Word Count: 2300
Notes: A billion thank you's to flawlessglitch for the superfast and wonderful beta. Title nabbed from Florence + the Machine. Thanks also to big_heart_june, for the picspam that inspired this. Porn ahoy, folks.
Summary: Sam thinks, not for the first time, how strange it is to love someone so much and still want to make them bleed.
Watch the Bed Burn
Sam pulls Dean to his feet, out of the wreckage of smashed furniture and broken glass. Dean takes the hand but his eyes flash fire, and when he snarls his teeth are stained bright red. He spits onto the ratty motel rug and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. A bruise is already starting to form under his right eye, and tomorrow it'll be swollen half closed, but Dean won't say a word. He won't call Sam out on it, just like Sam won't call Dean out on his bloody nose or the split in the corner of his bottom lip. That's not how they work. Instead, he'll wear it like some backward badge of honor, stare down the curious looks he gets from diner waitresses and gas station attendants. Silently dare them to say anything.
Dean's hands are balled by his sides. He widens his feet, sets himself in a fighter's stance like he's waiting for the next blow, and Sam almost wants to hit him again, feel the satisfying give of Dean's skin around his fist and the solid resistance of Dean's jawbone underneath.
Sam thinks, not for the first time, how strange it is to love someone so fucking much and still want to make him bleed.
Sam's already starting to forget what started the fight this time. It doesn't matter. Dean's gonna forgive him. That's the thing about his brother: Dean never forgets, stores up every betrayal, lie and imagined slight the same way a kid saves up shiny pennies, but he will always, always forgive.
Tipping his chin up in a clear challenge, Dean says, "C'mon, Sammy. That's all you got?" Adrenaline is still riding high in Dean's veins. Pissed off, righteous indignation too. It's in the slight shake of his voice, the glazed-over brightness in his eyes. It's in his lunatic grin and the way he shifts his weight and keeps it centered on the balls of his feet.
"Not at all. Not by a mile," Sam tells him. He's been hard from the instant he'd thrown the first punch, and now he gets another thrill when Dean starts to block him as he reaches out. The move is telescoped, and Sam snatches his wrist easily, pins it behind Dean's back smooth as poetry.
Sam rises up to his full height, arches his back so that they're chest to chest and shoves a thigh between Dean's legs. He wants Dean to fight, struggle so that he can overpower him. He wants to prove a point, but Dean can be a contrary motherfucker at the best of times and goes very still instead, takes a second to catch his breath, then lunges upward and bites Sam's bottom lip with a decisive snap of his teeth. The sharp spike of pain goes straight to Sam's cock and he strengthens his grip, hauls Dean up flush against him, until their faces are a fraction of an inch apart, close enough that Sam can taste the liquor on Dean's breath. It's sweet, cloying, makes Sam feel a little drunk by association, but that could be Dean's proximity as well, the press of his body against Sam from chest to hips, the line of heat in all the places where they're touching.
Aiming for payback, Sam bites at Dean's mouth and tastes blood, the bright, metallic zing of it mixing with the liquor. Sam can't get enough of it, he never can, and he licks inside to trace the slick shape of Dean's teeth with his tongue. He growls as Dean fights to control the kiss, angles his head and pushes his tongue into Sam's mouth, hot and wet and demanding.
"No," Sam says, spinning Dean around. "That's not how it's gonna go." He rips Dean's shirt over his head and sets his teeth into the meat of Dean's shoulder, worries and sucks at one particular spot until Dean's kicked off his boots and managed to unhook his belt, then shoves Dean onto the bed face first. Dean fights to flip over onto his back, but Sam holds him in place, the fingers of one hand digging into Dean's hip as he impatiently yanks Dean's jeans and shorts down with the other, letting them puddle around his knees.
There's a bite mark on the back of Dean's thigh, right below the rounded curve of his ass. It's faded now, faintly red where two days ago it had been a deep purple. Sam can still see the shape of his own teeth in it though, and he drops to his knees, flattens his tongue against the mark, soaks in the salty sweat and that singular taste of Dean's skin underneath it. The wiry muscles of Dean's thighs pull taut under Sam's palms, as if he's expecting a bite, maybe wanting it, and it's not like Sam to disappoint him. Sam scrapes his teeth on the mark and is rewarded by a faint hiss from his brother, a quick inhale through his clenched jaw, followed by a low, needy moan when Sam catches the skin between his teeth and sucks hard.
Dean's cock hangs heavily between his widespread legs, blood-dark and wet at the tip. Sam ignores it and laps at Dean's balls instead, takes one into this mouth and then the other, hollowing his cheeks around them. This close, the smell of Dean is everywhere, earthy and dark, so thick that Sam can taste it when he breathes deep enough.
Usually Sam would take his time, suck and lick at Dean's rim, open Dean up on his tongue, make Dean wriggle and squirm and beg for it. Not today, though. Sam's cock is a steady, aching throb, sticky and damp within the confines of his jeans and the only thing he wants to do is fuck his brother raw, hold him down and fill him up completely.
Sam stands on shaky legs and jams his hips against Dean's ass, rubs off along the crease of it, watching as Dean's skin flushes from the sexiest shade of pink to a hectic red color. It's gotta bug Dean, that rough scratch of denim on the soft skin of his ass, but Dean doesn't seem to mind it, seems to be getting off on it in fact, if his low moans are anything to go by. Dean dips his head down, rests it on his forearm and reaches underneath his body, his shoulder working in a rhythmic motion. For some reason that pisses Sam off, a hot flare of anger sparking in his veins and he pushes Dean over, takes him by the wrists again and forces Dean's arms above his head.
"I didn't say you could touch yourself," Sam grits out. Dean's heel smacks into Sam's stomach, knocks the wind out of him and he trips a few steps backward.
It seems like Dean's still trying to prove a point as well. "Get on with it then," Dean says as he kicks off his jeans and lets them fall to the ground. "Quit screwing around."
"Quick kicking me," Sam says.
"I'll do that as soon as you quit hitting me in the goddamn mouth."
Sam doesn't want the argument to start up again, wants more than anything for Dean to shut that pretty, busted open mouth of his, or perhaps put it to better use. He shucks his pants and crawls over the prone form of his brother, effectively pinning him down with his knees planted on either side of Dean's chest. Fuck, Sam's rock hard, leaking a constant stream of precome that drips down the length of his cock. He plants his forehead on the wall behind the bed to steady himself and grips the base of his cock, smacks it against Dean's lips until Dean opens up and snakes his tongue out, soft and wet and so goddamn pliant. Holding his breath, Sam feeds his cock to Dean, shivering as Dean's lips stretch around him, as his tongue works along the underside and his eyelids flutter closed. Dean digs his fingers into Sam's ass and tries to pull him in further and Sam fights the urge to comply, fuck into Dean's mouth and down his throat until he gags. That's not what he's after, though.
Sam makes a cautionary noise and levers his hips with a few shallow thrusts. "Get me wet, Dean. Just get me wet." He pulls out abruptly and moves back down Dean's body, runs his lips up the length of Dean's cock, nothing more than a tease, digs his tongue into Dean's slit until Dean squirms and gives up, lets his legs fall limp and open.
"On your knees," Sam commands.
The smirk Dean gives him is just this side of infuriating. "You're bossy, you know that? 'Bout time you make up your mind," Dean gripes, but he does what he's told, arching his back and tipping his ass up. Over his shoulder, he shoots Sam a sultry, come-hither look that would put every pin-up model in the world to shame. It sets Sam's teeth on edge and he grabs the cheeks of Dean's ass, spreading them to reveal the darker skin there, his rim so tiny and pink and inviting. He lines himself up, circling Dean's hole with the tip of his cock and smearing precome all over the rim, then presses past the resistance. It's tight, too tight and too dry and Sam can barely breach him, gets only the head of his cock inside his brother before he pulls out with a frustrated groan.
"Let me in, Dean. You gotta..." Sam peters off, splays Dean wide open and spits, a long string of saliva trailing from his bottom lip to Dean's hole. He forces two fingers in, pushing his spit inside and twisting his wrist, spits on his palm and slicks his cock up again then rams into Dean, forceful and bordering on violent. He doesn't give Dean time to adjust, just claws his hands around Dean's narrow waist and thrusts in hard, all the way to the base, his hips slapping into Dean's ass with a filthy smack. Sam takes his time on the way out, watches the give of Dean's rim, the flesh already puffy and red, the way it stretches around the flared head of Sam's cock. He bites back a whimper at the slutty noises Dean makes as he slams back into the snug, clinging warmth of his body over and over.
Dean pushes back on his cock, and Sam almost loses it every single time, wrecked by the tight heat of his brother, the dark looks Dean keeps throwing over his shoulder and the gritty sound of his voice when he says, "Harder. Fucking harder."
Panting and shattered, Sam says, "Shut up. For once in your fucking life. Just shut up." He palms the back of Dean's head, shoves his face into the mattress to keep him quiet. The new position makes Dean cant his hips up in a very specific way and spread his knees wider. It's an angle Sam can work with, and from the muffled sounds he's making it seems as if the story's the same where Dean's coming from as well. Sam thrusts up and in, sends Dean skating forward on the bed. Sheets and blankets gather under Dean as he scrambles for a hold, and the headboard clatters loudly against the wall.
Dean starts to buck beneath him, rutting against the mattress and then back up, fucking himself on Sam's cock, fighting for friction. Sam falls forward and nips at the back of his neck, clamps down hard enough to leave another bruise and the pain of it spurs Dean on, his entire body going rigid with his orgasm.
The smell of hot spunk invades Sam's nose, mixes with the scent of Dean's sweat. It's been a long time, years maybe since he's been able to make Dean get off untouched, just from Sam's cock alone, and it makes Sam feel huge and powerful and so so adored. It's enough to tip Sam over the edge and he thrusts into Dean one final time and stays there, hips circling in tiny spasms as he shoots pulse after pulse of hot come into his brother.
Sam shudders, collapses on top of Dean, his stomach slick and sweaty against Dean's back, and buries his face in the crook of his neck. Dean's still writhing beneath him, the muscles in his thighs spasm and relax over and over. When Sam speaks, his lips catch on Dean's skin. "I didn't mean it. Whatever it was that started--"
Quickly, Dean shoulders him off, making Sam pull out so fast he hisses. Dean flips onto his back, flings his arms up and crooks them under his head. His body is one long, stretched out line, stomach slathered with sweat and come, the structure of his ribs on display and vulnerable looking. This is for Sam. Sam alone. No one else gets to see Dean like this. Half an hour ago, Sam had wanted nothing more than to bust his brother wide open, now all he wants to do is gather him in and keep him from breaking apart.
Such strange lives they live. If the world only knew.
"Of course you meant it," Dean says, a breathless mumble. "You always mean it. I do too."
Thanks for reading.