Jaune Chat's Life, the Universe, and Everything

They get wound up during a really good hunt. It's all close calls and quick thinking. Teamwork that only works because it's the two of them, because they know each other so well. Nothing but the call of a name and a weapon's thrown into a hand, a swing is taken, a monster is dispatched to the hereafter and they're left dirty, sweaty, laughing shakily at having escaped with their lives yet again.

Then the laughter quiets and the smiles fade and they're face to face with the knowledge that if it weren't them, if Dean weren't Dean and Sam weren't Sam, if they had any relationship but the one they have,they'd be dead twenty times over by now.

It's enough to bring them bruising together in the aftermath, the Impala parked by the side of a lonely highway and the two of them in the brush just behind it, pulling at clothes, getting caught on underbrush. Dean's hot mouth pursing brands into Sam's chest as Sam gasps and yanks Dean's jacket off. Their lips meet in hot sucking kisses as their legs intertwine and their hips pump fast and hard against each other. Sam's mouth pushes into Dean's shoulder when he gets it bare. Dean growls and pulls hard on Sam's belt loops, tugging him closer, slotting their clothed cocks together. They need it so badly they can't be bothered to take their clothes of and get it. Sometimes Dean's so anxious and wound up that he comes in his pants, just ten minutes of frantic kissing and grinding, the dirt from the fight gritty on his tongue beneath the salt of his brother's sweat.

Sometimes he's more patient, though, and it's Sam that's wound up, and things take a different course then. Because Sam likes to be denied, he likes to fight it until it's taken him over, and by then Dean's got him pinned down so well that after struggling like an animal he goes limp and looks up into his brother's eyes, pleading silently.

"Tell me how bad you want it," Dean will say, and Sam will groan and try to thrust upward. He gets nothing. Dean pulls back. "No, I said tell me."

"Dean," Sam says, and the name comes out all breath and spit. "Dean."

Quiet. No motion. Nothing. Sam's tension rises, a string going thin and taut.

"Fuck," he whispers into the thick air, finally. "I can't stand it."

Dean grins down at him. Sweat is pooling in the hollow of Sam's neck. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes protrude almost cartoonish from his skull.

Sam's not the type to say "suck my dick" or "jerk me off" or even "fuck me." He doesn't have the power of words. Sometimes Dean will ask him, and he'll nod frantically, but he doesn't say it. What he says is Dean's name, and "now, now, now," and a whole lot of "fuck." Which means Dean gets to decide.