runedgirl | The First Time (Sam/Dean) NC17

Fic title: The First Time
Author name: runedgirl
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 1,550

Warnings: PWP, but then again, that's the whole point!

Summary: The first time took no more than five minutes.

A/N: Written for

smpc porn pile! My first time playing…

The First Time

The first time took no more than five minutes; maybe less. Five minutes that neither of them would ever forget. Five minutes they could never take back.

That didn’t count the looks, of course. Hours and days and years of looks, accumulating until Sam thought they were everything he could see, everything he wanted to see.

That day, he was full up with it, no room for one more before he burst, spilling like molten lava all over their life constrained in black metal and four wheels.

A glance over the back seat, Dad’s hands steady on the wheel and his mind on everything except the way the temperature in the car was rising, the way electricity crackled in the air every time green eyes met hazel. Sam drew one leg up, played with the frayed denim at the hole where his knee was poking out while he held his brother’s gaze. Maybe there was a challenge in it; everything was a challenge, and maybe this was just a fucked up version of how they lived their lives under their father’s tutelage, coming together again and again in a collision of sweat and muscle, struggling to come out on top and get that nod of approval.

* * *

Dean loses that round, bites his lip swollen and then jerks his head around to stare out the front window, eyes on the road but Sam can tell that’s not where his thoughts are.

Sam kicks the seat back as he brings his leg down, and Dean startles like a wild thing, like Sam’s kicked a sleeping dog, and Dean’s head turns again so Sam doesn’t regret it.

“Cut it out,” Dean warns, and his voice has gone so low recently, pitched in a register that makes goosebumps stand up on Sam’s arms, makes his stomach feel hollowed out. Makes him want to fight, or run, or tackle his brother and hold him down; the urge to move is almost overwhelming. Sam narrows his eyes in response, bites his lip the way Dean did a few minutes ago. Plants his foot square in the back of Dean’s seat and kicks again.

“You little shit,” Dean growls, and it’s not the words, it’s the way he says them, all hot and dangerous and full of warning. Maybe Dean will make him pay; Sam hopes Dean will make him pay.

“Both of you, cut it out,” Dad interrupts, and Dean mumbles a “Yessir” on instinct, not taking his eyes off Sam. There’s promise in their heat. Cut it out or I’ll make you. It crawls up Sam’s chest and colors his cheeks; it crawls down his belly and makes his cock hard.

Dad glances at him in the rearview. Sam arranges his face into an angelic smile; Dad doesn’t fall for it. But he doesn’t know how far from angelic the blush on Sam’s face is, or how many of his jerk off fantasies are the most forbidden kind.

Dean turns back around and Sam feels it like a chill, wants the heat back any way he can get it.

The crunch of gravel as the car turns off the highway wakes Sam up from his favorite daydream, hands still clenched on his own knees so they can’t end up anywhere that will give him away.

“Fill her up, I’m headed across the way to pick up some supplies. Fifteen minutes, twenty at the most. Park her over there when she’s filled up.”

Dad stretches his back out with a groan and slams the door. Dean gets out obediently, pops the gas cap and starts the pump. Sam watches him through the back window, the flex of muscle in his arm, the sweat stains on the middle of his back and under his arms, tee shirt dark and damp there. Dean catches him out and doesn’t say anything, just stares back. The numbers click by, soft liquid whoosh as the gas flows, and neither of them move. Sam lets his eyes roam where they want, down to the waist of Dean’s jeans and then lower, lingering on the slight bulge at his crotch, wondering. He can feel Dean’s eyes follow him. When he looks up, Dean is flushed, eyes dark and heated.

“’m goin…” Dean says after he parks, nodding toward the rest room. He pauses too long, watching Sam.

“Leave me the keys,” Sam says, and Dean opens the door and drops them in Sam’s lap. They bounce off the tent in his jeans, slide onto the seat, and Dean smirks.

Sam watches his ass and the way his legs bow when he walks; counts to thirty before he gets out and locks the Impala and ducks around the corner of the building too.

The door’s unlocked; Sam pushes it open and Dean’s just standing there, back against the small sink. His mouth is open, those fucking girly lips that always look kiss-swollen parted as he breathes too fast, like he’s scared.

Sam’s not scared. He closes the door behind him and slips the lock, and Dean sucks in an almost gasp, like Sam’s touching him already.

They crash together then, no grace to it, mouths wide open to each other, all teeth and tongues and Sam’s chin is wet, slippery as he pushes back in for more. His first bite, nipping at those plush lips, brings a low sound from Dean, wounded and dirty, and it makes Sam’s dick jerk in his pants so hard it’s almost painful. Dean’s hands are tangled in his hair, no gentleness, tugging his head side to side as Dean’s fat lip rubs against his mouth, and he’s still making noises, groaning. He tastes coppery now, and Sam loves it.

Two minutes in and Sam could come right now, just push his hips up against his brother’s and grind them together until neither of them can stand how good it feels. He doesn’t know when his hands slid down Dean’s back to grab his ass, but he’s digging his fingers in now, loving the give of flesh there. One hand slips beneath the waistband of Dean’s jeans and slides between his cheeks. The skin is hot, slippery with sweat, and Sam is brutal going for what he wants, tip of his finger nudging into the damp heat and Dean’s whole body jerks. He breaks away with a harsh gasp, and Sam can feel his brother’s hips shove up, like he can’t help himself, like he’s a puppet hardwired to thrust and Sam’s pushing the button.

“Ah-ah” Dean’s gasping, his hands clutching at Sam’s back now, trying to haul him in closer. Three minutes in and Sam wants to do this forever, make Dean fall apart like this, make him feel like putty in Sam’s hands.

Sam gets one hand around to the front of them and feels around for Dean’s zipper; Dean’s hands join him seconds later, fumbling open his own belt and yanking down his fly. His cock is silky and hot and wet as fuck, bumping and sliding against Sam’s hand where he’s struggling to undo his own pants one-handed. Dean’s too far gone to help, mindlessly humping Sam’s hand, but Sam’s always been coordinated. The snap comes open and he growls with relief as he pulls his dick out.

Four minutes and their cocks slide together, both hot and hard and sticky. Sam already has bigger hands; he wraps his fingers around them both, his other hand still jammed down the back of Dean’s jeans.

It’s awkward, and Dean is bent half backwards over the sink. He sinks his hands back into Sam’s hair and kisses him again, his tongue fucking deep, the in and out matching the rhythm of Sam’s hand up and down. The sweat rolls down Sam’s back, and Dean’s tee shirt is plastered to him; the crack of his ass is slick with it, and Sam’s finger slides in deeper.

“Sammy!” Dean gasps against Sam’s mouth, and Sam does it again, as hard as he can, wanting to make Dean feel it.

“Uhhh,” Dean groans, and his cock spurts over Sam’s hand as his ass clenches around Sam’s finger. Sam tightens his fist and jerks them both harder, Dean’s come slicking the way, and his orgasm spirals up and takes his breath, makes his vision go gray as he makes them even messier.

They’re panting, wet with sweat and come. The tiny bathroom stinks of sex; of them. Dean’s eyes are blown wide when Sam leans in and kisses him again; no mistaking this for a mistake. Dean hesitates for a fraction of a second, then kisses back, his fingers gentle now on the back of Sam’s neck.

They need to breathe; they need fresh air. Sam doesn’t move yet, leans his forehead against his brother’s and listens to the mad pounding of Dean’s heart.

“Meet you at the car,” he says finally as he pulls away, voice a hoarse whisper. Dean’s taste is in his mouth, on his hand. Will be crusted later in the fine hairs on his stomach.

“Yeah,” Dean answers, and Sam can hear the tremble.

Five minutes and life is different. Better, Sam thinks. He smiles at his brother, and it’s not a challenge.

The corners of Dean’s bruised mouth curl up, and Sam can see relief there. Warmth settles in Sam’s stomach; in the broken seams around his heart.

Six minutes, and the last kiss before he opens the door is soft, Sam’s tongue soothing the places where his teeth claimed Dean’s lips.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers, and Sam smiles.