Word Count: 2,000
Warnings: docking, PWP, set nonspecifically during Season 4.
Notes: Many, many thanks to my partner in crime, flawlessglitch, for graciously hopping on board for whatever I throw her way.
Okay, folks. A while ago I had the joy of watching badbastion draw this here very wonderful thing (not work safe), which reminded me how much I enjoy docking fic, and that I hadn't written it in ages, and I'm not sure if I've ever even written it for this fandom. Therefore, I was compelled to rectify that. If you're looking for plot, you're likely to not find much here. Basically, huzzah! docking! Long live the kink!
Summary: Sometimes, Sam just can’t get close enough to Dean.
Sam wakes up to the distant wail of a freight train pouring in through the open window. He breathes in deep, the earthy, primordial smell of the nearby swamp coating the back of his throat. Pierre Part, Louisiana. Indian summer in backwoods bayou country. They’re a handful of hours removed from their last case. They’d been called in to clean up another hunter’s sloppy seconds, spent a few sleepless nights tracking down a rugaru that had crawled out of the swamp and eaten its fill of the parish’s population, then come back again for dessert.
It’s hot, closer to morning than midnight and the temperature’s got to be fixed on at least ninety degrees, the still air holding too much water to cool down. Sam kicks at the sodden tangle of sheets knotted around his legs and flips to his side. Everything’s damp: Sam’s skin, his hair, the mattress beneath him. Even the walls seem wet to the touch. Across the room, Dean is sprawled out on his stomach, face smashed against his pillow and making soft, snuffling noises through his open mouth.
Four months. Dean was in hell for four months. For four months, Sam had been mostly drunk and entirely desperate, stuck in some wretched sort of limbo, only friendly demons and the memory of Dean’s last words to keep him company. Guilt, too, but that’s another thing entirely.
But Dean’s back, mainly whole, just a little cracked around the edges and right now he’s a few steps away and Sam doesn’t like that too much. He likes to keep Dean within arm’s reach. Just in case he needs to touch him. Reassert their shared reality.
Sam sits up, swings his feet to the floor and curls his toes against the warped floorboards so that his soles won’t stick to the humid wood. Dean’s a light sleeper nowadays and he wakes up right away, rolls over, reaches his arms above his head and arches his back off of the mattress, stretches long and graceful, almost cat-like. Sam’s transfixed by the sight. He can’t tear his eyes away and can’t be blamed for it either. Four months.
“You okay?” Dean asks, soft and hoarse.
Woodenly, Sam makes it to his feet, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. “Can’t sleep. Hot,” he mumbles. “You’re too far away,” he adds, thinking he’s already said too much before even half the words are out of his mouth. It’s late. It’s been an exhausting few days.
“It’s not any cooler over here,” Dean tells him.
“That’s not the point.”
“Yeah, I know,” Dean croaks. “I get it.” A thin sheet covers the lower half of his body, and Dean shoves it down. “What are you waiting for?”
There’s a sort of relief that comes with the offhand invitation, something similar to that first breath after breaking above the water’s surface. Sam pads the few steps across the room and sits on the edge of Dean’s bed. The mattress dips and Dean slides toward him, his waist notched against the small of Sam’s back. He starts to try and inch away, but Sam takes him by the wrist. Dean gets the message and fits himself against Sam’s back instead, his body curving like a parenthesis. Sam twists, runs his index finger along Dean’s ribs, tracing a scar that isn’t there anymore. He misses it. He misses all of them. The one from that time a harpy had come a fraction too close and left three claw marks along Dean’s ribs, long and identical and evenly spaced. Dean’s crooked fingers, the burn mark on the inside of his wrist. The Frankenstein scar on his collarbone that had been young Sammy’s first attempt at stitches. Dean has been brought back uncut, smooth and unscarred except for an angel’s handprint, and that distinct change in his brother has fucked Sam right up.
“It’s still me.” Dean wraps his fingers around Sam’s hipbone and starts moving his thumb in absent little circles. It’s like he can read Sam’s mind sometimes. Like he keeps a skeleton key to Sam in his back pocket and never fails to pull it out at the most inopportune times, uses it to crack Sam wide open and take a magnifying glass to all the things he tries to keep secret.
Dean pulls himself up and settles onto his haunches, frames Sam’s hips with his knees, pastes his chest to Sam’s back and buries his nose in Sam’s neck, his cock resting along the dip of Sam’s spine. It’s been a while since Dean’s touched him like this. Days, weeks maybe, who the hell knows. Their game has gotten a lot bigger since Dean came back. It’s impossible to keep track of these kinda things.
Opening his mouth along Sam’s shoulder, Dean moves to scrape his teeth on the side of Sam’s neck, then digs a hand in Sam’s hair and tugs, urging Sam around. Dean kisses him, no real intent behind it, slow and lazy, broad swipes of his tongue as he licks inside. Sam experiences a strange sort of vertigo, the sensation of falling up rather than down and his hands find Dean’s waist. He holds on, grounds himself within the presence of his brother, sure and solid and steady.
A charge starts to build inside of Sam, a thing that is heat and electricity all rolled into one. It must have transferred to Dean as well and now he’s moving against Sam, languid thrusts of his hips that grow quicker and needier by the second. Sam reaches between them and cups Dean’s balls, then skates his hand upward along Dean’s cock, already thickened and getting harder.
Sam puts a sliver of space between them and gazes down the length of Dean’s body, zeroing in on Dean’s swollen cock. Dean came back uncut, his foreskin still intact, and a subject of fascination for Sam. This distinct difference between them when nearly everything else is the same has turned into a fixation. A fetish.
Sam can’t remember a time when he wasn’t at least a little obsessed with every aspect of his brother. It’s worse now, or perhaps better, depending on which way Sam wants to spin it. Sam’s curious by nature, doesn’t like unmapped territory or unanswered questions, and he wonders what it must be like for Dean to have the head of his cock encased in that small amount of extra skin, how it must feel to have Sam lick and suck at the rim of it and dip his tongue inside, or slowly push it back to only expose the wet, flushed tip of Dean’s cock before letting Dean’s hood swallow it up again.
The mere thought of it turns Sam on, has him going a little crazy, makes his cock throb and ache. He touches Dean’s hood, rubs it between his thumb and his first finger, the skin stretching and already slippery with Dean’s precome. Sam starts to back away, intent on getting Dean’s cock in his mouth, but Dean pulls him up short.
With a quiet sound of protest, Sam says, “But I wanna—“
“Slow down,” Dean says, “Gonna try something. This’ll be better.” Dean licks his palm, wraps his hand around Sam’s cock, strokes him a couple of times to smear the spit and Sam’s precome all around the head, then pulls Sam nearer to him, touching the very tip of Sam’s cock to his. Slowly, so fucking slowly, Dean feeds his skin over the end of Sam’s cock, little by little taking the flared crown of Sam’s cock inside of him.
Sam’s very aware of every inch of his brother, the sweaty sheen of his skin, the rasp of Dean’s stubble against Sam’s palm. The way Dean never looks away, as if he’s trying to bear witness to each and every small change in Sam’s expression, lock all them away in his memory for safe keeping. He’s touching Sam gently, like he’s fashioned out of something precious or fragile, and Sam feels blown apart, shivering intensely every time Dean jabs his hips forward a fraction, touches the tips of their cocks together within the snug sheath of Dean’s foreskin.
“Is it good?” Dean pants. “Tell me how it feels.”
“H—hot. So fucking hot,” Sam stutters, higher brain function now at a complete standstill. “Tight.” Sam’s never felt anything like this before, and his vocabulary is no match for it. There’s no frame of reference to compare to how good it feels. Slippery, warm and close. So close.
Dean hums and licks his lips, tilts his head in for a kiss but seems to think better of it when the head of Sam’s cock slips in a little further, the crown of it catching and rubbing against the underside of Dean’s. He keeps looking at Sam. The whole time, he never looks away.
“C’mon, Sammy. I want you to drive,” Dean says, and it’s a few seconds before Sam cottons on. He wraps a hand around their cocks, almost comes at the quiet, broken sound it pushes out of Dean. Sam’s immediately addicted to the sensation of them moving together, the feel of Dean’s foreskin, silky soft, warm and so supple as it stretches around the both of them. Sam squeezes experimentally, and Dean moans against Sam’s mouth, his hips bucking of their own volition.
Grasping at Sam’s wrist, Dean says, “A little more. C’mon. Just a little. Almost there.” It’s hot inside of Dean, slick too, their precome sloppy and leaking out, making a mess of Sam’s hand and dripping down both of their shafts to soak their balls. Sam’s sweating freely now, trickles coursing along his arms and legs, tickling across his scalp, dripping down his back to collect in the dip in his spine.
Sam can feel the shape of Dean’s cock beneath the thinness of his foreskin, and he works his fingers around the both of them, kneading and rubbing them off, his movements slow and careful. Dean’s cock slips around his in small circles, their ridges catching and snagging. Sam’s breathing has become erratic, the pull in his gut and in his balls growing more and more urgent as the muscles in his body string tight while he tries to stave off his orgasm, his arms, legs, stomach, every inch of his body shuddering at the proximity of his brother in this very moment, their shared breath and mingled sweat.
Dean reaches out, lays a palm on the flat surface of Sam’s abdomen, and for a split second, Sam thinks he’s about to push him away. Maybe it hurts, or maybe Dean doesn’t like it. Sam makes a noise in the back of his throat, inquisitive and pleading. Dean’s answer is clear enough as he curls his fingers against the quaking, shifting muscles of Sam’s stomach, and finally, finally kisses Sam again. His cock thickens in Sam’s grasp, grows impossibly harder. Dean’s body goes rigid, hot come flooding over the head of Sam’s cock, so so hot, an incredible heat washing over him from head to toe. A few more shallow thrusts and Sam follows suit, his orgasm ripped out of him, fast and startling, his spunk mingling with Dean’s and completely covering both of their cocks, dripping in sticky strings and streaking Sam’s upper thighs.
Dean pulls off, sits back on his haunches, his cock starting to soften, resting in the crease of his thigh. Sam entertains the idea of going down on Dean to lick him clean, maybe kiss him after, come gathered on his tongue so that he can push the taste of them into Dean’s mouth. He starts to kiss his way down Dean’s body, but Dean stops him for the second time that night. He’s grinning, his eyes bright and his smile wicked in the darkness.
“Stay right here,” he says, yanking Sam down on top of him as he topples backward. “Stay close. How many times do I have to tell you?”
Thanks for reading.