Word Prompt: Passion
Warnings: Wincest, slight angst, schmoop, humor, mature themes, sexual act
Sam and Dean stumble through the door, Sam roughly tightening his grip on the frame to keep himself upright; Dean bouncing on the cushions of the couch as he collapses in front of the dark television screen staring back at him.
Licking his lips at the sight of his brother, sprawled out for him, legs open, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, breathing deep from the exertion of their latest hunt, Sam manages to pull himself to his feet, laborious breaths accompanying the movements pulling tautly, painfully at his sore muscles.
Oblivious to his brother stalking over to him, Dean twitches his finger, trying to turn on the television with the will of his mind before mentally chuckling, deciding that he will leave the psychic mojo to his brother. Sam maneuvers into a breath's distance from his stationary brother, as Dean works up the energy to finally press the power button; the white light of the box reflecting against jade eyes, the sparkle of interest drawing Sam even closer to his brother.
Pulling his bottom lip deep into mouth, he lets his fingers graze against the tight shirt barely hiding Dean's broad, muscled body; the barest of touches pulling at Sam, making him gasp and lean in closer; the back of the couch separating him from his desire.
As Sam's hands travel further down, become more incessant, more firm as they fondled their way down Dean's stomach, teasing his fingers underneath the loose denim of faded, dirtied jeans, Dean lets out a loud gasp of pleasure.
The sorely missed sound brought a smirk of confidence and lust to Sam's eyes.
"Look, Sammy!" Dean practically shouts, excitement pumping through his veins, "It's Doctor Sexy!"
The smirk crashes from Sam and the spark hidden in dark, lust-filled eyes fleeing from the hazel at Dean's words.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Sam mumbles, disappointed. He pulls his hand back, the touch of his brother a scorching flame burning at his already shattered heart. Slumping his shoulders, the younger brother let his feet guide him to the bed, falling on the hard mattress stomach-first; energy, desire, and confidence dissipated completed.
Realizing that Sam had yet to respond to what he knew should have led to a smart-ass comment from his smart-ass brother, Dean lifts his head from the arm of the couch, eyes darting around the room in search of his brother.
With Sam's form hidden by the back of the couch, Dean panics, calling out, "Sam? Sammy!"
Drained, Sam attempts to mumble out a sound, his throat barely producing a breath.
Not hearing his brother, adrenaline courses through him, pushing Dean to his feet, hand automatically reaching for the knife hidden in the boots that he had been too tired to remove. As he pulled the metal free, Dean spins around the room, taking in each and every salt line, lack of movement, breath of warm air, lack of flickering light. When no signs of monsters or feelings of the creepy-crawling ghost down the back of his neck, dread and curiosity fill Dean's chest.
"Sam?" He whispers out once more.
With a few moments of rest releasing a minutia of energy, a groan was Dean's only reply.
Following the voice, Dean finds Sam's body, slumped carelessly on the bed.
"What the fuck, Sam?" Dean shouts, relief coursing through him as he dropped the knife back onto the couch.
"Sammy?" Dean asks again, worry piercing through the mess of emotions running through his head as he quickly and carefully walks towards his brother's prone form, kneeling down at the side of the bed.
"C'mon Sammy, look at me."
But Sam merely shakes his head and mumbles into the mattress, "T'red."
Hearing a hitch in his brothers voice, Dean reaches forward, gently, but forcefully maneuvering his hand underneath his brother's cheek, turning it to face him. When Sam offered little resistance, Dean knew something was up; seeing the glistening of water pooled in hazel orbs, the worry floods back.
"What…" Dean wonders aloud, as he takes in the sight, another wave of exhaustion hitting him.
"N'thin'," Sam mumbles, trying to pull his face back, deep into the off-white of the sheets.
Ignoring the tiredness tugging at his eyes and the sleep he knows his brother must be craving, Dean pushes on, "It's not nothing, Sam. What is going on?"
Knowing Dean's persistence, a hesitant nod is his reply as Sam begins to attempt to push himself into a sitting position, trying to wipe away the moisture clouding his vision as he stumbles over his own gangly limps.
Craving the end of the conversation, Sam attempts to start. Shaking his head to clear the fog hanging thick over his thoughts, he pushes past the teasing that he knows will come to pass; jade simply taking in his brother's disheveled appearance.
Shaggy, mussed brown hair, glinting bronze in the motel lighting, dirt, iron, salt, and a scent that is all Sam overwhelming the aroma of motel sex, wafting in his mind, hazel gone darker with the prospect of sleep hanging in the periphery, and a body that is all Sam, all hunter; muscle and toned and god…He forces himself to focus on the teeth-bitten lips before him, trying to ignore the way Sam combs his fingers through his hair, pulling at it, to ignore the way the teeth are making Sam's silk lips a fiery, passionate red.
Shaking his own head, he brings his mind back to the present, to a Sam, a Sammy,who is obviously upset.
Sam lets his head fall to his chest, bangs shielding his face, eyes wandering, staring intently at his hands resting between his legs; avoiding Dean's gaze.
"Do you…" he starts, hesitating, Dean leaning forward, trying to make out his brother's words, "Do you think we've lost our passion?" he spits out, letting the words stumble over each other. But, used to Sam's avoidance techniques from a very young age, he understood perfectly what Sam had said.
"You…think we've lost our passion?" incredulous, Dean questions.
At Sam's hesitant nod, Dean pushes himself off the floor and onto the bed, grasping his brother's wrists tightly, lifting them from his lap onto his brother's shoulders, Dean let his legs drape around either side of his brother and leans his forehead against Sam's, jade staring straight into hazel.
"Never," he whispers, breath tickling at Sam's ear. He pulls back slightly then, he teases, "How could you even think that Sammy? I mean, have you seen me? How could you lose passion for this!" laughing, sending a wink in Sam's direction.
Rolling his eyes at his brother's cover-up, Sam nods, using his position to tilt his head, and bite and suck lightly at his brother's neck because Sam could read his brother, too. He could read the love and lust buried beneath layers of fatigue, joking, and a hardened shell.
Dean could still feel the lingering tense of Sam's shoulders beneath his palms, working to smooth the stress. Trailing one hand to the nape of Sam's neck, the other shifting to cup his cheek, he halts the sucking, biting back a moan at the loss of warmth, but needing to set Sam straight before the worry eats away at his worrying brother.
Holding his gaze, Dean jokes, "I'm only going to do this whole chick-flick moment once, so listen up, Sammy," and continues much softer, warmer at Sam's curious nod, eyes evoking the adoration Dean did not quite know how to put into words "You and me? This passion will never fade," Sam threatens to interrupt, but is silenced by Dean's finger trailing over his lips, "There has always been something between us, Sam. Something more than brothers should feel and that is passion. I tried to pretend it wasn't there when you were younger...when it had nothing to do with sex because that urge to wrap you in my arms wasn't right. But there was still something pulling me towards you. And, yeah, that changed over time, as you grew, it into something fun," a wink, "but the draw was still there. What I'm saying, Sammy, is that, if it could last this long, through Stanford and hunting and everything you and I dealt with, it's not going away."
Dragging a finger beneath Sam's chin, he lifts his face, tucking his brother's bangs behind his ears, moving to kiss away the tears that had formed at his brother's words, feeling the upturn of lips against his own chin brining a small smile to his own.
Suddenly, Dean feels a slight tremor racking through his brother's body and instinctively wrapped his arms tight around Sam, holding him close enough to feel their hearts beating as one, worry edging into his mind when he hears quiet chuckles and a warm grin eating away at Sam's face as he falls onto his back, pulling Dean down on top of him.
Befuddled, Dean tries to extract his arms from beneath his sasquatch of a brother, and leans his elbows on either side of Sam's head.
"You're laughing?" Dean shouts, hurt and exasperated at his brother's moods.
"Sorry Dean," he laughs for a moment longer before it dies down, the huge grin not leaving his face as he leaned up enough to nip at his brother's lip, "It's just that...well, I knew that the passion was still there," at this, Dean let his face scrunch up in confusion, "after I saw your eyes," he quickly explains and the confusion is quickly replaced by understanding. "I just missed that look in your eyes, I guess," he finishes, trailing off.
"Just been tired," Dean mutters, voice gruff.
"I know," Sam returns, relief diminished by guilt and the renewal of fatigue.
Hearing the cogs turning in Sam's brain, Dean let himself lean down, using his elbows as leverage to keep himself from falling on top of his brother, and whispers against his lips, "Don't do that."
"What?" Sam questions, brows furrowed in bewilderment.
"Think. Feel guilty. Go emo," he cracks a smile, leaning in that last breath, stealing a peck before leaning back on his heels, feeling the burning warmth of his brother half-erect against his ass. He wiggles down earning him a startled gasp from his brother and an upward shift of hips, pressing the denim tighter against Dean's own denim-clad bottom.
"Fuck, Dean!" Sam moans out, pulling his brother down, chest to chest, running his hands up Dean's side, black shirt lifting to reveal tight, strong abs.
"This the passion you've been missing, Sammy?" pants Dean, rubbing his cock against his brother's.
"Mmmhmmm," moans Sam, teeth digging into Dean's neck once more, sucking, pulling blood to the surface only to lick the copper clean, lapping apologetically at the wound, the rubbing increasing with speed and friction with each swipe of the tongue, each suckle of skin, each gasp of breath.
Sam pulls himself from Dean's skin far enough to lift the shirt over and off of his brother, carelessly throwing it across the room, letting his hands glide over the scarred skin, taking a moment to engross himself in the patterns and memories of each one before moving to trace the path of his freckles that Sam had memorized so long ago, from the small of Dean's back to the blades of his shoulders, rubbing the tissue below. Dean arched into the touch, the pain of non-stop hunts being released through the sliding of thumbs over muscle and denim rubbing frantically at his cock, pearly white drops of precome soaking through the fabric.
"Sammy," Dean moans, back arching; shoulders into the tight grip, hips grinding down against his brother's. Panting fills the room as the brothers continue their ministrations, Dean's hands finding Sam's shoulders, fingers gripping tight at the tan skin glistening in the luminous glow, sweat beading down their necks.
Craving the taste of his brother, Dean lowers his head swiping his tongue over the skin, the salt wrapping him up further in his brother.
Arching his neck, goose bumps form as the cold air hit where Dean's tongue lavished it's attention; strong hands stopping their movements across broad shoulders, instead gripping tight enough to bruise, nails digging into the flesh, drawing pearls of blood to the surface. Gasps of pleasure course through Dean, vibrations sending waves of sparks through Sam's entire body, eyes struggling to stay open, to stare down at his brother lapping at rosy buds, taking them into his mouth, biting, suckling, teasing them into hard nubs. But the pleasure spiraling through his lean body overwhelms them, forcing them closed, make his body arch.
"Fuck, Dean," whimpers Sam, the nipping, incessant rubbing of friction-clad erections against his brother's, and Dean making Sam shudder, trembling as his long-denied orgasm rips through him, staining the inside of his jeans white, the warmth seeping through the fabric, drawing Dean closer and closer to the edge until the final convulsions of Sam's after waves push him over, leaving him a shaking, weak mass of limbs against his brother's chest.
With Dean's head against Sam's heart, the steady beat pressed up against his ear, the exhaustion of the hunt, of emotions, and of each other tore through them, black slowly beginning to fade into the edges of their vision as eyelids fluttered closed; the warmth of the other pressed tight against them and the comforting deep breaths falling from parted lips urging the weary boys from reality into a world that is all their own.