Genre: SPN, Romance
Word Count: 3,628
Warnings: sibling incest (Wincest!), consensual somnophilia, sex games, Bottom!Dean, anal sex
Summary: Sometimes they play a game. The number one rule is, they don't talk about it. Not a single word. Set sometime early in Season 10.
A/N: Written for smpc.
READ IT HERE ON A03
"I'm going to bed," Dean announces pointedly, waiting for Sam to look up before he adds, "You comin'?"
It's that look, the one Sam knows better than the back of his own hand, the one that tells Sam exactly what Dean's thinking about right now, and it's not sleep.
"In a minute," Sam answers, keeping his tone even, although his dick is hardening and his pulse is quickening. "I need to look up one more symbol for this spell I'm working on."
"You better watch it, Sammy," Dean rumbles low in his throat, making Sam's pulse throb. "You keep up that witchcraft stuff, pretty soon you're gonna be wearing slinky black dresses and growing a wart on the end of your nose."
"You wish." Sam can't help the grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth, the blush that creeps up his neck and across his cheeks. He feels Dean's eyes on him, knows Dean's admiring the view, knows Dean loves it when Sam blushes because he's told him so.
"Don't be too long," Dean warns. "I might fall asleep."
Of course you will, you idiot, Sam thinks but doesn't say out loud. That's the whole point. That's what this little display of Dean's is all about. He thinks he's being so subtle that maybe Sam doesn't get his meaning, thinks maybe Sam doesn't remember their little coded language for this thing that Dean wants.
But Sam definitely remembers. It's not like it's something he can easily forget. They've been doing it for a while now, ever since they figured out how much it turns them both on, how good it feels. And they're both fucked up enough to want it, to ignore the unhealthy psychology of the thing and just do it.
Dean obviously loves it. Sam clearly gets into it. They do it both ways, so it's not like the power dynamics of the thing are an issue. Although Dean's probably a little more into being fucked than Sam is, at least that's the way it seems to Sam, since he comes apart so beautifully when it's happening, and Sam can't imagine anything more perfect than Dean's face and the sounds Dean makes and the way he just loses himself when Sam's inside him, really giving it to him.
So yeah, it's probably a tiny bit more Dean's thing than Sam's.
Also, Dean kinda seems to need the pretense that they're not really fucking more than Sam ever has. It's never bothered Sam in the least, fucking his brother. Sam's attitude about their sexual relationship has always been pretty straight-forward. It is what it is, and it's pretty damn good, so what's the problem? But Dean's always been a little more hesitant, always felt a little more guilt about the thing, always worried that there was something not right about it, that Dad would never have approved and therefore it must be wrong, even if he doesn't give two fucks what society thinks of them.
Plus, Dean's first and foremost Sam's protective big brother. He always wanted good things for Sam. Big things. A normal life. Fucking your brother doesn't fit into any of those categories, in Dean's book. Dean's always worried that maybe he forced his own perversions on his little brother, that he should have been more responsible somehow and never let Sam see how much he wanted it.
Yeah, back to the thing. Dean's weird need to deny his desire for Sam. That thing.
Which is a huge part of why this little game they play is still so hot, all these years later, after the first time when Sam basically tackled his brother after finding him drinking in a bar in Palo Alto – obviously spying on Sam, obviously there because he couldn't stand being apart from Sam one goddamn minute longer – after they tumbled into bed together with the desperate passion they'd both long repressed just rolling over them like a goddamn tidal wave.
Sam glances at his watch and closes the book. The requisite hour is up, but Sam takes his time, gets up and stretches before turning off the lights in the library, in the hall. He stops outside Dean's door, left ajar as always, or at least as it has been since Sam cured Dean, since he came back from being a demon. The room is dark, and Sam can see Dean's still form on the bed, sheet pulled up to his waist, back turned to Sam. He knows Dean is pretending to be asleep, just waiting for Sam, but the sight of his brother lying so still always sends a shock of fear through Sam's body. He has too many memories of seeing Dean like this, and not because he was sleeping, or pretending to sleep. Sam's memories of all the times Dean has died in his arms, of the times Dean has died right in front of him while Sam could do nothing to stop it from happening, of the time most recently when he laid Dean's dead body on this very bed, make it almost painful to see his brother this way.
Not almost, does. It does make it painful to see. Sam's chest is tightening, there's a roaring in his ears that's getting louder, and he has to clench his fists to keep from reaching for Dean, shaking him, telling him the game's off for tonight. It's too real.
Then Dean moves. It's subtle, just a little adjusting of his legs under the sheet, but it's enough. Sam recovers quickly, takes a deep breath. He's back in. It's all good.
He knows Dean can hear him, knows Sam's standing there, watching. Dean always knows. He can tell when Sam's letting those memories invade, letting past horrors get in the way of present activities. That's why he moved; he meant to break through Sam's delusion, bring him back into the moment.
It worked. Sam's okay again. He moves into the room and shuts the door behind him, letting the light from the hallway through the slats in the door be his only guide as he strips down to his boxers, lays his clothes out on the chair by the bed and palms the bottle of lube Dean left on the desk. When he's ready he crosses over to the other side of the bed and gazes down at his brother's "sleeping" form. Dean's naked under the sheet, even though he usually sleeps in his boxers and tee-shirt. It's another signal between them, so that Sam knows Dean really wants it tonight.
There's a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the bedside table, also part of the deal. Sam leans down just enough to catch a whiff of the stuff on Dean's breath before drawing back, shaking his head a little. It's part of Dean's way of pretending he isn't all here, and Sam gets that, he really does. He just wishes Dean didn't need to get sloshed. Sam wishes he could at least be sober, if not awake. Sam wishes he could know how much of this Dean really registers, how much he's aware of when it's happening. He wishes he could be sure he's having an effect, that the responses he gets are real. He wants Dean to remember this.
But of course that's the central rule. They don't talk about it, ever. At least not directly, and never while it's happening. Not a word. And the careful coded language they do use when one of them wants something is always vague and indirect enough that either one of them can claim misunderstanding or right of refusal at any time. They're so good at pretending they meant something else when they need to, they're practically actors.
Sam reaches down and slides his finger under the edge of the sheet, beginning the slow dance. Dean sleeps face down, arms tucked under his pillow where he usually keeps his gun. As Sam pulls back the sheet, exposing Dean's back dimples, then the smooth, round curve of his ass, Dean snuggles into the bed, humming a little, low in his throat. Sam stops for a moment, watching Dean settle as he gets used to the air on his skin, and Sam's cock jumps in empathy with the imagined friction Dean's giving his dick as he grinds into the bed.
Once Dean stops moving Sam waits a moment, then pulls the sheet down again, exposing the backs of Dean's muscular thighs. He's got one knee bent out to the side, and the dark shadow where his balls are tucked under his body is just visible at the other end of his butt-crack. Sam can see the barest shine of the lube Dean used on himself earlier, and Sam's almost tempted to touch, to see how easily Dean's ass-cheeks would part to reveal more lubed skin...
He doesn't, though. There's an art to this, a dance of skill and stealth designed to ease the way gradually, to slowly seduce Dean's body without his being aware, like a frog in a pot of slowly heating water, adjusting to each increase in temperature until it's too late to escape. If Sam does this right, Dean will go off like a firecracker at the end without ever knowing what hit him.
Well, he'll know, obviously, since he's really awake and totally consenting...
This is so fucked up, Sam thinks as he lets out an involuntary huff.
Dean stirs, snuggling into the pillow again so that his back muscles flex deliciously. He grinds his pelvis into the mattress impatiently, and Sam can almost hear Dean's voice in his head.
Come on, Sammy! Whatcha waitin' for? Get on with it already!
Yeah, yeah, Sam bitches back silently. Hold your horses, dude. Just admiring the view here.
Yeah, well don't take too long, Dean seems to say as he wiggles his hips. I might fall asleep for real.
Oh, you'd hate that, Sam snarks back silently.
Damn straight I would, Dean seems to respond, lifting his hips subtly, then grinding down slowly into the mattress.
Jesus, Sam sucks in a breath and lets the tips of his fingers just brush over the back of Dean's thigh.
It's the lightest of touches, but Dean shivers and goes still immediately.
That's it, big brother. Nice and easy.
Sam lets the tips of his fingers brush over the curve of Dean's ass, not quite as lightly. Dean shivers again and shifts subtly, drawing his knee up so his hole must be exposed, although it's too dark to see. Sam imagines the air on Dean's lubed rim and that's all it takes to make a stab of lust shoot through him. He frees his throbbing dick from his boxers and steps out of them, then slowly climbs onto the bed so that he's kneeling between his brother's spread legs.
Jesus, Dean, he thinks as he grabs the base of his dick. Dean reacts to Sam's weight on the bed by pulling his knee up even further, widening his legs in obvious invitation, and Sam is so done with this shit. He lubes his dick roughly, then drizzles more lube into Dean's ass-crack. Tossing the bottle aside, Sam holds his dick in one hand as he slides his fingers through the slippery mess, down to Dean's taint, feeling in the darkness for his final destination.
Dean's hole is loose and open, dripping with lube, just as Sam knew it would be. When Sam probes cautiously at Dean's rim Dean pushes back so that Sam's finger slides inside and an involuntary moan escapes him. Dean shudders and jerks so that Sam knows he's hit the right spot, then he adds another finger, scissoring and working Dean's hole as he strokes himself. Dean grinds down into the mattress, obviously giving his dick some friction, and Sam watches as his shoulders flex and relax. Dean's clutching his pillow, rubbing his face into it and panting a little, lips parted so Sam can see his tongue glistening as it slips out and runs along his full bottom lip.
Dean's a fuckin' wet dream and he knows it, lying there all spread and open, working himself on Sam's fingers with his eyes closed and his gorgeous mouth open, all those hard muscles on display just for Sam. He rocks his ass up, following Sam's fingers when he starts to pull them out, chasing the fullness and the stimulation on his prostate.
Such a demanding little bitch, Sam thinks fondly, grinning at the irony as his cock twitches in his hand.
Dean pushes his ass up, off the mattress, so obviously seeking Sam's dick it isn't even funny, and for just a moment Sam considers pushing the limits and just teasing the hell out of his brother, just to see if he'd cut the crap and stop pretending long enough to beg for it.
But then he takes pity on Dean and lines his dick up, touching the head to Dean's furled hole. Dean's almost up on his knees now, back bowed in a lovely arch, ass two perfect globes that fit into Sam's big hands like they were made for him. As Sam begins carefully stuffing the head of his dick into his brother's hole Dean pushes back and Sam slams home, all pretense at taking this slow gone right out the window, thank you very much. There is no fucking way Dean could possibly be asleep at this point, but he keeps his eyes closed, breath huffing out in one long low whine as Sam fills him up, all the way to the hilt. He collapses onto his stomach with his legs shaking so that Sam has to follow him down, pressing his chest to Dean's back in order to keep their bodies joined.
They lie still for a moment as Dean adjusts, all the air momentarily pushed out of his lungs with the force of Sam's penetration. Sam waits, controlling the waves of pleasure sparking up his spine as his dick twitches happily in its tight, hot sheath. He keeps one hand on the mattress, holding himself up so he doesn't completely crush his brother; with his other hand Sam strokes Dean's hip, wordlessly communicating his empathy for the burn and discomfort in the universal language they always use with each other when the other one's in pain.
But of course the pain is closely bound with the pleasure in this particular situation, and Dean's having none of Sam's attempts at comfort. Sam can feel the moment his brother tenses his thighs and grinds back, encouraging Sam to move. Sam leans down and presses his lips to the back of Dean's neck as he complies, kissing into that perfect space behind Dean's ear where the skin is soft and warm. Dean's breath hitches as Sam rocks his hips, dragging his dick against Dean's prostate. It makes Dean shiver uncontrollably, so Sam does it again, starting up a rhythm, bracing himself on one arm as he thrusts. Dean shudders each time Sam hits his target, and Sam fucks deep and steady because he's hitting it every time now and Dean's already coming apart. He makes a little sound as it happens, like Sam's punching it out of him, and Sam knows he can't help it because it's a wordless cry that gets louder with each thrust and Dean would hate it if he wasn't still pretending to be unconscious. Sam's thrusts get faster and shallower as Dean's eyes start leaking, as Sam drags his dick back and forth against the place inside Dean's body that makes him cry. He reaches one hand down under himself and Sam's hand follows, wrapping around Dean's fingers on his own cock so that Dean lets it go and clutches the pillow again. Sam strips Dean's cock as Dean buries his face in the pillow, body shaking with Sam's thrusts, sobbing his surrender in short gasping cries. When Dean's body seizes up and he holds his breath Sam's right there with him, kissing the back of Dean's neck as he shoots hard and hot all over Sam's hand, the bed, his own stomach.
Sam slides out carefully as Dean pulls in a shuddering breath, rolling away from the wet spot as Sam releases his dick. Sam climbs off the bed and retrieves a damp washcloth, then gently cleans up the mess. Dean's already dead to the world, as he always is after sex. He's on his back, one arm flung wide across the bed, the other on his chest, thumb resting over his nipple, and he's snoring lightly. Sam's never seen anything more gorgeous. More glorious.
Not done with you yet, Sam swears silently as he drops the washcloth and climbs back onto the bed between Dean's widespread legs. He grabs a pillow, then wrestles Dean's dead-weight legs up over his shoulders, scooting the pillow under Dean's ass. From this position it's easy for Sam to slide back into Dean's well-fucked hole, pumping away slow and deep. Sam leans down so he can kiss Dean's slack lips, bending his brother's body almost completely in half as he does it. He runs his hands along the soft skin of Dean's sides, along his arms to his hands, tangling their fingers together. He pushes Dean's arms up over his head and holds them there, then sits back again so he can gaze down into Dean's beautiful face as he fucks him.
It's Sam's favorite position because it's so intimate. It makes Dean seem more vulnerable, softer somehow. Dean's smiling a little, drowsy and comfortable, and when he smacks his lips and swallows Sam leans down and kisses him again. This time Dean kisses back, just a little, just enough to let Sam know he's still on board. Sam sits back and pumps harder, chasing his orgasm as he gazes down at Dean's face. Sweat drips from his chin right onto Dean's upper lip and Dean's tongue snakes out, licks his lip, dragging along the soft skin before disappearing between his lips again. Sam watches as Dean's mouth works, as he swallows, savoring the taste of Sam in his mouth, and it makes Sam see stars.
So beautiful, Sam thinks as he worships his brother silently. So good for me.
Dean keeps his eyes closed but he's moving with Sam now, and Sam can feel his dick beginning to show some interest where it's wedged between their stomachs.
Fuck yeah, Sammy, Dean would say if he opened his eyes, if he would let himself acknowledge that this was happening between them. Sam's just sure of it. Give it to me, little brother. Give it to me good.
Sam feels his orgasm building, making white sparks explode behind his eyeballs as it crests and time stops, focusing all sensation on the places where his body is joined with Dean's.
Jesus-fuck-I-love-you-so-goddamn-much, Sam swears in his head as Dean clenches his hands and his ass at the same time, sending Sam's orgasm into searing, surreal similes of perfection so that it's only as his upstairs brain begins to come back on-line that he realizes Dean's come too.
Then Sam's eyes stutter open and he's gazing into deep pools of emerald green, glittering in the light from the doorway, gazing up at him with shock and something else Sam can't read because it's not the way this usually goes.
Then it hits him.
Oh fuck, he thinks. Tell me I didn't just say that out loud.
But of course he did. He was having a fucking orgasm, for chrissakes. Of course he couldn't control his oral ejaculations.
Leave it to Sam to be too coherent during sex, he can almost hear Dean snark. Of all the little brothers, I have to get the one who verbalizes his orgasms while everybody else in the whole goddamn universe just grunts. Or cries. Shit.
Then Dean grins, that big, wide, toothy grin that makes his eye-crinkles and his dimples show, and it's Dean being a jerk because he wins and he knows it and he's all triumphant and it's so stupid.
"All right," Sam grumbles, out loud now because he's lost the game anyway. "You win. You happy now?"
Dean raises his eyebrows, still grinning like an idiot, and nods.
Sam sighs, backs off the bed, retrieves the washcloth and wipes himself off. Then he tosses the cloth at Dean and bends down to gather his clothes.
"Where ya goin'?" Dean rumbles.
Sam looks up in surprise at the obvious invitation. Dean's pulled the sheet up, left the pillow on the wet spot, and is lying on his side, making room for Sam on the bed behind him.
"Don't be a sore loser, Sammy," Dean chides. "Come on."
Sam huffs out another disgusted breath, but he complies, slipping an arm around his brother as he slides into the bed behind him. Dean arranges the sheet over them both and leaves half of the second pillow, curling one arm under his head and clutching Sam's arm against his chest with the other.
"'Night, Sam," he murmurs contentedly as he settles again.
"'Night, Dean," Sam murmurs into the back of Dean's head as he spoons his brother's warm, solid form, resigning himself to letting Dean have his victory this time.
Sometimes it's just easier that way.