Actions

Work Header

Needed Supplies

Work Text:

Sam dropped his armload of brown grocery bags and shivered when Dean pressed behind him, stepped in close, just stood there crowded between his legs.

"That it then?"

"Yup." Sam licked his lips and tried not to squirm. He and Dean had been winding each other up all morning, starting in bed with lazy deep kisses and persistent hands and rolling hips. Their run had been brief and cold, coffee steam warming them after, cupped in their hands as they grinned over the rims and played footsie beneath the table. Sharpened knives, cleaned guns, then Dad sent them to the nearby Giant-Whatever Mart in search of their usual.

Clothes from the clearance rack, specifically flannels and tees to grow into and layer. Food that'd keep--jerky, canned nuts and canned meat, chips, and now and then the treasure score of dried pineapple. Shotgun shells, whetstones, heavy-duty fishing line, motor oil.

Dean had let Sam drive. Had trailed fingertips on Sam's thigh and arm and neck, murmured to pay attention to the road and how good he looked driving, sat there in Dean's baby all snug and confident, how good a job Dean had done teaching him, that's my boy.

In the store they'd flirted, ignored the midday locals, stolen kisses and teasing grabs in the men's fitting room, nothing but each other to try on.

On the drive back to their solitary, abandoned saltbox, Sam had demurred and let Dean drive, wanted to be the one to murmur, touch and watch.

Dean slid his hands into Sam's shirt, nipped Sam's neck then sucked on Sam's earlobe. He massaged and pinched Sam's skin, skimmed his hands up then along Sam's arms, positioned Sam bent low over the table. "Keep hold," he whispered, tightened his grip to show and push Sam's into place.

Sam reared and moaned, rubbed his butt against Dean. Powerful cradle of pelvis, strong thighs, hard cock. He let his head drop so his cheekbone tilted onto the table, single sharp point and cool wood and the tremble of his arms and body, and Dean leaned over him.

Dean slipped Sam's sweats down, let Sam twist and curl until his dick could pass just under the edge of the tabletop, still caught in his pants all bunched and soft and crazy-friction on the smooth skin and hot wet that'd started to leak, gave him goosebumps and needy frustration.

"Shhh," Dean breathed into Sam's ear, fit his cock between Sam's thighs. Rut up and forward and slick the heavy insistence of Sam's balls. Pull back and down and drag the sweet curve of Sam's ass. Dean started to huff, found rhythm then started to speed, pressed a hand in the sleek muscle line of Sam's hip, kneaded rough and tickly and just right, mash in as he moved forward, stretch the skin away as he moved back.

Sam's arms shook and his legs shook and his heart pounded in his ears, pounded in his neck, pounded so he could feel its echo in his cheek and collarbone smashed against the table. Dean whispered, encouraged, summoned.

"Hang on, don't let go know you want to just-" Dean's face bunched against Sam's nape. His breath caught and he grunted, nosed down and bit Sam's shoulder, sucked and heaved forward so the table creaked and Sam lost all breath, came in a quick mess, dirtied Sam's inner thighs and balls and pubes.

Dean rested on Sam's shoulde rblade a moment and Sam tingled, burned, could barely stand it. His hands ached and his arms ached more and his cock ached the worst. Dean sighed, kissed him slow and easy, meandered, tugged his sweats up and shoved a hand to cup Sam's ass, made sure the come soaked in, pushed and wriggled until the wet fabric knotted and pressed against Sam's hole.

"Now- c'mere." Dean moved sideways then secured a hip on the table, grabbed Sam's elbow and flipped Sam over. He grinned, bit Sam's chin, laid his hand on Sam's throbbing cock with a touch so bare Sam cursed, kicked, almost came. "What, this?" Dean asked, flicked two fingers in rapid back-forths against the head, seeping more wet into Sam's wrecked sweats.

Sam nodded and sucked in air. "Dammit, Dean, need-"

Dean raised a brow and waited, circled his fingers, waited, started the back-forth again.

"Please," Sam nearly sobbed. "Need you-"

At that Dean hummed in appreciation, lifted and pried away Sam's sweats, took Sam in his mouth with a single, sure and practiced swallow. He moved his tongue like he had his fingers, took Sam further, and at his second swallow Sam's legs popped, bending sharply, Sam's whole body pushing, then Dean swallowed Sam's come.

Sam huffed, gasped more in, dug his fingers through Dean's hair, and the tabletop stuck to his sweat-prickled tee and the span of sweaty skin at his waist that'd been exposed. He blinked, lay there and let and loved that Dean just kept on sucking and tonguing and tasting him, relaxed so that his legs dangled weightily back down and his feet uncramped and his fingers combed Dean's hair.

He lay there and let Dean past pleasure, past pleasure-pain, until he writhed and whined in discomfort. He'd come this morning in bed with Dean, jacked himself as Dean had pushed the car so fast rumbling over dusty country roads so Dean could hear and see, thrills combined, was half-hard again and he groaned and came dry when Dean fingered his sweats slick-hot-dirty against him.

"Boys?"

Dean stood without hurry, gazed down at Sam a long moment, almost too long, felt the saliva and come drenched skin of Sam's cock with a last stroke of his fingers, then he stood Sam up too, snapped Sam's sweats into place again. "Keep those on," he whispered, dark so they didn't show anything telltale, reached around and kneaded the wrinkly tangle of sticky wet into Sam's skin.

"Any trouble?" Dad ducked in the rickety screen door from the back yard just as Dean moved away, propped against the low counter that represented the kitchen, crossed his arms over his chest.

Sam shook his head mutely, his whole body shaking, and he squeezed his legs together and his butt cheeks together to chase the final, fleeting sensations of Dean getting him off as Dean slung a casual arm around his shoulders.

"Nope. No trouble, got the whole list, found a few extras." Dean looked at Sam, nodded as if yup it's agreed, and then smiled at Dad.

Sam started to fold one of the empty brown paper bags for something to do. Dean's hand started to drift, lower, lower.

Dad nodded back. "Good. What say we have lunch then you boys grab a nap. We're in for a late night and I want you alert and ready."

"Yes Sir." Dean wiggled one finger just under the wallowed elastic band of Sam's sweats, stepped away as if there hadn't been a pause, winked at Sam as he licked that finger.

Sam finished folding the bags. Dad made sandwiches and Dean got water. Sam busied himself avoiding getting too close to Dad, propping the outer door wider so the cool and fresh air could replace what they'd done, set apples and cheese-doodles and a mostly eaten bag of pretzels on the table.

Dean held onto Sam's thigh during lunch hidden under the table. Dad quizzed them about research, kill methods, told them they'd probably have to high-tail it from here by the end of the week because something was going on in far north Washington, state, that he knew was completely no good. Sam tried not to squirm.

They ate on paper towels, left their glasses behind, and Dad crashed on the pull-out couch with a book of charms and almost immediately started to snore.

Sam landed on the bed with a thud and Dean crawled in after, wrapped him tight and close, murmured again things Sam already knew, always knew, always needed to hear. Look at you, what we learned, so good so mine, that's my boy, sucked on his ear and palmed into his perfectly wrecked sweats, drew patterns in the scratchy, dry come until Sam stretch-sighed in utter contentment and release, then they drifted to sleep.