present tenseauthor: moveablehistoryrating:
p for pornwarnings/notes:
Sam/Dean. *Extremely* schmoopy schmoop slightly-linguistics!geeky pwp.a/n:
First time I've written anything like this (omg porn
! at two in the morning
!) so feedback would be lovely. Also, could ostensibly be a deleted scene from untitled (a stanford fic)
He's laughing above you, and you're laughing with him.
"C'mon," he whispers, "c'mon, Sam." His hands skim along your sides and you can see him smiling, open like never.
"Yeah, okay," you say, and you shimmy your hips, jeans sliding down easy and he settles between your knees like he's in for the long haul.
You know he's in for the long haul.
"I have," he says, and you don't really understand what he's saying because in between vowels he's teasing you with his tongue and all you can manage is a low growl that originates somewhere so deep inside you that you're pretty sure it'd be impossible to reach.
His clothes are gone - every last barrier - and you idly wonder if you did that with your brain. He lies against you, little bucking motions reminding you that his cock and yours are trapped hot between your bellies and instinctively you move to wrap your legs around his hips like the way he seems to want.
"Dean," you breathe. "Dean."
His hand is beneath your head so you don't hit yourself on the door handle. It's cramped, and you're about to stretch out but Dean whispers "you have," and he kisses you, lips and teeth nibbling lightly; one of your legs hooks over the seat and you feel so open, as if one more inch meant you'd crack and everything you ever held close and secret would spill out of your heart and all over the backseat where Dean could see it. The thought terrifies you, even as you grab at it.
"They haven't," Dean whispers against the base of your throat and you arch up, incessant - but hell if you'd ever admit that out loud. He's braced on his forearms above you and he touches your hair.
You can feel it in your toes.
You don't want to wait, and you rock up against him, seatbelt buckles digging into your back. Dean slips fingers into your mouth and you lick and nip; he slips them down your ribs and then inside you; the wet makes you shiver and you can feel it everywhere.
"Dean," you breathe again, against the side of his face and you can feel him smiling, fingers writing letters in heat somewhere inside you and you wish you could understand. "Dean, c'mon."
He slides inside you - finally, you somehow manage to think - and he buries his teeth in your collarbone and you know there's going to be a mark there in the morning, a sign of possession. You love it.
He's quiet when he comes, and you know it's because he likes the crazy peace of it, a moment in between the chaos of everything else. He moves inside you enough to make you burn, heat flooding through your veins. Then you're coming, too, and everything is sticky and happy between you.
Dean's face is framed by the rearview window, and you can see the stars above him because out here, in the middle of nowhere, everything is clearer. He moves to pull out of you, but you unhook your leg from the seat and tighten around him.
"Wait," you say, and he rolls his eyes at you but he doesn't move. "Have I ever mentioned that you don't have any stamina?" you tease, and he growls low in his throat. The impala's open door squeaks as he playfully thrusts against you and you realise - for the first time, again - that this will never be over and you never want it to be over, not if you can help it. Something tips over warm and uncurling in the middle of your chest, high up to just below where your heart lives.
"We have," Dean says, and you finally catch on to what he's been saying.
"Present perfect," you whisper, but Dean smiles smugly and shakes his head.
The moon glints off his eyes and swallows up all your words.