
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/302615.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Somnophilia, Face-Fucking
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-12-25 Words: 4024
****** resting on a razor's edge ******
by orbiting_saturn
Summary
     Dean wakes in the night with Sam pressed against him.
Life on the road is ever changing and constant. Tires eating away asphalt miles
at a time, one diner after another, telephone poles flickering past dusty
windows, lined with crows like little shadows guarding the twilit sky. Dusk is
when Dean falls quiet, head tilted against the window, watching the land
sailing past them through the ghostly reflection of his hazy face. He watches
the vast nothing of Kansas glide by on the edge of his cheekbone, the passing
pines in the Rocky Mountains skim his hairline, the reflection of Salt Lake in
the shine of his eyes.
And this is why he falls in love. The open road, Dean Winchester's one great
love. He's young, but he isn't the type to be taken in by romantic notions, so
this is the deepest he ever plans to fall. Everything he needs is right here,
with his Dad humming low and off-key to CCR, the rasp of Sammy turning pages
behind him and the purr of the Impala's engine.
This time they stop on the Nevada-Utah border, one half of the rooms in one
state and one half in the other. There's a black line down the tile of the
motel lobby laid out with electrical tape, so Dean plants one sole on either
side, stands in two places at once.
"Them your boys?" the clerk asks John, as he runs the card for their room. He's
an amiable sort of fella, with salt 'n pepper hair and an all black beard. At
John's grunt, the man continues on, "Good-looking kids. Bet they're a pain in
the ass."
"You have no idea," John replies, hip leaning against the counter. Dean knows
he doesn't mean anything by it, just making small talk with a civvie, so he
glances over at Sam, who's reading the shot-glasses.
The lobby has all the trappings of a quick-stop tourist spot; postcards,
memorabilia, snack foods and the like. The Nevada side boasts a couple of old
slot machines and when Dean isn't able to capture his brother's attention, he
ambles over to one and slides in a quarter.
"You old enough for that, son?" the clerk asks and Dean turns back to face him.
"Yes, sir. Nineteen last January."
The clerk grunts and waves his hand at Dean, as if to say 'carry on'. "Can
never tell no more. Kids are lookin' older and older each batch that comes
along."
"Ain't that the truth?" John agrees, amiable enough now because the clerk
poured him a shot of black-label whiskey. Poor old guy must get lonely out
here, Dean thinks. "My youngest over there is only fifteen."
"The hell you say," the clerk responds after a glance at Sam. "He's taller'n a
damn tree. That right there's what I'm sayin', ain't no tellin' these days."
After losing all of his linty quarters in the slot machine, Dean ambles over to
Sam and gives him a nudge with his elbow. Sam elbows back, harder and bitchy,
but Dean just absorbs the blow with a smirk. "Looks like Dad's making a new
besty."
Sam rolls his eyes and flicks his shaggy bangs off his forehead. Dean thinks
life would be easier for Sam if he'd just get a damn haircut, but try and tell
him that. "Yeah, making friends with that old guy's whiskey is more like," he
says with a snotty little sneer.
Dean can remember when Sam used to smile. His face lit up, grin breaking across
his face, all white teeth and dimples, shining like a star. Instead now his
lips turn down, he gets this furrow in his brow, bound to leave permanent
wrinkles in his pretty face if Dean can't find a way to bring back the glow.
But these days that frown is just as likely to be directed at him as it is at
Dad. What did I do? He used to love me.
"Dean," Dad says, and it's that stern-father voice, not the drill sergeant
command. It has him turning anyway, demand/obey knee-jerk reaction so deeply
ingrained that it flows through his very marrow. Nothing for it, just a rigid
sir-yes-sir squaring of his shoulders, keen eyes seeking and finding
immediately. "You two go on ahead and unload the car. I'll be along in a little
while."
"Yes, sir," Dean replies unerringly, predictably. He snatches the room key Dad
throws at him and turns to prod Sam along but the kid is way ahead of him,
stomping away all huffy and pushing through the lobby door, Dean staring after
him. Dean's getting used to seeing Sam from this angle.
Sam's waiting by the Impala's trunk when Dean comes out, all toe-tapping
impatience and hair-shaded eyes. It's cold as fuck, wind slashing through this
valley of bleak night highway and it freezes the wetness in Dean's eyes, makes
him blink. Sam becomes this hazy outline and it's like Dean doesn't even know
him, just the shape of a boney man juddering in the chilly air.
"Dean, come the fuck on!" Sam snaps and like magic Dean's vision clears and
it's still his pain-in-the-ass kid brother, complete with bitchy turned-down
lips and foxy eyes. "I'm freezing my ass off out here."
Dean strides over, the whole time shaking his head 'no' in exasperation. No, to
Sam's constant bitching. No, to the ball-freezing weather. No, to his fucking
lot in life. What did Dean Winchester ever do to deserve this anyway? He gives
Sam an unnecessarily hard shove when he gets to the car. "Move, bitch," he
grumbles while slotting his spare key into the trunk lock.
Both of them load up, dragging all three duffels and the tote full of their
prime weapons cache. They keep the best stuff with them at all times and the
rest stays in the trunk. When they get to the hotel room, the lock sticks and
Dean curses colorfully while he struggles with it.
"Would you hurry up?" Sam mutters behind him, shifting from foot to foot,
dancing to keep the blood flowing so his teeth don't chatter from the cold.
"Sam, if you don't shut your mouth I swear to Christ I'm gonna smack it," Dean
snaps back, twisting his wrist hard and grunting with satisfaction when the
lock finally gives.
As soon as the door swings open, Sam pushes past him, nearly slamming Dean into
the door on the way. Already fed up by Sam's attitude, Dean chucks his duffel
full of clothes and it thumps into Sam's hip, making him stumble. "Keep it up,
you little punk. I fuckin' dare you."
In the shadow heavy grey of the room, there's just enough light for Dean to see
Sam toss his head irritably, give him a nasty glare through narrowed eyes.
Sam's shooting daggers in Dean's direction, those crazy-making eyes glaring
like if he just stares hard enough, Dean will drop dead on the spot. It takes
the fight out of Dean, being looked at like that, like he's the world's biggest
annoyance and he sags in the doorway. The air from outside sneaks under his
collar and chills the skin Sam heated up with his pissy attitude and suddenly
Dean is so tired he could drop.
"Just get ready for bed, Sam. I'm too tired to do this right now," Dean tells
him and rubs his weary eyes with the heel of his hand. He blindly finds the
edge of the door with his heel and kicks it closed and by the time he flutters
his eyes back open, Sam has disappeared into the bathroom.
Sam spends twenty damned minutes in the bathroom, but rather than pounding on
the door, Dean gets dressed for bed and ignores the fact that he needs to pee
like crazy. Right when he's on the verge of going outside to take care of
business, Sam flounces out all scrub-faced and tidy. His t-shirt is too short
and flannel pants too loose, which means Dean has to ignore that line of belly
flashed between the two. Ignore, ignore, ignore. It's his inner motto. It
wasn't until Dean seemed to be losing Sam that he realized how distantly
beautiful the kid was.
By the time Dean finishes up in the bathroom, Sam is under the covers of their
bed, on Dean's side. There are rules. Dad takes the bed closest to the door,
Dean takes the side of the bed closest to the door, that way if anything comes
raging in, it has to get through both of them before it can get to Sam. That's
the rule and Sam is breaking it.
"Sam," Dean says, but it comes out like a sigh. "Move."
Sam flops onto his back, crossing his arms under the pillow and smirking up at
Dean. "No way, man. There's a spring popping out on the other side."
"Well, that's just tough shit for you, princess, 'cause that's your side," Dean
responds, rounding the bed and nudging Sam's side with his knee. "Now shove
over."
"Nope."
Dean sighs again, it's getting to be a nasty habit now. He scrubs a callous-
rough hand down his face, feeling a day's worth of hard road in every weary
muscle, a week, month, lifetime. He feels itchy to the bone, road grit and car
exhaust seeped into the pores of his skin until he's sweating it, or he would
be if it wasn't arctic cold in the room and his bitchy little brother all cozy
and smug under the blankets.
"Move over, bitch, or I won't be responsible for my actions."
Sam rolls his eyes and it's a wonder Dean can make it out in the dim gloom of
the room. Must be from how they shine like a beacon, must be from Dean tracking
them like a house pet for a lifetime, must be from how he's always measured his
worth by the light in them. "What're you gonna whine me to death?" Sam snarks
back, making a big show of snuggling himself deeper into the blankets, hugging
his pillow into the messy shift of hair at the back of his head.
"Would if I could," Dean grumbles, a little pouty. "Finally be rid of my
burden, a free man in a bright new world."
The haughty smirk melts right off Sam's lips, his eyes shutter up, cold and
hard and maybe just a bit sad. Without a word, Sam rolls over and scoots
himself to the other side of the bed, so far he's nearly dangling off the edge.
The immediate urge to apologize squeezes in Dean's chest, gets lodged in his
throat, but he shoves it back down. He has some pride after all, can't be
begging after his brother every time the kid has a tizzy fit.
Instead of speaking, Dean just pulls down the blanket and crawls into bed where
it's still warm from Sam's body. Dean twists on his side, back to Sam and it
takes a little while, but they both fall asleep that way, mirror images of
resentful tension.
*
Dean comes awake suddenly, blinking his sleepy eyes, and it's still sometime in
the night. There's just enough light from the flickery neon sign outside to see
the faint ghostly puff of his breath in the frigid air. He can hear the heater
beneath the window laboring, humming and clicking, but apparently its only
contribution is a burnt wire smell that clings to Dean's sinuses.
It takes Dean far too long to orient himself, half his mind still clinging to
slumber, eyelids wanting desperately to slink back down, but he woke for a
reason and he needs to determine what it is before he can drift back off. The
right half of his body is encased in warmth, pinned down under the slight
weight of Sam's body. This is not an uncommon occurrence and certainly not
something worth waking for. But then Sam's hips shift against Dean's thigh, a
harsh huff of hot breath blasts out against Dean's neck and he can feel the
line of Sam's hard dick pressing against him.
Dean's eyes snap open and every muscle in his body tightens, he's suddenly more
alert than he would be if a horde of demons came thrashing into the room.
Instinctively, the arm not trapped under Sam's body slides up to grasp the hilt
of the knife Dean keeps hidden beneath his pillow. Not that Dean plans to gank
Sam for a little harmless rubbing off, but it makes him feel better to have the
familiar weight in his palm, like a security blanket. Being armed soothes Dean,
whenever panic or fear grips him, he can fill his fingers with the hilt of a
knife or the grip of his favorite gun and immediately feel calmed.
Now that he's thinking more clearly, Dean's muscles loosen just as Sam thrusts
jerkily against him again. A sleepy moan slips from Sam's mouth and melts right
into the skin of Dean's neck, moist and hot enough it goes straight down to his
bones. Dean's breath catches in his throat and he's suddenly very aware that
his own dick is already at half-mast from the stimulation.
Cautiously, so as not to wake Sam with the movement, Dean twists his head over
to glance at the other bed. He's relieved to find it empty and unrumpled. The
only thing that could make this more awkward would be having their father in
the next bed over. Dean is only allowed a second to wonder what's keeping John
before Sam grinds into him again. That movement, that push of Sam's hard length
into the meat of his thigh has Dean biting back a whimper, teeth sharp on his
lower lip, a taste of coppery blood and a sweet splash of pain and now Dean is
rock hard in his sweats.
Sam makes another one of those sleepy whines and starts really rocking against
Dean, fingers opening and closing around the bunched material of Dean's shirt,
fingernails scritching through the fabric to scrape at the skin of his belly.
Dean makes a thrust of his own, hips rising and dick seeking friction in the
empty air.
Dean wonders where the hell all this came from. He remembers having thoughts,
fleeting little snatches of considering those dips of muscle developing on
either side of Sam's pelvis, what it would be like to line his dick up in that
hollow and rub until he splashes his brother's skin with his come. Dean doesn't
look at other guys that way, but sometimes when Sam's shirtless, he wants to
bite at his nipples, wants to pin him to the ground and fill his mouth. They're
brief little flashes of want that Dean always shoves down and likes to pretend
don't exist, but with Sam rocking into him like this, they all come back.
The jerky rhythm of Sam's hips jostles Dean against the mattress, Sam bleeding
out these lost little sounds with his face snugged deep into the curve of
Dean's throat. He sounds desperate, keening for something he can't quite find
and it completely undoes Dean. Releasing the hilt of the knife, Dean grabs
Sam's thigh and pulls him in tighter, relaxes his body into each of Sam's
thrusts and thrusts back. "Come on, Sammy," Dean hears himself whispering, wet
lips catching in the strands of Sam's hair. "Come on and get there, Sam. Give
it up for me, baby."
Sam stills against him and Dean bites his lip again, waiting for the warmth to
spread, wanting the feel of Sam's come seeping through their layers to mark his
skin. A surprised huff of breath hits Dean's neck, Sam's cock twitches against
him, but it doesn't jerk and unload on him the way Dean expected. Instead, Sam
pulls his face out of Dean's neck and pins him completely with this what the
fuck? look.
Dean's mouth falls open under the weight of Sam's stare, their glassy eyes
locked through dimness and the heat of their panting breaths. There's a
question in Sam's eyes that never makes it to his mouth, an explanation on
Dean's tongue that doesn't slip past his lips. The two of them just staring at
each other for what feels like hours, but is probably only seconds until Dean's
hard cock throbs and bleats out a pulse of precome. Dean speaks with his body
instead, rolling up against the hard flesh still branding him with its urgency.
Don't stop, Dean thinks desperately, please, god, don't stop.
Something in Sam's gaze firms and then he's shifting his weight, throwing one
leg over Dean's thighs and straddling him completely. Sam's elbows come to rest
on either side of Dean's head and their eyes stay locked as Sam rolls his hips
against Dean's. They both gasp a little at the sensation when their hard cocks
slide against each other.
Sam starts up a slow dirty grind, hips swiveling against Dean's, mouth open and
leaking shivery little breaths against Dean's lips. Nasty words of
encouragement fall out of Dean, just an endless litany of yeah-babys and just-
like-thats and ride-mes, but he's always been mouthy in bed. Dean's hands land
on Sam's hips, grip them tight and start pulling him into it faster and harder.
"So hot, Sammy. Got such a big cock, baby, want you to come on me, come on,
come on, do it."
"Jesus," Sam swears and slaps a hand over Dean's mouth. "Gonna shove my cock in
your mouth if you don't shut up."
Those words, filthy-wrong from the lips of his sweet baby brother have Dean's
eyes rolling back in his head, a low guttural moan hummed into Sam's sweaty
palm. Dean's hips buck up hard, he licks a slow stripe into Sam's hand and
tastes salt and soap, mouth open and begging for it.
Sam's lids fall to half-mast, lashes heavy and dark, fox-slanted and hungry in
the shadows. "Want me to?" he asks in this gritty voice that sounds like
nothing Dean's ever heard. "Want me to fill your mouth with my dick, shoot my
come down your throat, Dean?"
If he could speak, Dean would be begging for it about now. He has no idea where
the fuck this all came from, but he wants it so hard he's close to shooting off
in his sweats already. If Sam's hips hadn't stopped turning against his, he
probably would. Sam drags his hand slowly over Dean's mouth until he's got two
fingers just pushing into the swell of Dean's lower lip, eyes locked just there
and dark with want.
"Do it," Dean demands in a broken whisper. "Give it to me, Sam, come on."
Just like that, Sam is crawling up Dean's body, knees bracketing his shoulders.
Dean eats up the sight hungrily, Sam hovering over him, pushing down the waist
of his pj bottoms until it's snugged up under his heavy sac. The long shaft of
Sam's angry-red cock is hanging over Dean's face and his mouth is watering for
it, ready and wanting.
Sam presses one hand flat to the headboard as the other wraps around the base
of his dick, his eyes locked right on Dean's mouth as he paints his lips with
the glistening tip. Through his fluttering lashes, Dean can just make out the
whitening of Sam's knuckles, gripping himself so tightly it must hurt a little.
The head slips past Dean's lips, a blurt of precome spilling across his tongue.
He licks at the slit, seeking out more of that bitter taste.
A low groan punches out of Sam and then he's pushing further in, feeding his
dick inch by inch into Dean's sucking mouth. He's had this done to him enough
to know the basic mechanics so Dean wraps his lips around his teeth and takes
some steadying breaths through his nose. When the head hits his throat, Dean
swallows and works through his gag reflex. That little instinctual motion has
Sam crying out in pleasure, his hand flying away from his dick to slam into the
wall, hips stuttering as he fights the desire to thrust deeper.
Dean takes a moment to be grateful for Sam's surprising restraint. His arms are
pinned by Sam's thighs with no way to get a grip on Sam's hips. They both
breathe through the initial shocks, Sam trembling with the effort not to fuck
Dean's mouth and Dean breathing through his nose, relaxing his throat. When
he's ready, Dean palms Sam's ass and urges him into a slow thrusting motion.
He lets himself feel every slide, Sam's length gliding in and out of his mouth,
the head deeper and deeper into his throat and cutting off his breath until his
vision starts to blur. Dean's free hand slides into his sweats and wraps around
his granite-hard cock, stripping fast and desperately. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," Sam
starts muttering, punctuating each desperate oath with a thrust.
Dean's eyes want to drift closed, his body wanting only to savor the feel of
Sam's cock in his mouth and his own hand on his dick, but he can't do it, has
to watch Sam come undone. Over him, Sam is just as desperate to watch, head
tilted down with his sweaty bangs tickling his furrowed brow. Sam's is staring,
blissful and disbelieving, his dick disappearing further and further into the
hot cavern of Dean's drooling mouth. "Fuck, Dean, I'm gonna come. Can I come in
your mouth? Please."
Sudden and brutal, Dean's orgasm hits him, shot after shot of come pouring over
his hand. His eyes roll back in his head and he groans around his mouthful,
throat working around the thickness. Just like that, Sam is shouting and
spurting down Dean's throat. Dean can feel the muscles of Sam's ass tightening
under his grasping palm, he realizes too late that he's tugged Sam forward, as
deep as he can get him.
Dean's dick is still shooting feeble blurts of come through the aftershocks,
throat swallowing automatically to take down Sam's load, locking down the urge
to gag it back up. Just when he thinks his body is going to give up the fight,
Sam pulls out, hand working the last pulses out over Dean's slack, gasping
mouth. His chin and lips get splattered and Sam makes this delicious whining
sound as he watches his dick paint Dean's face with his come.
When there's nothing left, Sam falls against the wall, cushioning his face on
his crossed arms. Dean is still gasping so desperately he's worried he might
pass out from the lack of oxygen, but he can't resist the urge to lean up and
nuzzle against Sam's softening flesh. "Jesus," Sam curses, voice muffled and
hips stuttering feebly.
If he had any functioning brain cells, Dean would be panicking like crazy. As
it is, he only has the energy to reach up and gently urge Sam off of him.
Muscles still jerking and twitching, Sam lets Dean lay him back out on the
mattress, eyes squeezed shut and lower lip sucked in. Dean props himself up on
one elbow, his other hand smoothing the hair away from Sam's sweaty face,
watching it worriedly. "Dean?" Sam asks weakly, eyes still screwed shut.
"Go back to sleep, Sammy," Dean tells him softly, reaching down to pull Sam's
pants back up.
"Shouldn't we talk about this?"
"Tomorrow. Just get some sleep right now," Dean urges, trying to keep the
desperation out of his voice. If Dean has his way, they'll never, never talk
about this. Dean rarely gets his way when it comes to Sam, but he'll hold out
hope for as long as he can.
Sam bites at his lip, face tight with worry, but he relaxes after another
minute of Dean stroking his fingertips over his cheek. Finally, Sam nods and
turns on his side, curling himself up against the line of Dean's body. Shifting
uncomfortably at the mess in his pants, Dean pulls the blankets back up over
them and eases himself back to the mattress. He plans to get up and change once
Sam's sleeping, but he drifts off first under the soft cadence of Sam's breath
on his neck.
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