.

.

"Dean," his first and last word, whooshing out of Sam like a blow to the lungs, and it has nowhere to go, strangled against the cotton-feel of a gag.

A balled up, laundry-fresh sock lodged between his teeth. Sam's not concentrating on how less than sexy the position is, not with senses blurring out with the small, jerky movements under him and jarring his hips up, Dean's come spurting and filling him warm, banishing all the emptiness he despises, craving Dean's immediate and strong presence.

Empty and black, where his eyes peer sightless against the satin-soft bind of the makeshift blindfold. One of their crumpled Fed ties.

The world narrows down to the shuddering crank of the heater in the room, and the thick carpet fibers squeezed between Sam's toes. Low gasps and growls against the back of his sweat-heated neck, puncturing the air. Dean fists around his still-hard cock, stroking the base lazily.

"Can't get you off on just that, right, Sammy?" he says, touch-flash of grinning teeth pressing into Sam's skin.

There.

It's there. Mercy in heaven, yes.

The faint, metallic flip and click of Dean's lighter.

Sam's breathing quickens, pulse drumming in his throat.

A flick of rosy heat, skimming around the curve of his earlobe, invisible to Sam's eyes—but his body wants, flushing with arousal, squirming between the flesh cushion and cradle of his brother's thighs. The gush of come still tack-drying in the crack of his ass where Dean's still seated deep inside him, dribbled to the back of his thighs.

"How long should I go this time?"

Heat returns from vanishing, the flame of the Zippo passing over the jut of Sam's chin, oscillating and torturous, beautifully savage when Dean's fingers hover it across the hair on Sam's chest. It's barely a whisper away from his sternum. He can smell the burning, sharp, clogging up his nose. "You gotta tell me when, Sam."

Tears slide out from the corners of his eyes, frustration building, and every nerve housing a livewire straight to his groin.

Sam's raw-feeling tongue pushes away the sock gag, giving him the chance to sob out his answer. But Dean reads it like he had carefully plucked it from the scatter of his thoughts.

The grasp on Sam's cock remains steady, hurrying its pace. A blunt thumbnail catches gently under the pinkish-red, swollen crown. The crest of his pleasure; the sudden, shock of erupting pain overwhelms and drags him under, rips a cry that births from his core and sags him against Dean's chest with an arm wrapping around him possessively.

Blood. Dark and oozing to the surface.

He shifts out of Dean's lap, not on his own, knees on the creaky mattress. The blindfold untangles. Dean's eyes wide and familiar-green.

Lips opening in an unusually tender kiss, shifting down to push briefly to the fresh burn-mark above Sam's nipple.

"Antiseptic?"

A drowsy, obedient nod.

"Good, last thing we need is you getting infected," Dean says. Despite the harshness in his tone, his older brother ruffles Sam's hair, his bruising and Sam-abused mouth curling into one of his jackass smiles. And Sam doesn't have the heart or energy to get remotely ticked off, leaning silent and docile into Dean's fingers smoothing against his forehead.

Save it for next time.

.

.


Argh, I've been sick out of my mind for days. Feels good to put up some PWP smut. Hope you enjoyed. ;) You can pretty much place this ficlet into any season. I wasn't focusing on a particular time in their lives. My own headcanon says maybe Season 1 or 2. So, yes, any and all comments are forever welcomed, and please (I see it's becoming a bad habit, especially with older readers) do not leave a favorite without sparing a few words? It's only courteous, guys.

SPN Kink Meme prompt:

"Sam/Dean. Zippo lighter play."