Work Text:
One of Sam’s favorite things about eating Dean out is that it gives him an excuse to hold Dean down.
Dean’s always a little wild during sex. Sometimes, on hot afternoons, Sam wants to push Dean against the wall of their hotel room and kiss him lazily, jack him slow. But Dean can only last a few minutes before he’s grunting with impatience, shoving Sam to the floor and mouthing against Sam’s lips, taking them both in hand roughly. And when Sam goes to his knees for his brother, he knows that it’s only a matter of time before Dean will be swearing, running sweaty shaking hands through Sam’s hair, pushing on his head to try to get him to hurry, slipping up and thrusting a little too hard and choking Sam just a little, gasping “God, f-fuck, Sammy, sorry—“
And Sam usually goes along with it, gamely. Sex with Dean is always fun, fast, breathless. The times when it's slow are usually far and few between. They’re always pumped up on adrenaline after fights, and Dean is usually shoving himself back onto Sam’s dick, unconcerned with the pain or Sam’s hands too rough and bruising on his hips. It’s a little Sam’s fault, too, because Dean is just so fucking gorgeous when he takes it, when Sam has him on his back and Dean’s gasping because Sam is fucking him too hard for him to catch a breath, one hand on the headboard to keep his head from slamming into it, the other hand on his dick, shiny with precome.
Tonight they’ve just salted and burned another corpse, some forgettable job in a backwater town. Dean’s got a cut on his face, and Sam’s side is one big bruise, and they’re running high from the fight. Sam manages to muscle Dean to the ratty carpet of the two-bit hotel, and he can barely wait to drag Dean’s jeans halfway down his thighs before he’s got his mouth between Dean’s legs.
“You fucker,” Dean hisses as Sam drags his tongue over Dean’s hole, and Sam smiles against the flesh, nipping a little and listening to Dean gasp. “Just—shit, Sam—do it already, Jesus—“ He cuts off with a harsh breath as Sam screws his tongue into the heat of Dean’s body, inhaling the sweat and musk, loving this and loving Dean so fucking much.
Dean bucks, cursing, and Sam has to grab his hips and hold him down, and Dean cusses at him for that, too; it’s like holding onto a bucking horse as he eats out Dean’s ass, Dean refusing to gentle. His entire body is shaking like he’s being shocked. Sam lifts one hand off of Dean’s hips and uses his other arm to make a bar across Dean’s lower back, keeping him down on the floor. Dean whines, pants out “please, please,” and shifts his hips backward impatiently.
Lifting his mouth from Dean reluctantly, he says, “hush,” very softly. Dean raises his head from the carpet and meets Sam’s eyes, pupils huge, sweat standing out on his temples. He’s bit his lip and it’s bleeding. Sam’s focus narrows in on the spot of blood on Dean’s lip, a roaring in his ears. “Hush,” he says again, and reaches up to swipe Dean’s lip. When he licks Dean’s blood of his thumb, Dean makes a noise like an animal being killed.
Sam puts his mouth on the small of Dean’s back, biting a little, and Dean shakes with the effort of remaining still. Sam stands up, helps Dean off the floor and out of his jeans, leads him to the bed.
Tonight is one of the nights that Dean lets Sam press him down, lets Sam wind their hands together on the bedspread, lets Sam kiss him. When Sam finally slides into him, his ass wet and slick from Sam’s tongue, the only sound from Dean is the soft whisper of a moan. The air is fragile around them, and neither one of them says a word. Neither one of them has to.