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Very Happy Birthday

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Sam is having a really good dream.


He’s stretched out on his back, limbs splayed wide, hanging off the edge of an infinitely wide, infinitely soft bed, and it’s rocking on waves, but he’s being rocked into, too, and the tempos match up in a symphony of vibrating bliss, his cock comfortably fat on his belly.


Dean’s smell wraps around him and keeps him sated. Dean fills him up, and Dean touches him everywhere--literally everywhere--sending shivers down his entire body, skittering across his prostate.


It’s good. It’s better than good. He wants to float in the dream forever in an endless orgasm, the base of his feet aching from curling so hard.


Like all good things, it must come to an end, though, and Sam can feel himself waking up. He can feel his dream senses becoming cotton, the otherworldly edge dripping away and being replaced with cold reality. He holds on for as long as he can before it’s time.


He opens his eyes.


He’s awake, but he’s still dreaming.


Dean is braced over him, naked, and Sam is stretched open, and there is a cock inside him. Dean quirks a smile down at him, and Sam flutters his eyes shut again and sighs just as Dean grunts out, “mornin’, sweetheart,” in time with his wet thrusts.


Sam wants to pretend to be sleeping, but his lips are curled up in a wide and silly smile. He feels Dean’s breath puff against his face in a near-silent laugh.


Dean rocks in a little deeper and Sam’s breath hitches. Dean’s lips graze his jaw, bite down just below his ear, causing heat to push through Sam from his toes to the top of his head.


“Happy birthday, Sammy,” Dean whispers, before he kisses Sam temple. Oh, yeah. That’s what day it is. There’s a beat where Dean doesn’t move. He kisses Sam’s cheek. Pauses. Kisses Sam’s dimple, still there because Sam can’t get rid of his damn smile. Pauses.


Kisses Sam soundly on the lips, and Sam is supposed to be asleep, but he kisses back. He must always answer Dean’s kisses, no matter what state he’s in.


Dean draws away from the kiss, and without looking, Sam can tell Dean is looking down at him with a fond smile.


Dean moves again, and Sam struggles to school his face while Dean ruts grooves into Sam’s insides. Sam stretches, yawning, but makes no effort to contribute to anything. He just lays there. It is his birthday, after all. He might as well milk it for what it’s worth. He doesn’t exactly have the best relationship with his birthday.


Dean nuzzles Sam’s jaw with his chin. Sam abandons his train of thought, submits to the sensations. Sam hears Dean shift and their bodies press closer together, Dean’s thrusts shorter and tighter but more insistent. Dean’s calloused hand wanders down to Sam’s leaking cock, and he gives it a few lazy, experimental tugs, just enough to keep Sam on the edge.


“Fuckin’ princess,” Dean mutters, and Sam’s pesky smile comes back.


Sam swims in a pleasant heat, not seeking release, for a long time. Dean’s a master at endurance and patience, and he knows Sam’s buttons better than his own.


After a while, though, Dean stops completely, and pulls out, leaving Sam’s cock and hole both wanting.


Sam is half sure it’s some kind of game on Dean’s part, so he doesn’t open his eyes or ask what’s going on or try to guide Dean back inside.


Dean doesn’t start up again for so long that Sam drifts, straddling the border between wakefulness and sleep. He’s almost asleep again when warm hands grip him firmly by the hip and pull.


Limp, Sam lets Dean drag him onto his side and then onto his belly. A hand slaps his ass, hard enough to burn. Dean makes a satisfied sound. “Fuckin’ finally,” he says.


Without any warning, Dean pushes back in, balls deep, and Sam can’t help but gasp. Dean groans in satisfaction, way down in the base of his throat. His balls slap at Sam’s rim when he starts fucking Sam again, more desperate and wild, a bunnyfuck, sending Sam’s heart into overdrive. His cock twitches against the blanket. He wants to reach down and alleviate some pressure, or ask Dean to jerk him off, but he won’t.


This is what they both want.


Dean’s teeth come down on the back of Sam’s neck. Dean bites Sam while humping him hard enough to make the mattress jump and squeak. His angle is deep and his thrusts are forceful, his cockhead rubbing against Sam’s prostate to the beat of a silent song.


Dean’s hand comes up to the back of Sam’s skull to force his face into the pillow. Dean shifts, holding Sam immobile, and oh. Oh. Oh. Right there. Sam whimpers, drooling into cotton, and Dean doesn’t stop, doesn’t shift, just keeps doing that thing that sends painful but good shocks straight to Sam’s cock.


Before Sam knows it, Dean is doing those choked-off grunts that mean he’s coming, and his hands are scratching at Sam’s back. Sam takes it, panting into the pillow, and a second later, his own painful orgasm is wrenched out of him, his cock spurting against the sheets and his tummy.


They stay in that position for a minute longer, both coming down and getting their breaths back. Sam’s hole pulses with his heartbeat, and he can feel Dean filling him up, can feel come dripping out of him. His cock is overly sensitive, and he freezes when he tries to shift, the sheets brushing against his shaft too much for him to handle.


His energy leaves him. He can’t move. He drifts. He isn’t sure when Dean pulled out of him, but he comes back to himself when he feels his body being moved, this time with more care. Dean’s gentle hands rock him onto his side. A warm, wet washcloth drags across his body, dipping into his hole and swiping across his belly. Dean cleans him while humming some old rock song that Sam is too tired to identify.


The bed shifts when Dean’s weight leaves it. A moment later and it dips again. Sam feels Dean slip him into a pair of boxers and then draw the sheets and comforter up over him. Dean scoots into his space behind him, still naked. Dean spoons him, wrapping his arms securely around Sam’s middle and kissing the back of his neck.


Dean buries his nose in the nape of Sam’s hair and breathes in deeply. Dean adjusts slightly, bringing the sheets up higher, getting one of his ankles wrapped around Sam’s. There. Perfect. Sam is the most comfortable he’s ever felt, fucked out and wrapped up in Dean.


A hand combs through Sam’s hair and he wants to purr. Dean chuckles quietly. “Did I say happy birthday yet?” he rumbles.


“Mmm-hmm,” Sam drawls sleepily. “Really happy birthday.”


That gets a laugh from Dean. Dean squeezes him tightly. “Whaddaya wanna do now? Nap? Breakfast? Pet some dogs?”


“Mmmmmm,” Sam says, already dipping into a dream world where he can eat hash browns off a border collie.


Dean kisses his neck one last time. “Your wish is my command,” he says. “We’ll get up whenever you want and I’ll be your majesty’s royal servant, okay?”


Sam means to reply, he really does, but he is just so warm. Every limb relaxed. Dean’s skin is soft and rough in all the right places, and the post-sex scent coming off of him is weirdly a soporific for Sam. He’s too far gone to talk. After a life led wide awake, this is his heaven.


The last thing he knows is Dean whispering promises and platitudes into his skin, things he’s maybe not supposed to hear. He’s thankful for how fucking deeply Dean knows him, how perfect things are right now. He trusts Dean.


He rests, and he knows that when he wakes up, Dean will be right there, ready to kiss his dimples a thousand more times.


It’s the best birthday he’s ever had.


The End