
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/533810.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      panty!kink, Wincest_-_Freeform, Rimming, Barebacking
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-26 Words: 2473
****** Just Let It Ride ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     Dean isn't subtle, Sam isn't one to waste opportunity; Laundry day,
     panty!kink
Notes
     Anonymous on spnkink_meme: "Established relationship. On laundry day
     (or some other reason they would have no other clean clothes) Dean
     has to wear some lacy lingerie Sam once gave him as a gag gift 'cause
     they have no other underwear. Sam didn't know he had an underwear
     fetish, but glimpses of it throughout the day drive him wild. When
     they get back to the motel he strips Dean down to just the panties
     and teases him, sucking and rubbing Dean's dick and ass(hole) through
     the fabric. If anal sex happens (up to anon) Sam just pulls the leg
     hole aside."
===============================================================================
 
     The slide of the fabric over his hardening cock was agony, texture slowly
branding him in dips and scallops. Pink but precious lace skated over the
narrow maleness of his hips, riding in all the wrong places because woman’s
underwear was built for curves, not confines. It itched with each step, soothed
on the stride but as blood rushed hot and eager to his cockhead droplets of
excited pre-come slicked the pearl knit. Scraping deliciously against his skin
each fiber was a dry-swipe kitten-tongue, too much but inevitably not enough.
Basting in the summer heat, he could imagine the must and murk of his body
soaking into the fabric, marking it as something entirely male.

     “Hey, earth to Dean. I said pass me the laundry soap.”

     “Oh, yeah- sorry Sammy. Here, uh…” Dean bent over, feeling the grind
against the soft skin of his scrotum and swallowed the groan in his throat.
“Tide Cold Water, really?”

     “It’s eco-friendly.”

     “If you were any gayer it might actually burn.”

     “Yeah, ‘cause caring about the earth is expressly homosexual.” Sam
measured out a half-cup of detergent, “You know, I’ve heard tell that strait
people don’t even recycle.”

     “Scandalous, isn’t it?”

     Dean grinned, but it was just to cover the sudden jolt in his gut as he
shifted his weight and the lace cupping him stretched, caressing his length.

     “Doing okay there?”

     “Peachy.”

     Sam smiled into the washing machine. Dean was enjoying himself and that
made it entirely more fun to feign ignorance, to draw out the inevitable. Sam
knew it was all part of the game, the thing they didn’t, had never and would
never talk about. If love and sex was synonymous then they had never really
been brothers at all, just skintwin slaves to the slapstick comedy of past
puberty. Doomed to romanticize the inevitable it was better not to ask why and
instead, concede defeat.

     Carefully Sam counted out five quarters, pushed them into the coin slot
and let the sound of water pouring into the basin drown out the thrum of Dean’s
palpable discomfort.

     “No, really. You sure you're holding up okay?”

     “Never been better.” Dean waggled his hips, “I’ll tell you Sammy, these
really breathe.”

     “You like it, don’t you? Pervert.”

     “Don’t knock it ‘til you tried it.”

     That was the way it went, banter. Dean was heavy and leaking, straining
against his too tight panties but that was secondary to the illusion. They were
always brothers before they ended in a tangle of sex-slick limbs. Falling
asleep lovers and waking up kin the next day meant never losing one history for
another. As fucked up as it probably was, it was just how they had made it work
from day one. Tongue-in cheek everything, never expressly acknowledging what
was but loving that it was, loving one another.

     Sam wasn’t that easy to fool, he knew there was a pair of clean underwear
in the bottom of Dean’s duffle and all the grumbling and the are-you-kidding-
me’s were for show; Dean was wearing lace because he liked it. Laundry day was
just a convenient way to introduce his little kink but Sam was warming up to
the idea, knew Dean was feeling the tug and slide against his thighs, the lace
catching against the curl of his body hair. Shift too suddenly or bend too
sharply and it would pull and Dean’s over-sensitized skin would translate the
pin-prick throb into stimulation, sensation.

     Sam smiled.

     “Hey Dean, can you grab that other basket? I figured we could stow it in
the car and grab some breakfast or something. There’s a diner across the
street, they probably have something smothered in saturated fat that you can
put syrup on.”

     “Sold.”

     Dean bent over and Sam appreciated the view, lace creeping up and over his
hips. He’d bought them from a chintzy lingerie store a half-year before and as
a joke, Dean had opened them Christmas morning with Bobby watching, paled,
coughed and turned a fantastic shade of embarrassed peach.

     “See something you like, Sammy?”

     “Naw, just wondering what I’ll have to tell the E.R. doctor if those ride
any higher.”

     “Funny.” Dean balanced the basket on his hip, “Let’s go.”

     Sam sniggered as Dean walked out the front door trying to hide the
surreptitious shake of his left leg and the quick-pick with his left hand as he
tried to readjust.

     Minutes later they were sitting in a comfortable diner booth eating muesli
with fruit salad (Sam) and a Big-Banger breakfast plate, bacon on the side.
Dean’s pouted lips glistened with the after-stain of orange juice but Sam was
preoccupied with x-ray image of Dean’s cock straining against his jeans, lace
tightening against the bulge of his cock, pre-come staining the fabric. Without
realizing he ate at all Sam paid the bill and followed the hip-sway of Dean’s
bow-legged stroll back to the Laundromat.

     Forty-minutes and a car ride later they were back at the motel room, Dean
had been driven to a slow-peaking desperation all day and Sam had enjoyed it,
every single uncomfortable twist and subtle readjustment had zinged through him
like electricity. Semi-hard and leaking Sam was waiting for the right moment,
perpetually wary of jumping the bell. Watching Dean like a predator he clicked
the motel deadbolt before sliding the chain and locking the rest of the world
outside.

     “You could change now, if you want.”

     “Yeah…”

     “Or-“

     Dean recognized the lithe way Sam moved, the way his body language so
easily translated from gawk to muscle. It was the way it always happened, Dean
said nothing but Sam knew all his subtle tells; it was like reading a book.
Habit made him glance at the curtains but they were drawn, it was private.

     “Yeah...?”

     Sam was unbuttoning his shirt nonchalantly, long fingers shedding buttons
like a second skin, like it didn’t mean anything. Letting the silence stretch
between them Sam watched Dean wet his lips, a nervous bead of sweat slithering
from his temple and disappearing behind his ear.

     “Or you could keep them on.”

     Dean opened his mouth but Sam wasn’t waiting for the clever comeback.
Instead, his tongue was lapping at Dean’s bacon-breakfast lip. Sam was taller
which meant he had to lean, noses colliding because they both led left by
nature. Dean’s mouth wasn’t soft or pliant, it was giving but rough, demanding
and forever placated by kittenish nips turned feral, painful. Roughness was
another thing they shared, calloused by circumstance their romanticism became
hard kisses, sucked from one another’s mouths like they were stolen. Sam nursed
Dean’s tongue into his mouth, rocked against his soft lower lip until it was
whore’s pink and parted.

     Sam loved the way Dean colored, the way his attitude melted into a
thousand gradiated freckles. Smugness was meant for women, cockiness a
pseudonym for surety but Dean didn’t have to sell cheap prowess. Sam knew it
was an illusion, a lie that dripped like hot spunk and pooled shamelessly in
the corners of Dean’s sex-sated mouth. With Sam, Dean was another animal broken
to his tethers like a horse to saddle, as addicted to Sam’s nimble fingers as
he was to the hard burn of his cock.

     “Sammy…”

     Dean’s breath hitched because it was always the same precipice, the point
where he asked himself was it okay, was it wrong. Except he never asked it
aloud, quietly hesitating before realizing if he submit he never took
advantage, never forced the hand. Sam was in charge, stripped off his shirt and
pulled down his zipper, peeled off his musky jeans and rubbed his peach-fuzz
cheek against Dean’s velvet sack. It wasn’t soft, it was the wire-brush patina
of pink lace stretched just-barely over the weight, full and sex-starved
because between instances of this thing they didn’t call romance Dean didn’t
touch himself, he always waited.

     “I could suck you through these, just to see how long you could last.”

     Sam’s musing was more for his own benefit than Dean’s but that was because
he wanted to extract the moan lodged in Dean’s throat, wanted it to lick over
the shell of his ear and breathe it back inside. There was an addiction in it
all, that naked and spit-soaked Sam didn’t need to be coddled, protected.
Already on his knees Sam licked Dean’s cock through the fabric with a broad,
flat tongue. He sucked the slit through the lace, tongued it and let the salt
and slick spread across his palette.

     Dean was making the noises he always did, forcing his breath in gruff
pants because keening was too feminine. Sam nipped at his thighs, scraped his
teeth over the fabric feeling the pick-pick-pick of every elastic fiber as it
snapped back, electrified. Sam slid his palms up Dean’s thighs, cupped his ass
and spread his cheeks before sliding higher, anchoring his hips and forcing him
closer. Mouth breathing hot against Dean’s leaking head he sucked with a
fervor, soaked lace leaving shiny spittrails down his chin.

     “Shit-“

     Dean groaned as Sam’s teeth pressed harder, not painful but practiced in
their pressure. Sam knew it was another thing Dean loved but would never ask
for. Dean watched Sam’s head bob up and down, pink tongue darting against pink
lace and getting lost in the tangle. Self-satisfied smile tugging against his
cheeks Sam knew all the right buttons, the pressure points that would draw him
up and drag him apart. Dean’s was a body he had mapped with satellite precision
and because he knew Dean was watching he fluttered his lashes, licked slowly so
the sensation was secondary to watching it happen.

     “I know you wore these because you wanted this.”

     “I told you it-“

     “Can’t lie to me, Dean. I knew you were hard and thinking about this,
wondering what it would feel like, hoping I would see them sliding over your
hips and like it as much as you do.”

     “Sammy-“

     “Tell me the truth.”

     “God...“

     Dean swallowed what he was going to say as he felt the blunt pressure of
Sam’s hand pushing against his hole, the stretch of the panties as they tried
to give. It was different, more intense for the texture but not enough because
as Sam knuckled against the soft pucker he couldn’t slide inside so instead he
just let the swirl-and-pressure tease. Simulated thrusts drove Dean quietly
insane as Sam’s tongue worked along his shaft. Fabric sopping wet it clung
closer to his body, cooling only so long as it took for Sam to work back left,
or work down. As the moisture prickled icily on his skin Sam’s tongue wasn’t
far behind, confusing the sensations until it all slid together in a sway of
want.

     Sam loved how Dean’s thighs shook, trembling under and into his touch
because he knew how to play, how and where to stall. Dragging his thumb across
Dean’s stomach where it turned from tan-lined to white he traced still lower,
from cream to blood-rich rose. Dean was close, teased until his body was single
taught sinew ready unravel, to crumble and be for no one but Sam.

     “Turn around.”

     Stumbling into the bed Dean was on his hands and knees, thighs spread wide
to keep his hips low, so that kneeling at the edge of the bed Sam’s tongue
could press hot against his hole. Dean liked it drier, rougher and so Sam
slicked his fingers with spit not lube. Dragging the lace left he swirled his
index finger, once, twice and then slowly breached into Dean’s body. It was hot
and tight, Dean was panting, sweat dewing on his brow and sliding down the side
of his face only to get lost in day-old stubble. Sam was hard against his
zipper but ignoring it, enjoying the way Dean shook, the way he tried to suck
in every breath and stay in control when really it was Sam who called the
shots.

     “I was watching all day.”

     One finger became two.

     “And do you want to know something, Dean?”

     Dean groaned.

     “I liked it.”

     Dean’s orgasm curled around his belly, hips stuttering as Sam reached
around, rubbed him hot and rough still trapped in lace. Coming in spurts it
pooled, lost in the already-sopping fabric. Sam fisted his softening cock
lazily, coating his hand in Dean’s cooling spunk and then dragged it to his
tender hole, lubing him with it. Stretching him to a third finger Sam fucked
him wide, fucked him dirty because that’s the way Dean loved it, like he was
something owned.

     “Fuck! Jesus fuck- fuck- “

     It was a mantra that Sam knew well and popping the button on his jean’s he
pulled them down mid-hip, sliding his briefs down only enough to expose his
cock. Dean liked the rough burn, it reminded him it was real and so barely
lubed, Sam pressed his cockhead inside. Pushing in and bottoming out his belt
buckle ground into the back of Dean’s thigh, branding him as the now-sticky
lace tangled in Sam’s course hair. Snapping his hips Sam didn’t wait for
permission; Dean’s body was an instrument he knew how to play and the slap of
his wet thrusts was just another anthem. Blood molten in his veins Sam’s
fingers left bruises on Dean’s sides, coating him in moondents as his rhythm
stuttered. Sam came in the sinking heat of Dean’s body, let the throb of his
pulse-beat wring him out and milk him dry.

     Collapsing onto the motel-stale mattress Sam was panting, arm wrapped
around Dean’s waist to ground him and so he wouldn’t leave. Dean’s skin was
still flushed but he was sated and content to dissolve bonelessly into Sam’s
arms. Rolling over and pressing his forehead to Dean’s they shared one
another’s warm breath and kissed lazily because in the stolen afterglow the
rest of the world faded to background-black. For a few minutes there was
nothing outside their languid heartbeats, no one to tell them who or what to
love. Sam thumbed Dean’s bottom lip, smiled into his cheek and then like the
drifting of two continents they pulled apart still breathless and in desperate
need of a shower.

     “Well, looks like these are toast.”

     Dean slid the fraying panties off and held them up, shrugging. Sam smiled
slowly, it was the way it always went; Dean never knew how to handle the calm
of the silence and instead of waiting for it to stretch to a natural tether and
snap, he broke it. It was delicate truce, fragile in the carved space between
lovers and family. Sam’s smile became a casual grin, humor was like armor and
it kept why and how from spoiling the god-given gift of just because. Dean
raised an incredulous eyebrow but Sam just shook his head, laugh natural-slow
like amber; he had already bought another pair.
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