Word Count: 1200
Notes: A gift for silverraven for spnspringfling.
Summary: Dean loses a bet.
Dean slams the trunk of the car and then slams into Sam, pushing them up against the side of the Impala. The metal is cool, slippery from the wax Dean hit it with two days ago. Salt air can be a bitch.
He’s laughing against Sam’s throat, that high-pitched joker laugh that he lets loose on those very rare occasions when he forgets he’s supposed to be a badass. Sam’s honestly surprised to hear it, glad too.
Dean’s had a fucker of a day, a string of bad luck that at any other time should have left him silently sulking and sullen. His favorite AC/DC t-shirt had come to an untimely demise. He’d lost a bet. Sam had almost gotten hurt.
“Goddamn Beretta,” Dean says around another chuckle, his voice vibrating along Sam’s skin. “Medieval son of a bitch never knew what hit him.”
“Prehistoric,” Sam says.
Dean pulls back to look at him, eyes glazed over and bright with unspent nervous energy, like slivers of green bottle glass. “What?” he spits out.
“You said medieval. I’m fairly sure it was prehistoric.”
“Fuckin’ smartass,” Dean says. He’s got a smear of blood on his cheek, black as tar and just as sticky. The stuff’s everywhere really, splatters of it in Sam’s hair and on his button down. There’s no saving it. Maybe later they’ll build a fire, put his shirt and Dean’s to rest.
Sam wipes at his brother’s face, manages to just spread it around more. Dean knocks his hand away and kisses him. It’s rough, jarring, smashes Sam’s lips against his teeth and breaks open that split on the inside of his mouth that he’d earned a few days back. Sam doesn’t mind. Hell, he even kinda likes it.
Dean licks inside, sudden and intrusive and so goddamn hot. Sam’s never gotten used to this, never been able to build up any sort of immunity to the taste and feel of his brother. He’s hard faster than a seventeen-year-old on prom night, his dick straining against the front of his jeans.
An immediate need populates every cell in his body and Sam’s knees start to buckle, but that’s okay. Dean’s got him, shoving a leg between Sam’s thighs and rocking up and in. The stubble on Dean’s jaw feels like sandpaper on Sam’s skin. It tickles a little and Sam squirms, snorting laughter.
His hip knocks into the harpoon they’ve got leaned up against the passenger door. It’s a huge thing—a real Moby Dick killer with a wicked serrated edge that's shoulder high on Sam. It had been completely useless about the time that push came to shove. Dean had taken a shine to it though, when his trumped up plan of somehow getting their hands on a nuclear warhead went belly up.
“Watch the paint job,” Dean says. He shuts up pretty quick when Sam gets a hand between them, yanks at Dean’s ripped shirt and smoothes his palm along Dean’s ribs.
“What the--?” Sam says. He tears something off of Dean’s shirt and holds it up, twisting it this way and that. It’s curved, and sharp, about three inches long. Shiny and black as obsidian.
“Good thing it was just a dew claw,” Dean says. “You should keep it. Make it into a necklace.” He tangles his hand in Sam’s hair. “Or wear it in your hair. Like that girl in the Flintstones.”
“Hey, you’re just pissed ‘cause I was right. Loser.” Sam latches onto Dean’s neck with his mouth, tastes salty sweat and the distinct tang of adrenaline.
“No, I’m pissed because you won the bet. There’s a difference. And because you were stupid. What were you thinking, turning your back on that thing?” Dean’s tone is teasing and sarcastic, but there’s something beneath it, a worn out thread of worry and doubt that rips Sam’s heart right out of place.
“Saved your ass,” Sam tells him, trying to keep his tone light, but he can’t quite erase the slight shake in his voice.
Dean grunts and kisses Sam again, starting with his mouth and working his way down, rucking Sam’s shirt up to get at his stomach. He scrapes his teeth along the jut of Sam’s hipbone as he fumbles with Sam’s belt buckle.
Dean kneels down, boots skidding through dry fallen leaves, dark mud soaking into his jeans. Sam presses his shoulders against the car and angles his hips out, trying to maintain his balance as Dean tugs his jeans down a fraction, just far enough to slip his hand inside of Sam’s shorts and pull his cock through the slit.
The cold air is a shock on the heated skin of his cock, even Dean’s warm breath feels cool. Dean doesn’t fool around, it’s one of the ten thousand things Sam loves about his brother. Dean swallows him down, his hand gripping Sam’s cock at the base, making up for what he can’t reach with his mouth.
Dean’s good at this, really fucking good. Slick and wet, his lips snugged tight around the width of Sam, his tongue swiping along the underside, pushing at the sweet spot right below the head. Dean hums and the vibration zips up Sam’s spine.
The sight of Dean is what does Sam in, the dark, heated look Dean gives him right before his eyes flutter closed, the stretch and strain of the tendons in his neck, and the long, graceful arch of his back as he leans into Sam, steadying himself with a grasp on Sam’s hip so strong that Sam thinks he might never let go.
It doesn’t take long. Sam palms the back of Dean’s head, rubbing his hand against the soft, short hairs there, thrusts his hips once into the wet heat of his brother’s mouth and then he’s coming, toes curling in his boots and a bitten off curse trapped in his throat.
Dean backs off, sputtering and wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He rests his forehead against Sam’s thigh.
When he speaks, his voice is wrecked, hoarse and shaky. “I can’t believe you were right. Dragons. Fucking dragons.”
Notes: My prompt was "You mean dragons are real?!". A lot of dragon writing recently! I'd misplaced a comma in the original post; it's been bugging me for a week, folks.