the alcohol. Whatever it...they?...are?...is?...shit! What the fuck ever is going on in his head, it’s...motivating. Just ask Sammy, Jr. (Never little Sam, because, well...because.)

     He motivates his stocking feet right across the room as soon as Dean hangs his jacket back on the chair and strips off his shirts. One flat palm in the center of Dean’s chest sends him flying back onto the bed where Sam pins him with one foot. Dean doesn’t fight back, which is probably a good thing, because Sam’s not exactly steady on his pins to begin with. He’s still pretty flexible, though, leans in over his knee so his face is just above Dean’s and says, "Let’s play a little game." He waits for Dean to nod before straightening up slowly, hands already pulling at Dean’s belt.

     He’s got Dean’s jeans undone and at his ankles by the time he makes it back up to standing. "Don’t move," he growls, and lowers his foot just long enough to undo the boots and leave the whole pile of extra clothing on the floor. He half-expects Dean to retaliate as he undone his own clothes but keeps him pinned with his gaze long enough to strip himself down to his boxer briefs. Before tossing his pants aside, he reaches into one of the deep pockets, slow and seductive, emerges with... the yo-yo.

     When Dean’s eyes adjust enough to figure out what it is, he starts to roll away, but Sam catches him under the shoulder, flips him back over, face-up, and re-applies his foot to hold him there. "Wanna see what I can do?" It’s youthful and sing-songy, kinda sappy, but exactly what Sam’s going for as Dean lowers his eyelashes at him.

     "Saaamm...nfff..." Dean’s cut off with a huff as Sam presses his foot against his diaphragm.

     "Shut up. I haven’t told you the rules yet." Sam’s just sober enough to know he’d never try this if he weren’t mostly drunk. It hasn’t been that long since Dean’s handed over some of the control in this part of their relationship. There’s a pretty good chance he’s pressing his luck. But he doesn’t really give a fuck. There’s enough anger inside the mess in his head that he’s willing to wrestle control away if Dean won’t give it. But Dean gives, for now. "Now, do you wanna see what I can do, Dean?" He presses again into Dean’s stomach with the ball of his foot. "Yes, or no." It’s an order, not a question.

     "Yes." Swallow.

     Sam grins. "Good." He leans forward, working the loop of string over his index finger as he goes, then raises his arm and flicks the yo-yo down, down, down. Dean grunts and arches as the yo-yo hits the end of its string a hair's breadth above one nipple, and Sam lowers his hand at just the right speed to keep the toy spinning in place. Once he gets to the bottom, he catches the yo-yo, raises his arm again, and teases the other nipple with the same treatment. He repeats the act several times on each side, sometimes giving a tweak with his fingers before starting again, Dean gasping on cue. Fast learner, that Dean. Sam always knew he was smarter than he let on. "Remember your first yo-yo, Dean? Remember how I got it all tangled around my fingers and couldn’t get it off, how Dad cut the string?" He presses again with his foot, doesn’t miss how his foot slides a little in the sweat pooling beneath it. "Yes, or no."

     "Yes."

     "Pretty funny, right? Stupid yo-yo wrapped around my fingers. I mean, how does a kid even get in that predicament. But you know what? It wasn’t funny to me, Dean. I was scared to death. Would’ve sworn I was going to have to go through life with my fingers tied together and that you’d hate me for wrecking your toy." Sam palms the yo-yo, reaches down and picks up Dean’s hands. Pressing them together, he winds the string around Dean’s index fingers, lashing the hands together. "Too tight?"

     This time Dean answers without prompting. "No."

     "Good, now scooch up." He takes his foot down and helps Dean move up to the top of the bed, lashes the last bit of string around the headboard. "Take care not to pull on that, now," he says with a wink. "Wouldn’t wanna lose a finger over this."

     Dean nods weakly, eyes wide.

     Standing up and admiring his work for a few seconds, he takes special note of the panting breath and rising bulge in Dean’s Hanes, then walks around to the other side of the room. He whispers, "Shh, shhh," as Dean makes a whimpering protest and cranes his neck up to look at the knot holding him in place. Sam picks up his duffel bag off the table and tosses it onto the floor at the side of the bed. Dean starts at the thunk and stops his thrashing as Sam settles over him once more. "I said, shhh. I got you." The little shiver that goes up Dean’s spine jolts through Sam at the place between them where their sternums touch. "I got you," he shushes, nipping up Dean’s collar bone.

     He works his way up the expanse of Dean’s neck, which only gets longer as Dean stretches out beneath him. "Remember when I broke your nose with that baseball?"

     After a pause, Dean nods, says, "Yesssss," with a breathy hiss.

     Sam sucks Dean’s lower lip into his mouth, lets Dean thrust into the groove of his hip for a second before lifting his pelvis out of reach. He pulls away, looks into Dean’s eyes. "You never did tell Dad it was me. I probably deserved to have my ass kicked for that, but you protected me, and what’d I do? Broke your nose." His chest hitches for second, as moonlight through the curtain throws a shadow over Dean’s mouth and chin, just deceptive enough to be blood. "God, Dean, I was so, so sorry. All that blood..." He cuts himself off with a kiss to the bridge of Dean’s nose, over that one nearly invisible bump that Sam still knows is there.

     Thrusting his hands up into Dean’s hair, he arches down, pinning Dean with his chest, and tilts him down enough to get his whole mouth over Dean’s nose. God, if he could take that bump away just by kissing...He tries, hungry moans and nips all around. He’s pretty sure he’s sucked a bruise over the bridge before he moves lower, covers Dean’s nostrils with his mouth. His tongue flicks over the divot beneath, up the septum, and circles over the round tip like he’s giving head instead of nose. After a few seconds of holding his breath, Dean’s mouth opens, and he gasps, chest heaving.

     Sam releases the nose and dives in, inching a hand down the side of the bed and into his bag. He finds what he’s looking for and starts inching back up as his tongue twists around Dean’s, has enough forethought to detour under the pillow for the lube before he breaks the kiss. He keeps the toy and the lube palmed as he raises up, kisses back down Dean’s neck and the center of his chest. He takes advantage of Dean arching into the kisses and scrapes his teeth over the protruding bottom rib bone as he hooks his thumbs in Dean’s boxer briefs and yanks them down. He has to lower himself to his knees on the floor to get them all the way off, takes his own off while he’s down there.

     Dean’s toes are curling into the mattress when Sam’s head pokes back up. Unable to resist, he drops what he’s got in his hand into a dip in the blankets and slides a thumb under each of Dean’s feet. He caresses the arches and up into the spasming balls of his feet, and Dean throws his head back. As he does, the moonlight pours down his chest and highlights the shimmering trail of precome leaking down his cock. Suddenly starving, Sam pushes Dean’s knees up with a grunt until his mouth’s poised and dripping over that shiny, purple head. He’s still got his thumbs on the bottoms of Dean’s feet, and Dean has no leverage to push himself up. Sam can’t help but chuckle, low and deep, at the way Dean’s abs flutter in an effort to stretch up into his mouth.

     He takes his time, turns his head to kiss up the inside of Dean’s thighs, then back down to scrape teeth over the tendons at the base of his pelvis. Dean grunts and makes half a surprised thrash when Sam licks up his perineum but doesn’t speak. If anything, he opens his legs wider, and Sam rewards him with a kiss to the head of his cock. When he releases Dean’s feet, he’s ready for the upward thrust, opens his throat around the intruding cock until Dean’s seated at the back of his throat. One, two tenuous thrusts, and Dean finds a rhythm, starts fucking into Sam’s mouth. Sam lets him, hands already moving through the bedspread in search of his treasures.

     He finds what he’s looking for and uses Dean’s own frantic grunting to hide the sound of the lube opening and slicking over hard rubber, all the while staving off Dean’s orgasm by denying him enough suction to make it truly satisfying. Dean’s so desperate by the time Sam presses the ball up against his entrance that he forces himself down onto it before he knows it’s there.

     Sam imagines it’s like seeing someone get struck by lightning, the way Dean clenches all over, toes, knees, thighs, hips, back arched off the bed like there’s a dagger between his shoulder blades. "Shh, shhh, I got you," Sam coos, pulling off Dean’s cock and massaging a hand over the quivering stomach muscles above it. His other thumb massages at Dean’s perineum, the ball already half inside and bulging beneath it. "I meant to stretch you a little first, but you got a little carried away. But since we’re already this far, we’re just going to keep going, all right?" He presses his thumb against the ball through the stretched skin, and Dean gasps, just enough vent to the tension in his body to shake his head loose, nods tentatively.

     Sam stills his thumb for a second, massages a little deeper with his other hand until Dean’s lower back touches back down onto the bed, then he starts a small rocking motion with his palm over the ball. For a while, it only spins, slick with lube and barred from going further, but then Dean swallows, tilts his head down to meet Sam’s eyes, and rocks back into Sam’s hand. Both their chests hitch in unison as the ball disappears inside. Sam keeps one thumb pressed into Dean’s perineum so the ball doesn’t go in too far, then ducks down, licks soothing kisses over the reddened opening. He trades off gentle nips to Dean’s ass cheeks to long, deep kisses inside, tongue butting up against the hard rubber. When Dean starts keening and writhing Sam wraps a fist around his cock, lifts his head in warning. "Not yet."

     Dean stills obediently, and Sam pulls away slowly, presses his thumb in against the top of the ball before saying, "Hold it, right there, okay?"

     Dean nods sharply, his whole body trembling, and Sam feels the muscles under his thumb shift to take over the pressure. "Just hold it." He sits back on his heels, watches Dean’s chest pant, the sheen of sweat growing brighter until long, slow rivers trickle into all the hills and valleys that, val der ree, val der raa, Sam likes to wander along. By now his own cock’s throbbing, and and he fists himself roughly as he dips his head and laps the sweat out of Dean’s belly button, revels in the way it fills again and again. Finally, he’s had as much as he can take. The bag’s still half full of toys, half full of tricks Sam’s never considered but suddenly seem worth playing. All for another day.

     Releasing his cock, he slides his hand back down Dean’s ass, strokes the slippery perineum once, and says, "Give it back, now."

     Dean bucks up suddenly, stabs Sam in the stomach with his cock, and the ball pops loose, rolls across the bed and bounces onto the floor, pa-plunk, pa-plunk, pa-plunk. Before he can settle back down, Sam drags his knees up under Dean’s hips and holds him there, yawning open and waiting over the head of Sam’s cock. Sam holds with bruising force as Dean tries to lower himself, feet scrabbling in the bed clothes. "Dean. Dean." Twice, sharp and staccato. Dean stops as though the words are physical blows, and Sam thinks maybe next time he’ll try spanking, but now he’s as far gone as Dean and about to make his point.

     He encourages Dean to hold himself up with one hand in the small of his back and slides his other hand up Dean’s stomach to his chest, presses up just enough for Dean to feel his cock. "Are you listening to me?" Gentle thrust up, then out again. "Dean?"

     "Yes."

     "You are not a type." Another prodding thrust. "Dean. You. Are. Not. A. Type." He drags his hand from the small of Dean’s back, up onto his stomach, then around behind Dean’s knees, pulls the leg up as he bends Dean in half. His other hand finds the knife under Dean’s pillow, cuts the yo-yo string and massages blood back into the fingers before letting the hands fall. There’s nothing holding Dean but his love for Sam, nothing keeping him from taking what he wants, but he just breathes through the vibrations thrumming under his skin and waits. Sam lowers himself until just the head of his cock breeches the opening. "Say it."

     "I’m not..." A swallow and a gasp. "I’m not a type."

     And that’s all Sam’s waiting for. He falls into Dean as much as thrusts in, both aching from the restraint, and he lets Dean hold his own legs out, his arms too busy wrapping around behind and pulling Dean into his chest like they can fuse together if he holds on just a little tighter. It’s opened mouths, panting, drunk from sweat running off their noses, deep, deeper, deepest, and still pressing for more. It’s fingers clawing, sliding over slicked skin and one final gasping shout before they melt into each other and the sheets. Then it’s a whole lot of nothing for what seems like a very long time.



#



     When he can move again, Sam pulls Dean up onto his chest so one ear’s over his still-pounding heart. Taking advantage of Dean’s loose state, he brushes his fingers through the hair beside his lips, blows through it just to smell Dean’s sweat evaporating off his scalp. Their breathing’s matched, metered and slow, and Sam doesn’t really expect an answer when he whispers, "Say it."

     Dean’s breathing doesn’t even falter, his answer just a long exhale that can be nothing but surrendered truth. "I love you, too...bitch."

     Sam tightens his arms with a tired chuckle. Not exactly what he was looking for, but there are still other tricks in his bag for another lesson some other day. "Close enough, jerk."

     And it is. For now.

The End

A/N: Comments are huggled and snuggled and make me soo happy, but we're all busy, and you hardly know me, so if you prefer, there's ticky boxes...
[Poll #1128293]