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Fight or Flight

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Sam understands why sex with Dean is always a battle. It's what they do; fighting life, fighting death, fighting heaven and hell and everything in between. Why should fucking be any different? The best part is that, with the two of them so evenly matched, it's always a surprise as to who's going to win.

Except for the part where everybody wins.

But there are times where Dean struggles a little more than is necessary, his kisses a little harder than usual, his nails digging sharp into Sam's thighs. Those are the times that make Sam grin and work twice as hard to get Dean on his back and keep him there.

Dean never goes down easy, though, and Sam would never want him to, fighting for dominance like he has been his whole life, using every last one of his tricks to get the best of Sam, to sit astride Sam and grind their cocks together, thick and hard through two layers of soft denim.

Sam lets Dean have his victory for the moment, rolling his hips into Dean's and lulling him into a false sense of security. He likes watching Dean like this, anyway. Shirt off and his chest heaving, the flex and shift of Dean's stomach, muscles working a hard rhythm. Dean's white teeth digging into his lush bottom lip.

Sam waits until Dean's eyes flutter closed, his lashes dark smudges against flushed cheeks, before he hooks an ankle around Dean's, grabs his wrists and rolls. It's not easy, not with Dean's solid bulk, but Dean's mind is elsewhere, and he goes down with a yelp, almost landing on the floor.

Thank god for queen-sized beds.

Dean bucks at first, out of instinct, but his eyes are still closed, his mind lust-hazy, and Sam is a solid weight between Dean's legs, giving Dean something new and pleasing to press against. His cock is fat behind the fly, a spot of precome already soaked into the worn-thin denim. Sam's fingers fumble for the zipper, unsteady with Dean's inability to stop moving.

"Dude," Sam huffs, amused, and bites at Dean's stomach.

"Oh shit," Dean groans, legs spreading wider. It gives Sam the room to sink into the bed, grinding slow against the mattress as he carefully unzips Dean, pulls down jeans and boxers together. The head of Dean's cock bumps him in the chin, the tip sticky, and Dean hisses.

Dean's dick is flushed red, jutting up thick and hot from Dean's groin. Sam swipes his tongue over the crown once on his way down Dean's body, peeling Dean's jeans and boxers off inch by inch. By the time he turns back, Dean has a hand wrapped around the base, his hips restless and thrusting. Sam's mouth waters, but that isn't at all what he wants.

After shucking off his own clothes, Sam settles in between Dean's legs again, mouth hovering over Dean's balls. His hands fan over Dean's thighs, pushing them open enough to shoulder between. The air here is damp and dark, thick with salt and sweat and leather, the essence of Dean.

Sam licks along the crease where thigh meets pelvis, dragging the flat of his tongue slow and sure, skirting anything that matters. He then follows the line back down, sucking kisses into the skin, nipping at it lightly with his teeth. From somewhere above him, he hears Dean growling curses, for Sam to get the show on the road and suck him already. Sam grins at how wrong Dean has it.

He does suck him; his balls, anyway. First one, than the other. Traces the seam of them with the tip of his tongue before dipping it below and rubbing it flat along Dean's perineum. On either side of Sam's head, Dean's thighs are trembling. From exertion or want, Sam doesn't know. Doesn't really care, because he's venturing down, down. To Dean's hole, thumbs spreading his cheeks open.

Dean bucks, one heel landing hard on Sam's back, and Sam has just enough time to get a breath out, a small wash of warm, humid air that sets goosebumps on Dean's skin, before hands are scrabbling at his head, nails scraping along the scalp to fist in Sam's hair. Dean's first tug is brutal, with tears springing to Sam's eyes, but Sam fights it anyway, swiping his tongue, soft, over Dean's hole once, twice.

Dean thrashes, planting his feet flat on the bed to gain better leverage, but it only widens his legs, giving Sam better access, and he uses it to full advantage, spreading Dean open and sealing his wet, open mouth over Dean's hole to circle his tongue around the rim. There's a choking sound, Dean swallowing a curse, and then another sharp tug. One Sam can't ignore, and he looks up at Dean through the wide vee of his legs, one hand working at Dean's fingers to get him to loosen his hold.

"Fuck, Sam," Dean spits, eyes dark and wild. "How many times do I have to tell you?! You are not doing that."

Sam doesn't have it in him to look contrite. Shrugs instead and says, "I know you like it." Dean's face darkens further, but Sam doesn't miss the full body shiver, the slight widening of Dean's legs.

And Sam has known. Known since he was seventeen and licking the mess of their come from Dean's thighs. Fat, sticky drops that clung, lower and lower, to Dean's skin. Sated and curious, Sam had explored all that skin, warm and sweat-damp, tasting dark and earthy. When his tongue had brushed between Dean's cheeks, skimming feather light over Dean's hole, Dean had made a sound. Something like a whimper, but worse. Better. The neediness of it burrowed under Sam's skin, settling in deep, and spurred him further, Dean's legs more than willing to accommodate Sam's narrow shoulders.

That is, until Dean had come to himself and dragged Sam up by his ears. He'd been too late, though, secret already revealed and filed away in Sam's head.

"The fuck you know," Dean says, and finally lets go of Sam's hair. The sting is missed, but quickly forgotten as Dean rolls onto his knees and presents himself to Sam. "Just fuck me already." His cock bobs between his thighs, leaking precome onto the mattress.

Here's the thing: Sam knows this is the easier way to do things. With Dean on his knees, less able to fight back while Sam licks into him with wet, languid thrusts of his tongue, it's easier on Sam's neck and his hair. But a part of Sam likes the fight, too. If Dean just submitted, flopping onto the bed with his legs spread wide, eating him out wouldn't be half as fun because that's just not who Dean is. Who they are. They fight for every last thing they earn, it's only fair that they should have to fight for this, too.

Sam slides his hands up Dean's thighs, stops just before he reaches Dean's pelvis, and opens them wider, making Dean drop a little bit lower. He looks at Sam from over his shoulder, uncertain, but Sam attempts a blank look and reaches into their duffle for the bottle of lube. One hand is still flat on Dean's ass, though, thumb absently stroking back and forth over the skin, and Sam goes so far as to flip the lid open, then closed again, before he dips down to lick a strip along the seam of Dean's ass, making sure to tease at Dean's hole with the tip of his tongue.

Dean tries to rear up, throwing one hand behind him, but Sam knows this dance. His palm skims over sweat-slick skin, from Dean's ass to the small of his back, and presses. His arm trembles under the force, but it's doing what he needs: preventing Dean from twisting up and away.

Determined, Dean barks, "Sam! Fuck, no," and shifts his weight to one side, kicking his heel out. It hits Sam in the ribs and he curses, but deep down, Sam knows Dean wants this, and he's able to catch Dean's ankle with his free hand and pin it to the bed, legs open obscenely wide. It gives him more room and he bites hard into the meat of Dean's ass in punishment before swiping his tongue, warm and wet, over Dean's hole.

Dean won't stop struggling -- not that Sam wants him to -- making it difficult for Sam to get his tongue inside Dean. But Sam has something Dean doesn't: patience. Keeping his tongue soft and slick, he works at the tight furl of muscle over and over again, licking and sucking at it, moaning and growling so that the vibrations of it shoot straight to his own dick, thick and hot and leaking.

The shift of Dean's hips is sudden, only because Sam has been so intent on keeping him in place that he hasn't heard the sounds Dean's been making. When Dean's hips tilt up and back, bumping Sam in the nose, Sam pops his head up to find Dean's face buried in a pillow, hands clenched in the blankets underneath.

Sam grins.

Dean's hips are moving and now that Sam doesn't have to worry about holding him in place, he can use his fingers to open up Dean, slip his tongue in alongside them, desperate for Dean's heat. He keeps quieter so that he can hear Dean because, really, that's the best part. The mighty Dean Winchester on his knees and mewling for more, begging for Sam's tongue and mouth until he can't breathe.

He's beautiful like this, Dean is. All wounded, golden skin, each scar a trophy. Sam even remembers the scars from before, and the fingers of his free hand ghost over the places they'd been.

Sam hears a rustle from underneath Dean, peers down to see Dean's hand reaching for his cock. He stops Dean with a hand around his wrist. "Like this," Sam says, dark and soft. "Just this."

"Oh fuck, Sam," Dean chokes out, his voice wrecked. But he obeys, fingers twitching.

Sam rewards him by working his tongue inside, stiff and wet, next to his finger. He can't get in as far as he'd like, but the heat is there and he slides his finger in and out a few times, then adds another. Dean's legs are trembling; from the need to come or from the strain, it doesn't matter. Sam's own cock throbs in distraction, ready for release.

Sam lets his saliva collect on his fingers, slicks them into Dean twice before adding a third. Dean's groan is long and low, his hips tilting up even higher, pushing back so he can fuck himself on Sam's tongue and fingers. Sam can hear his little hitching breaths, too. High whines half-muffled into the pillow.

It doesn't take long after that, Dean full of Sam's fingers and tongue. Sam twists his fingers until Dean jolts, and then Sam grins, stroking over the prostate again and again while working Dean's rim with his tongue.

"Fuck, fuck," Dean cries out, body stiffening, and Sam lets out a laugh, sets his open mouth against Dean, sucking at him with a flickering tongue as Dean comes in sticky stripes over the bed. Sam works him through it the whole way, too, mostly with his tongue, but then with his hand on Dean's cock, pumping him long after there's nothing left. Eventually, Dean has to still him, skin oversensitized.

Sam doesn't mind; he has his own hard-on to worry about anyway. He gets his hand out from under Dean right before Dean collapses under his own weight and uses Dean's come to slick over his own cock, hot and sticky and so hard. With his forehead pressed to Dean's thigh, it only takes a few quick strokes for Sam to come, too, all over the back of Dean's leg.

They're quiet for a handful of minutes, both of them struggling for air and coherent thought. Sam rouses first, realizing too late that Dean has collapsed in the mess. He slicks a finger through the come and sweat on Dean's leg and winces. "Dude."

"Nnngh," Dean says in reply.

Sam sits up and shoves at Dean's hip. "You're gonna be so gross."

Whatever Dean says is muffled by the pillow, so Sam pokes him in the ass with one finger. "What'd you say?"

Dean rolls a little, enough to clear the pillow and for Sam to see the mess, so much worse than he imagined.

"I said," Dean repeats, his words thick and sluggish. "I don't care, s'your side of the bed." He smirks at Sam before flopping back down on a contented sigh.

"Jerk," Sam says, but it's soft. Fond. Dean's happy, relaxed, and Sam refuses to ruin that.