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grind against your bones until our marrows mix

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Dean’s mouth tastes like blood and apple pie from dinner earlier, and when he shoves Sam away, the mean smile on his face dances tauntingly in front of him. Sam lunges, his hand barely snagging Dean’s shoulder, and he shoves him against the wall. The sound Dean makes is wild, unrestrained, and when he twists around between Sam and the wall, his mouth is contorted into a vicious snarl.

He is so beautiful, beaten, fighting, skin splattered red from the men they killed today, horrible awful men who do worse things to people than Sam and Dean have ever done. Covered in blood is the way Dean should always be.

When Sam dives in, Dean’s lips are hard at first, unrelenting in trying to push Sam back away, to continue playing their weird game of chase, but Sam doesn’t want that tonight. Already, he can feel his dick throbbing with the thought of being inside Dean just like this, the thought of picking Dean up and holding him in place for Sam to fuck into and take and use. He’s always so perfect like that, and he always fights even though he wants this just as much as Sam does. The struggle makes it better. The struggle makes Sam feel like he does when he’s wrapping his hands around someone’s neck to take their last breath.

Finally, though, Dean’s mouth gives under his own, lips parting to let Sam lick into his mouth and own him. Their bodies are pressed tight, one of Sam’s hands in Dean’s hair to hold his head right where he wants it—tilted up and just a little bit to the left, no leverage for Dean in the kiss at all. He breaks apart slowly under Sam, until he’s just clutching helplessly at Sam’s shoulders and whimpering into his mouth.

It gives Sam a heady rush to feel Dean’s muscles relax, to feel his knees start to buckle and have to lean in to make sure that Dean stays right where he is. It makes him break the kiss so he can shove Dean’s jacket off and drag his shirt up over his head. Dean tugs at his shirt, but Sam ignores him, leaning back in for another kiss.

Dean is pliant under him now, no longer needing Sam to hold him in place, and Sam’s hands are free to touch every inch of him. He traces over the scars on Dean’s back from a too-sadistic man who Sam turned into a horribly disfigured corpse, over the jagged edges of skin on his stomach from a year old bullet wound. Over the bruises staining Dean’s ribs every color under the sun, and Sam marvels at the sounds Dean makes when he presses his fingers in just this side of too hard. Dean’s nipples are predictably sensitive, but Sam never gets tired of the breathy moans Dean resorts to making when Sam spends too long pinching them. He can feel Dean’s dick hard against his thigh, but Sam doesn’t do anything more than allow Dean to roll his hips into him.

Sam pulls his mouth away from Dean’s, away from the lip swollen from Sam’s teeth, and he drags his mouth across the underside of Dean’s jaw, tongue flicking out to taste the blood there. He smells like sweat and something more sinister, something Sam doesn’t have a name for but something he does have a reference point for. It’s the same way Dean’s smelled ever since Sam was twelve and Dean was sixteen, back when it was Dean shoving Sam into walls and taking what he wanted. It’s the unmistakable scent of satisfaction and death after a kill, and it’s something that Sam will spend the rest of his life knowing.

The skin of Dean’s shoulder is mottled with freckles because of a recent stay on a beach in Florida. They’re beautiful, and Sam sucks on the parts of Dean’s skin that seem to have the most clustered together.

Finally, though, Dean’s urging and Sam’s own desperation get the better of him, and Sam has to pull away. He grunts one word at Dean, “Strip,” and then pulls back to drag his shirts off, watching Dean unbuckle his belt with an efficiency that only comes to him with the promise of sex hanging in the air. He kicks off his boots and steps out of his pants in one neat move, and then Sam is pushing him back to the wall, chest to chest, and Dean laughs when he realizes that Sam still hasn’t taken off his pants.

“Gonna fuck me like that, little brother?” he asks breathlessly, tilting his head back farther than he needs to in order to look Sam in the eye, and Sam is instinctively drawn to Dean’s neck. Dean tips his head back just that much further, like he knows what Sam is thinking.

“I could,” Sam says mildly, sliding one hand up Dean’s chest until his fingers close around Dean’s neck, not tight enough to choke but heavy enough to remain a solid, forceful weight on him. “I could turn you around and fuck you just like that.”

Dean licks his lips, eyes growing wild and excited. He loves being held down and in place, gets off on Sam using his entire body to pin Dean down on a bed, the floor, on anything. “You should,” Dean whispers, leaning forward just enough against Sam’s hand at his throat for Sam to feel Dean’s pulse under his thumb.

The  thought is tempting, to slam Dean against the wall, to kick his legs apart and for Sam to slide his dick straight into him like that, one hand knotted in Dean’s short hair to drag his head back, leaving his neck wide open for Sam to bite at. It’s a pretty thought, and one that Sam has acted out before on multiple occasions. But tonight he’s in the mood to watch Dean’s face shudder apart instead of just feeling it in his body, and he’s not willing to compromise that.

“I think I like it like this better,” Sam tells him honestly. He grabs a handful of Dean’s ass unceremoniously and squeezes, smirking at the way Dean’s expression goes hard underneath him. Dean hates when Sam looks at him—it’s one of those weird turn-ons he has that he’s completely ashamed of, and Sam loves to exploit it, loves to force Dean to look at him while Sam’s dick is in his mouth or his ass. Sam knows how to make Dean break down and sob for him, and he wants that tonight. He wants it now, wants to lick away the tears from Dean’s cheeks and tell him how wonderful he’s being, how hot and tight he feels around Sam’s dick.

“Be good,” Sam whispers in his ear, and Dean shivers. Sam slides his hand down further, fingers searching for Dean’s hole. He circles his middle finger lazily around it, watching Dean’s eyelids flutter minutely and his mouth fall open on a silent moan. The raging lust inside of Sam has abated somewhat, just enough to allow him to appreciate the sight Dean makes in front of him—pretty pink lips parted, a flush high in his cheekbones, hair messy from Sam’s hands. He looks utterly debauched, and Sam leans in to bite at his jawbone to give himself an outlet for the sudden possessiveness that rises up inside him. He wants again, suddenly, so bad that there’s nothing else, and he presses a finger up inside Dean.

Dean moans out loud this time, eyes slipping shut as Sam marvels at the fact that he’s still loose and wet from Sam fucking him open slowly that morning before they went on their hunt and left ten corpses in their wake. He slides another one in, maybe a little too dry still, but Dean just takes it in, grinding his hips up against Sam’s thigh.

“Hurry up,” he gasps, face half buried in Sam’s shoulder. “It’s good, I’m ready, I swear—”

His fingers fumble at Sam’s belt, pulling it open and beginning to unbutton his pants. Sam works his fingers slowly in and out of Dean, twisting them and staying just shy of where he knows Dean’s prostrate is. Sam has the presence of mind to pull the lube out of his jeans pocket before Dean pushes them down entirely, urging Sam to kick off his boots and step out of them, all without pulling his fingers away. He wraps a hand around Sam’s dick immediately, thumb sliding through the precome already gathered at the tip, and Sam hums low in his throat. He slides his fingers out of Dean quickly and pushes his back against the wall.

Working quickly now, Sam slicks himself up and tosses the lube away somewhere to be found later, if at all, and when he looks back, Dean has his back to Sam, legs spread wide and forearms braced against the wall in front of him.

The view makes Sam’s mouth go dry as his eyes trace the line of Dean’s spine from his neck to his ass, and it hurts him to resist the invitation to just fucking slam Dean against the wall and keep him there while he fucks him, but there’s something better waiting for him if he’s willing.

Sam spins Dean around by the shoulder, pushing him back and immediately moving into his space, keeping him from escaping. “What do you think you’re doing, Jesus—” Dean protests, trying to get away, but Sam grabs both of his arms and pins Dean’s wrists above his head. Dean snarls at him, and Sam grins. There’s just something about the way Dean looks right now, half-feral, still covered in blood, and trying so ineffectually to buck Sam off.

“I want you to look at me,” Sam says in a low voice. “I want you to give in and look at me, like we both know you want to.” He presses a rough kiss to Dean’s cheek. “We know you like it when I make you cry, when I make you feel so fucking good you can’t get my dick deep enough and you don’t have the words left to ask for more.” Dean makes a pained noise, like he wants all of those things more than he knows how to explain, but can’t bring himself to admit it, and Sam just laughs quietly at him. “I know what you want,” he says.

Dean doesn’t so much give in as he allows Sam to lift him up and hold him against the wall. His legs wind tightly around Sam’s waist, hands still holding onto Sam’s shoulders for support, and Sam positions himself carefully. He leans back from the wall just the slightest bit and lets Dean slide onto him.

Dean’s mouth falls open instantly, a loud moan falling from his mouth as his hands squeeze at Sam’s skin, nails biting into him. He’s so warm and tight, the sound of his hitching breath everything Sam was hoping for. Already, Dean’s eyes are starting to glaze over with pleasure, and as Sam pulls back slowly, Dean hisses, “Are you going to fuck me or not, asshole?”

It’s difficult, but Sam stops just to spite him, and when Dean struggles to find leverage, he says, “Look at me.”

Dean’s jaw is a hard line when he looks up, eyes flashing in anger. He’s the most beautiful, wild thing Sam has ever seen, and he crushes their mouths together in the same moment that he gives Dean what he wants, fucking him hard and fast without relenting. Dean moans into his mouth, nails scraping across Sam’s skin, leaving heated trails that Sam can trace in his mind because of their harshness.

“I know you love this,” Sam gasps out when he finally tears his mouth away from Dean’s. “I know you dream about me fucking you like this, holding you up and keeping you in place. Make you look at me so you start crying because you can’t fucking stand how much you love it. Right, Dean? Tell me, tell me how much you love this.”

Dean stutters out a barely venomous fuck you before he’s shutting his eyes tightly and breathing harshly through his mouth. Sam presses his forehead to Dean’s, slowing his hips to grind steadily inside of Dean. He grins when he hears the hitch in Dean’s breath, feels the way his entire body jerks when Sam finds that golden angle, and a breathless sob falls from his lips, helpless and needy. “Please, Sam,” he whimpers, voice so quiet that Sam almost doesn’t hear the individual words.

“Gotta tell me what you need,” he says instead of giving Dean what he wants. “Gotta tell me, you want me to fuck you harder? Faster? Want me to make you come on nothing but my dick? Know you can do it, Dean, seen you do it before.”

“God, yes, fuck,” Dean groans. He tips his head back as far as he can, thumping back against the wall, and Sam starts moving faster again.

It always amazes Sam how he doesn’t have to look at Dean or hear him to know when he’s coming apart under Sam’s touch—he knows exactly how it feels to have Dean’s legs locking so tightly around him that it gets harder to move. He knows what it means when Dean’s head droops again, eyes shut tight in the hopes that maybe this time it won’t happen.

Sam’s too greedy to give Dean that chance.

He adjusts his grip on Dean, one hand to his ass and the other sliding back up into his hair. “Look at me, Dean,” he growls, hauling Dean’s head back until their eyes meet. Sam grins when he sees that Dean’s eyes are already starting to shine more than normal, getting wetter as Sam fucks him and brings him closer to the edge.

“I want you to look right at me,” Sam says, gritting his teeth as Dean squeezes particularly hard around him. He looks wrecked already, face an absolute mess of blood and almost-tears, and mouth bruised almost purple from their violent kisses. “One day, I’ll turn you around, make you watch yourself in a mirror, you think you’d like that? Maybe I’ll just fuck you over a bathroom counter and make you watch yourself come.”

Dean shakes his head, but Sam knows him, and he knows that incoherency combined with the tear that’s dripping from the corner of Dean’s eye means that he’s too turned on to have an actual opinion on the matter.

“Can you come for me?” Sam asks, tugging at Dean’s hair again so he’ll look back up. “Can you come?”

And Dean does, just like that, tears sliding down his face with Sam fucking him as hard as he knows how. His face screws up in a contorted rendition of pain, and his moan is interspersed with catches in sound when Sam gets into the perfect angle.

Dean comes all over his stomach, cock jerking until there’s nothing left for it to give, and by the end of his orgasm, Dean is openly staring at Sam’s face, tear tracks all down his face turning pink where they run into the blood that’s already on his skin.

Sam tries to hold off as long as he can because he loves to watch Dean try to squirm away from him in discomfort when the pleasure starts to be overwhelming. He comes buried inside Dean, face pressed into the crook of Dean’s neck, and despite the fact that they’re touching almost every inch of each other like that, it’s not enough. When it comes to Dean, it’s never enough.