fic: Linger Till Dawn - Sam/Dean - pr0n

[withimpunity]

Title: Linger Till Dawn
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Nc-17 / Adult / Pr0n
Words: 1887
Summary: Sam smiles against his pillow, eyes still closed against the brightness spilling in the dorm room window. “Dean.”
A/n: Title nabbed from the song, “Dream a Little Dream of Me.”

Weezer blares through the tinny speakers on the clock next to Sam’s bed. Its eight forty-five, giving him enough time to let his eyes become adjusted to light, take a shower, and grab a breakfast consisting of more than a poptart before his first class. Sam rolls over, twisting the sheets and dingy comforter around his legs and makes a mental promise to himself, just another minute.

“Better wake up, sunshine. Don’t wanna miss class.”

Sam smiles against his pillow, eyes still closed against the brightness spilling in the dorm room window. “Dean,” he says, recognizing the voice like its his own. He feels the small, twin mattress dip next to him, feels Dean’s knees bump against his own, feels Dean’s thigh slide between his. He can smell the coffee on Dean’s breath, Irish coffee, warm and delicious, and he knows if he opens his eyes, Dean will be right there, big green eyes staring down at him, propped up on one elbow, blowing that ridiculous strand of hair out of Sam’s face.

“What’re you doing here?’ Sam yawns and stretches, body inadvertently rubbing against Dean’s as his back curves into a bow during the stretch, his eyes finally ready to accept the sunlight.

“In town,” Dean replies casually, tucking that rebellious lock of hair behind Sam’s ear. “I can leave if you want.”

“God, shut up,” Sam rolls his eyes and curls against Dean’s body, warm and inviting, familiar, like nothing he’s felt in at least four months and twenty-two days. Not minutes later, Sam feels Dean’s heart rate slow beneath his palm, feels soft breaths of air against his hair, and realizes that Dean’s fallen asleep, probably drove straight through all night to be there when Sam woke up. Sam reaches behind him, turns the alarm off so it doesn‘t bother them in another five minutes, and follows his brother’s lead.


***

Sam wakes up sometime after eleven. Dean’s mouthing his stomach, leaving sticky wet trails around his naval, across the sharp jut of his ribs. “Miss you, Sammy,” He murmurs, hooking his thumbs into the elastic of Sam’s boxers, slipping them down off his bony hips. “Miss tasting you in the morning.”

Sam arches so hard on the bed Dean’s afraid his neck’s going to snap. He reaches up, splays his hand out across Sam’s belly and centers him, brings him back down, and licks a stripe up the underside of Sam’s cock, listening to that sweet moan that drags up from deep inside Sam’s chest.

“OhgodDean,” Sam moans, clutching at Dean’s short spikes of hair as Dean wraps his lips tight around the head of his cock and teases the wet slit with his tongue.

“Mmm,” he moans around Sam, fingers curled around his shaft with one hand, holding him steady with the other as he takes Sam into the heat of his mouth, and Sam can just imagine what Dean would be saying if he could: God, taste good, Sammy. Miss having your sweet little dick in my mouth. Miss fucking you, making you scream my name. Miss you so fucking much.

“God Dean, yeah,” Sam pants, hips thrusting up into Dean’s mouth. He can feel the head of his cock scrape against the roof of Dean’s mouth, but Dean just takes it, takes it for as long as he can even though wetness is leaking out of the corner of his eyes and his lips are swollen, red, and beautiful. “Dean - gonna-”

Dean swallows, ever since the first time, always swallows Sammy down like he’s hungry for it, licks his lips and wipes his face with his fingers, then licks them clean too. Sam moves quickly, pinning Dean onto the bed by his hips, making quick work of the button on his jeans, tugging them down just far enough to get Dean’s cock, hard and dripping wet, free from his boxers. Sam takes Dean in, every inch of him all at once, still panting and shaking from his orgasm. He swirls his tongue around the tip, licking away the puddle of precome that had gathered at the slit, swallowing it down eagerly. It tastes bitter and salty on his tongue; tastes like home.

Dean loves Sammy’s head because Sam’s a master of detail: tongue the vein that runs underneath, suck on the head until it makes that wet popping noise, not a lot of teeth, but a little feels oh fuck so good, rolling Dean’s balls in his palm as he goes down on him, knows just where to push his knuckles at and make Dean come until fireworks explode behind his eyes and he blacks out. But Dean doesn’t want that this time.

“Sammy,” he whispers hoarsely, pushing his fingers through Sam’s thick head of hair, stilling him, and shakes his head no. “Want to come inside you, Sammy.” Sam moans softly around Dean’s cock, sending a shiver of pleasure through him, and lets Dean go with a pornographic wet pop. He starts to help Dean off with his jeans the rest of the way, but Dean’s not graced with an over-abundance of patience at the moment; he just wants to feel Sam, all tight around him like a vice, clinging onto him, panting his name, all sweet and desperate like Dean hears in his dreams every night.

Dean sits up against the headboard and pulls Sam’s into his lap, crushing Sammy’s mouth with his. They kiss wet and sloppy, hungry mouths and even hungrier tongues, like they’re trying to remember how the other one taste. Then Dean’s pushing two fingers past Sam’s lips, nodding slightly, and Sam closes his eyes, sucking them into his mouth. Dean fights the urge to moan as Sam tongues his fingers, getting them all sloppy wet so he can slip them inside Sam’s tight little ass and work him open.

“Okay,” he says after a minute - who knows if its been long enough, its all he can stand. Sam lifts his hips up a little and Dean slips his hand between their bodies, pushing those two fingers between Sam’s cheeks, sliding them into that tight ring of muscles he hasn’t had the pleasure of feeling in too fucking long.

“S’right, Sammy,” Dean murmurs next to Sam’s ear as his little brother pants and gasps, fucking himself on Dean’s fingers. “Just like that, baby. Good, good.”

Dean scissors his fingers inside Sam as he fucks down onto them, opening Sam up good and wide; he wants Sam completely ready to take his cock so he doesn’t have to go slow or wait before slamming into him, fucking him hard and deep and feeling every inch of Sammy around him, all over him, inside of him, every fucking where.

“God, Dean. Just-”

“Okay,” Dean says, mouthing along Sam’s jaw. “Okay.” He lifts Sam up by the hips a few inches, feels Sam’s nails lightly dig into his back as he lowers himself onto Dean’s cock.

“Oh fuck, Sam,” Dean growls as Sam sinks down onto him, knees pressed tight against Dean’s ribs, chest to chest, skin to skin. He lets Sam ride him a little at first, loves to see that look on his face as he takes Dean’s cock deeper and deeper, the way his honey brown eyes roll into the back of his head when it reaches his prostate. Then Dean can’t take it anymore, and he’s gripping Sam’s hips so tight he’s certain to leave bruises, fucking up into that tight body, the body he misses more than air, turning feverish at just how hot and tight Sam fucking is.

“Oh God,” Sam moans, fingers curling around the knots in Dean’s shoulder as Dean drives into him. “Don’t…stop…”

“Fuck,” Dean gasps, and something snaps inside his brain. In one swift motion he’s got Sam flat on his back on the bed, lifting Sam’s legs so that his knees are nearly pressed up flush against his chest, pounding into him harder, faster, tight, so tight, so fucking hot, god, miss you you little bitch, come with me, just fucking come back with me. He’s coming before he even realizes it, hips jerking forward and pulsing hot inside Sam; he reaches out blindly for Sam’s cock, wraps three fingers around it and pulls a couple of times while he rides out his own orgasm, hears Sam’s shouts and feels the thick, sticky warmth coating his fingers when Sam comes.

They collapse together in a sticky mess, both too fucked-out and spent to do anything about it at the moment, and they fall back asleep; Sam’s hand underneath his cheek, Dean’s hand underneath Sam’s.

***

Sam wakes up to AC/DC, wondering when the fuck the mix station his clock radio is set on started playing classic rock and also, why the hell his alarm clock going off at four in the afternoon. Of course, that’s when he notices it; the cold space next to him, the lack of body parts pressed up against his, the smell of salt and gun powder and leather all but gone, and the folded piece of notebook paper draped over his clock radio.

Hey Sammy, it says. Sam can hear the awkward tone in Dean’s voice, the way it cracks a little and makes Dean go pink around the ears. You know I’m shit at goodbye’s. Sorry I made you miss class today. You should totally call up some hot chick and get the notes from her. Catch you next time.

Dean

Sam puts the letter down, looks into the mirror and lifts his hand, touching his fingers to the purplish bruise above his right hipbone. This is how Dean says good-bye, leaving his mark all over Sam so he won’t forget him. He wished that Dean understood how impossible that was.

He crawls back in bed, curling into himself and burying his face in the pillow they shared; it still smells vaguely of Dean’s hair gel, and the rest of the bed still reeks of sex, evidence that Dean really was here. Sam doesn’t know if he wants to rip them off and burn them to ashes or never wash them again.

Just fucking come back with me, he hears Dean inside his head, desperate, pleading. Sam squeezes his eyes shut and salt water stains the dark green pillow case he’s clutching. Stay with me, Sam thinks. Stay with me, Dean. Stay safe. But he knows Dean never would, so he never asks. He wishes he would have this time.

Sam fingers the bruise on his hip once again, pushing in on it lightly to feel the soreness. It’ll stay there for a week maybe, and Dean’ll be back soon. He always is.

When he falls asleep this time, the moon is out and CCR is playing. He dreams about waking up, about bright emeralds for eyes and hands that fit perfectly into the curve of his hip. It’s the type of dream where everything seems so real and tactile; he smells hot coffee, feels rough denim beneath his fingertips, convinced its real. The alarm goes off at eight forty-five the next morning to the dulcet tones of Coldplay. Sam grabs the clock and throws it across the room, watches it shatter into a dozen pieces when it slams into the wall; he pulls the covers up and goes back to sleep.

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Oh, McGee. You've ended me.