Title: Stillness
Author: kbk
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sigh.
Summary: Random Sam/Dean porn. Rimming and discussion of bodily functions.

Dean will sleep through pretty much any noise Sam makes, unless it's opening a door or window. It's kind of funny, how his reflexes just don't apply to Sam, because he couldn't possibly be a threat.

It means Sam doesn't have to worry about being quiet while he strips off his clothes and pulls out supplies. He even hums a little under his breath as he contemplates the handcuffs: they're always fun, admittedly, and make Dean curse even more creatively than usual, but Sam's just not feeling them tonight.

Dean sighs in his sleep when Sam pulls the blanket away, but he doesn't wake. Sam crawls up the bed, swings one leg across to straddle Dean's waist, plants his hands next to Dean's head and just looks at his brother's face.

Dean doesn't look his age. He looks older than he did before Sam went to college, of course, but back then he was still a boy. Now he's definitely a man, though there's no one thing that Sam could point to. His jaw is firmer, there are lines around his eyes (that show up best when he grins, bright and happy) and scars on his temple (and the number of times Sam's seen him with blood on his face doesn't bear thinking about, and neither does the fact that he might be even more beautiful when he's damaged.)

Sam bends down and brushes his lips across those scars, and that's enough. Dean stops breathing for an instant as he wakes, and then he's smiling before his eyes crack open. "Hey," he croaks out, then clears his throat. "What's up?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "If you say one thing..." he warns as he lowers his body to press briefly against Dean: chest to cotton-clad chest, belly to cotton-clad belly, hard cock to rapidly-firming cotton-clad cock.

"What?" Dean widens his eyes in a parody of innocence. Sam pushes himself up again, and smirks as Dean shifts disappointedly.

"Get naked, already." Sam keeps his voice light, because Dean Doesn't Do Serious, and acting like this thing between them might be important is the best way to put Dean's automatic internal defenses (impressive on a quiet day) on red alert.

Dean wriggles as he pulls off his T-shirt, hands brushing Sam's chest, elbow knocking painfully into Sam's bicep, but Sam doesn't move. The boxers are more awkward, because Sam doesn't move, stays leaning over his brother. Dean can't reach further than his thighs, and he shimmies impatiently, works the fabric down his legs until he can kick them off. (Later, Sam will find them draped over the crapped-out coffee-maker. He'll tuck them into his pocket, where they'll stay for about three days.)

He grabs onto Sam's hips, pulls at him, but Sam doesn't move, he just smiles. Dean glares, and pouts just a little. That's irresistible. Sam lets his head hang heavy, dips down to catch Dean's lower lip between his teeth. Dean's hand skitters up Sam's back, lands at the crook of his shoulder, and then Dean's pulling himself up, taking Sam's mouth in a lewd kiss.

It's tempting, so tempting, for Sam to just give in, follow Dean's urging, follow him down to the mattress and rut against him until they're both satisfied, but there are other things he wants. He tears his mouth away with a wet smack, pulls back when Dean tries to continue the kiss. "Turn over," Sam says, and (in case that sounds too much like an order) follows up with, "Please, Dean. C'mon."

Dean grumbles suspiciously, but he turns. It's not easy, not with Sam statue-still above him, but he manages it, winds up with his head turned sideways on the pillow and his arms spread to the sides.

Sam puts his nose to Dean's neck and breathes deep. They share the same shampoo, the same soap, but there's a sweetish hint of hairgel layered over Dean's own complex and indescribable scent. Dean twitches.

"Easy, there," Sam mutters. He crawls backwards, slowly, mouthing at Dean's spine. There are too many scars, he thinks, and he pauses to follow an unfamiliar one with his tongue.

"Your hair fucking tickles," Dean complains, and his voice is far too even for Sam's liking, but his fingers are curling restlessly against the sheet.

Sam sits back on his heels, sits up, draws his hands down the muscular planes of Dean's back. "Better?"

"Sure." Dean follows that up with a satisfying squeak when Sam slaps his ass. Sam apologises with a long stroke of his tongue to the offended area, and then Dean tenses all over as Sam parts his cheeks.

All Sam really knows about rimming is what he's read, but that's included some fairly detailed accounts. He drags the flat of his tongue over Dean's entrance, feels it clench and release. It tastes much like any other part of Dean (salty, spicy, addictive.)

Dean's voice is unsteady (and that gives Sam a warm glow of pleasure) when he says, "What the hell are you doing, Sammy?"

Sam flutters his tongue, then gives one more long lick before he pulls back to breathe. "You don't like, Dean?" he asks, and unfortunately his voice isn't particularly steady either.

Dean looks back over his shoulder with a frown. "Of course I don't! Jesus, Sam!"

"Huh." Sam shifts his hands thoughtfully on Dean's ass, still holding him open. He bends forward and licks again, a series of tiny licks around the wrinkled pucker and then a short shallow thrust. "You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!" But Dean's head has fallen back down to the pillow, and his gasp didn't sound displeased.

"Because, well." Sam tries the thrusting thing again, pushing against the flexing ring of muscle. It's an interesting sensation. "You like my fingers." Sam drums said fingers against Dean's hips. "And you like my dick."

(Dean does like Sam's dick. He says as much on a regular basis. Usually while it's inside him.)

"Dude, I don't wanna fart in your face, OK?" It's said with as much seriousness as Dean treats most of their sex life, and Sam blinks.

"You wouldn't."

"It's not like I can help it! A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."

Sam leans back, because Dean does have a point, and he knows from long experience how smelly Dean can be.

(Jess always went into the bathroom to fart. It confused the hell out of Sam until he realised what she was doing, and then he felt guilty that he didn't do the same.)

"Well, do you have to now?" Sam laughs a little, incredulous. Beautiful and remarkably sexy Dean may be, but he's still Dean (that is to say, crude and inappropriate.)

Dean frowns. "Doesn't feel like it."

"OK. You like my tongue there? It feels good?"

"Well, yeah, but..."

"Then I'll take the risk."

Dean starts to protest, but Sam licks him again, hard and light and hard again, and Dean shuts up.

Sam works his tongue against, into, against Dean's body. He breathes through his nose and lets his lips drag as they will over Dean's skin. He grips Dean's hips tightly and doesn't pay any attention to his own pulsing cock.

Sam loses track of the seconds, the minutes that he spends with his face pressed to Dean's ass. He hears but doesn't listen to Dean's heavy breathing, his cursing, his "christ will you fuck me already?"

It's just fascinating, the way Dean's anus relaxes and clenches and relaxes against Sam's tongue. 'Tongue-fucking,' thinks Sam, and for some reason that makes him want to giggle. He doesn't, of course, being as he is a manly man having manly sex with his manly brother, but still... His tongue is aching, and he may be suffering from oxygen deprivation, but he doesn't want to stop, because now Dean's squirming (always a good thing) and because this act is one of terrifying intimacy.

Dean has given Sam everything. And Sam can't tell if what he's doing now is giving or taking. He doesn't want to stop.

But then Dean squirms differently, and Sam sits back on stiff muscles to see that Dean is working one hand underneath his belly. Sam lunges forward and grabs his forearm. "No." If Dean asked, he wouldn't be able to explain.

But all Dean does is groan. He lets Sam pull his arm out from under him, pull it until it's stretched straight out at shoulder level and Dean's fingers curl around the edge of the mattress. Sam does the same on the other side, and then, he can't help it, slides his hands from Dean's shoulders to his elbows, his wrists, pressing himself down against the length of Dean's sweating body. Dean whines, thumps his head down (the pillow is smushed up against the headboard, now, and Sam doesn't know when that happened) and pushes his hips up.

Sam's dick rides the cleft of Dean's ass. The contact is electric, and Sam bucks forward, feels Dean moving below him. It's good, it's so good, and Sam thinks he could fuck Dean right now (no more preparation and Dean would absolutely love it) and that thought has him spurting over Dean's lower back before he realises it.

Sam curses. He wanted... he wants, but he has to just lie there for a minute and catch his breath. He's squashing Dean, he knows, but if he rolls off then Dean will think he's done and he isn't, dammit. So he waits, and breathes deep, and listens to Dean's breathy reassurances and complaints.

"Stay," he murmurs into Dean's ear, and is surprised when Dean jerks. (What is Dean thinking?) Sam lifts himself gradually, though, and Dean doesn't move, though he's tense, so tense.

Sam moves down the bed, admires the artistic spatter of his come on Dean's (broad, freckled, scarred) back. He thinks about licking it off, but then he thinks about helping Dean wash it off in the shower (which won't really be big enough for both of them, but they're so comfortable in each other's space they might as well just be one.)

He swipes one thumb through the fluid and then he pushes that thumb inside Dean. It's a quick, easy slide, Dean opening to the pressure and pushing back against it, and Sam spreads his fingers across Dean's ass.

Dean pants a few breaths. "You're not moving?"

"Nope."

"Sammy, some of us haven't come yet."

"How many people are in this bed?"

"Me, you, your emoness..."

Sam slides his free hand between Dean's thighs. (Dean tries to spread them wider, but Sam's legs are in the way.) He strokes Dean's balls, which are tight and high (but not blue, no matter what Dean may have said.)

Dean writhes. It is, hands-down, the sexiest thing that Sam has ever seen. Sam's dick twitches, but he's fairly sure it isn't up to the effort. (That pun, again, makes Sam wince.)

Dean pushes against Sam's hands. He clenches around Sam's thumb, and he rubs his cock against the sheet, and it isn't enough for him. He needs action, needs to be fucking or fucked or sucked or something, anything, because he's on the edge but not tipping over. "Please, Sam."

"What is it you want, Dean?"

"Jerk me off. Please."

Sam gives in. Part of him wants to see how long it would take for Dean to break and touch himself, or come without anything else, or... Well, just to see. But instead he slides his hand under Dean's hip and pulls him up a little, enough that he can reach around to Dean's dick and grasp it firmly.

He uses the short strokes that Dean prefers, runs his thumb along the circumcision scar (first scar of so many with more to come) and lets his nails drag, just a little. Dean bites his lip and comes.

A minute or two later, Sam gets off the bed and goes into the bathroom to wash his hands. When he comes back, Dean is in the other bed, having wiped the worst of the mess off himself.

"I guess we're sharing tonight," says Sam.

"No way, man," mutters Dean, settling himself more firmly. "You kick."

"Lies." Sam sits on the first bed, anyway. Once Dean's asleep (which he will be very soon) Sam can crawl into bed next to him. And he won't even feel guilty if he does kick.

At least Sam doesn't have a knife for a teddy-bear.