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They're in the kitchen, and their clothes are still on.
Dean’s hand is on Sam's lower back, big brother weight pushing, pressing into bone to lay him flatter onto the hard surface. The table jostles with the force of Dean’s thrusts, scrapes against the floor with the strength of their loving. This is the place they eat at; the place they come to every morning, every night, to replenish their bodies with fuel. The conversations here are sacred, the meals domestic. The number of people this table has seen, and this is what they’re doing to it?
Sam wants to bury his head in shame.
The thought of someone finding them attacks. Sam has been shot at; thrown around and strangled more times than he can count; he has been possessed, violated in almost every shape and form, every sense of the word; he's been tortured before, but it’s moments like these that scare him the most.
Something like this will have real repercussions: the worst kind; the kind not even Dean can save him — them — from.
Sam shivers. Clenches.
A breathy chuckle echoes from behind him.
Dean’s stupid, so he never worries. He’s not one to factor in time and place, he doesn’t care much for the weather or humidity, and he especially doesn’t care for other people.
Well, actually, that’s not true.
He worries, but only ever about Sam.
And if he wants Sam, he’ll have him.
The only hiccup to their frequent rendezvous is the fact they’re no longer alone. They've never really been alone; there was always Dad or Bobby those summers they stayed with him, but they didn’t touch then. It was when the touching started and Cas showed up that they grew accustomed to dressing in haste and pushing their arousal down; and even though Cas hasn’t blipped into the bunker in nearly three weeks; for all their praying, he isn’t answering, and while initially that sounded like a blessing for their dicks, he kind of, sort of, left Jack behind.
Sam loves Jack.
He’s the best… charge? anyone could ask for. He’s a great kid.
Clueless, sure, but precious.
Too precious, in fact, for the life that awaits him.
Sam knows it’s because of that life that his brother has had a harder time opening up to the boy. They’re not as close as Sam and Dean or Sam and Jack, but their relationship is something, now; Dean and Jack, now, and it’s better than the nothing that was before.
The problem with Jack, though, is that he’s always around.
Don’t get Sam wrong, again, he loves the Nephilim; cherishes him in the inexplicable way only he can. Jack came into Sam and Dean’s lives and like so many times before, the brothers caved; carved an extra space on the peripheral outside of their two-man circle just for him. Jack belongs with them now, despite who his father is; because Jack is good, because Jack is kind, because Jack is—
A palm strike his ass.
It’s a natural response, his cry out.
He feels Dean moving up his body, though his hips are still. His dick rests inside Sam, momentary, but it's all the seconds Sam needs for his brain to go off on another tangent.
As much as the idea frightens him, getting caught, the trill of excitement, the rush, is as addicting as the act itself. Sam says no every time, but he’s a pawn in his big brother’s game, the easiest, most malleable piece. As Knight, though, it’s Dean’s duty to protect. Sam can pretend he doesn’t want it so long as Dean’s there to hold him down and give it to him, and that’s why each time, every time, Sam’s noes transform into yes, and then, oh yes, yes, yes, oh God, yes.
Dean scrapes the edge of his prostate; Sam mewls. Big Brother’s strong arms hook underneath his armpits, elbows mashed tightly inside. They pull him in, pull him up and away from their less than sturdy table. Dean’s holding him close now, has got him wrapped up the way only he can, the way only he knows how.
Sam’s a big dude. He’s small under his brother; even smaller in his arms.
Dean doesn’t take the time to exit Sam, instead, he leaves his dick inside as he walks them both backward. The shuffling makes the younger boy twitch, because strangely enough, it’s actually really fucking good. Though the space they travel is limited with the pooling of pants at their feet, every step back makes Dean’s dick follow; and it’s such a nice stretch outward that Sam’s ass gets reeled in, is eager to press that innermost intimate part of Dean back inside.
Their joint movements continue until Dean’s satisfied— or well, Sam knows he's satisfied, if the huffs and puffs when Sam practically jumps back on his prick are anything to go by.
They’re in the middle of the kitchen.
They’re in the middle of the kitchen, and their clothes are still on.
Before Sam knows it, he’s fucking back on Dean’s dick; and has no choice but to shake as pleasure courses through his body. Dean holds him together tightly, palms flat against the grand expanse of his chest, and he uses that strong soldier grip to bounce Sam on him until a new rhythm is formed, the kind that pushes sound out.
But they’re in the middle of the kitchen, and their clothes are still on.
Sam's body is presented to the outside world and anyone could walk in. Jack could walk in. And Sam and Dean would have to race to pull up their pants and Sam would have to tug down his shirt, and they could hide it.
They could, he knows they could, but Jack would have so many questions.
Sam doesn’t want to mess the boy up more, but this would.
This would mess him up so bad.
And Sam would have to explain the birds and the bees, but he’d have to think about this moment; this moment where Dean’s fucking into him, non-stop god-given gifted thrusts just one-two threeing into Sam’s lean body. This moment, that would have, no doubt, had to have triggered the conversation, because Jack would have had to see it; Dean pushing in and pulling out, invading Sam’s body with his own, but making him feel so good by doing it.
Sam would have to talk about the how and the why; dick goes into hole, and in this day and age, any hole works; and because people like it, because of how good it can make them feel and how intimate it makes the connection with their partner and to get pregnant, because that’s usually the main reason. He’ll have to talk about safe sex and wrapping it up even though he and Dean don’t but that’s because they’re Sam and Dean and no Jack, boys can’t get pregnant, but not be– because they don’t want to, but because they can’t, and he’s moaning, oh God, he’s moaning.
His hand reaches back, presses against Dean's hip. Pushes.
Dean needs to stop. They need to stop. They need to stop or Jack’s gonna catch them and Sam doesn’t want him to, wants to protect the last shreds of innocence his boy has left, but the sun and the stars are flickering behind Sam’s eyes and he's almost there, oh God. His fingers are clawed, an extension of himself, twisting and turning and searching for that same sense of control that Sam can never seem to fully grasp; and his hand on Dean’s hip is pushing, frantically pushing until frantic pushing transforms into his hand on Dean's ass, pulling, desperate pulling.
He thinks Dean growls. There’s a snarl from behind him, a “fuck,” before someone — Dean — grabs his wrist. His wrists, because he’s released from his bowed position and all of a sudden his back unsticks from Dean’s chest, and his head, along with his entire upper body, is hung, suspended horizontally in the air.
He’s a slack L, held up by Dean and Dean alone.
Sam’s hair cascades over his face, a curtain.
His teeth sink into his bottom lip, wired.
And he needs it, needs the curtains and the wiring because he’s gonna get fucked within an inch of his life.
Dean’s a fucking sex god, God, he doesn’t even need a second to find the rhythm. He just punches his hips right goddamn through it, imprinting it onto Sam’s body, his heart, his soul. In fact, he goes harder, thrusts harder, but not faster; because they both know Dean doesn’t jackhammer until Sam begs for it.
His hands are wrapped around Sam's wrists, holding him there; building; breaking, as Sam hangs and burns on his dick.
There are sounds coming out of him, now, he knows, because Dean knocks him particularly hard just once, and his mouth has no choice but to fall open. And the oh oh ohs get so much fucking louder, but he can’t be loud, he can’t, or else they’ll get caught. So he tries again, clamps his mouth shut, so shut he won't be able to breathe, doesn’t breathe from it anymore, but Dean does it again, wrings noises from him again, the expert.
And because he knows Sam so well, he pauses. Churns his fucking hips. Releases his tight hold on Sam's wrists, caresses them for the bruises that will surely form. It’s another thing Sam will have to work to hide from Jack, because this thing he won’t ever want to heal.
Dean gets one hand on Sam's jaw. He squeezes the sides until Sam's mouth opens, lax o, and rests the other on Sam's neck. Uses that grip to pull Sam all the way back up; ‘til his back is on Dean's chest, and they’re close again; and he fucks. He starts slow. Undulates until Sam feels fire catching on his face, a certain kind of heat that leaves little gasps falling from his lips. The whispers in his ears, stuff of pure sin, are the very thing Dean’s the best at, and they have Sam squirming, crying, dying already on the road towards his revered little death.
He has carved a place for it: every morning, afternoon, evening, and night, because that’s how often Dean likes to have him.
And when he’s ready, Dean goes just a little bit faster. He kindles the furnace inside Sam like no one’s ever done before; uses everything he has, everything he’s ever got to make sure that Sam's taken care of, does it by letting his hand fall from Sam’s neck and find its way underneath Sam’s shirt. He caresses each nipple with tender loving; tweaks them before putting Sam's own hands there. He orders them to stay with a kiss to Sam’s temple, maneuvers Sam's head before planting his lips on Sam's own.
They stay like that, lip locked.
Dean's hips are rolling, grinding, and Sam's fingers are tweaking, teasing and it all just feels so good; so good that Sam’s hips begin to follow, begin to roll right back, and his brain is breaking, spilling all over the kitchen floor and who will be here to clean up the mess except his brother and— Jack.
Oh fuck, Jack.
“Where are you going, baby?”
Sam blinks. Slowly, softly, just like Dean’s voice, until the fog begins to clear, and he gains just enough consciousness to respond.
The hum he lets out has to be answer enough.
“Love fucking you stupid, Sam.” Dean looks at him, peers into him. He kisses him some more, sees everything Sam wishes he would miss. “But this ain't stupid, sweetheart, you’re gone. Where have you gone?”
“Nowhere,” he says after a moment. They’re still, but still moving, and Dean plants on Sam another kiss. It’s a coaxing that works, “‘M just worried. Jack—”
“Aw baby,” the way the hand on his neck tightens is a contradiction to the coo. Sam knows his brother, knows exactly why he’s so removed from Sam’s Jack, “You’re thinking about some other man.”
In some other instance, if Sam were clear-headed, perhaps, he’d be able to recognize that his brother’s a penis-led dick-brained idiot. Sadly, his mind has been wiped half clean by that same appendage, and the way it flits over his sweet spot. It’s why his head lolls back. Why, when Sam picks it back up, even with the universe exploding behind his eyes, he has to find the words again. It takes him a second but; “Not thinking ‘bout a man, Dean. Jack’s a kid. Don't— ngh, want him to see.”
And maybe that’s the wrong thing to say.
Something lights in Dean's eyes, sweet and nasty, the same mischief Sam’s known his whole life. The steady grind of Dean’s pelvis pauses. He breathes into Sam’s mouth, bites at baby brother bottom lip, and twists, “Yeah, baby, but that’s our kid.”
Or well, maybe it was the right thing.
“Don’t want our kid to see you, hm?” He swears to God, Sam does, his eyes cross and flicker when Dean’s mushroom head massages his prostate. Dean can never shut up, and Sam has got to be grateful for that, because he just goes right ahead and says, “‘S okay baby. I'll keep watch, you just worry about feeling good.”
And Dean, sex superstar, Sam’s brother, Sam’s lover, kisses him one more time. One brilliant beautiful last time, sets hands on his hips and gets to work.
He thrusts with no mercy, fucks Sam like his life depends on it, like Sam’s life depends on it. Dean always works a thousand times harder if it’s for Sam, if it’s in his name. He doesn’t know how to let Sam be, and Sam knows that. Sam is the exact same way.
Dean would fetch the sun if Sam asked, and that's why he’s got his dick in him. Because this is as close to heaven as Dean would ever let Sam get, especially if they're together, even more so if they’ve been apart. Make no mistake, Sam and Dean are degenerates, the both of them, but the very best kind. They're only in it for themselves, for each other. The bow in his back is pulled even tighter, and for a moment, Sam can forget.
Right now, it's just Sam and Dean, and none of the things that have touched them before.
Just Sam and his Big Brother, and none of the things that have torn them apart.
He’s close. So fucking close. He thinks he's saying it, but that's probably because he’s been programmed to. Dean loves noise in bed, loves to know he’s making Sam feel even better than the blood used to, and he loves the announcing of it all— the way Sam fights it, until he’s all but begging. He’s panting now though, letting out only breathless whispers as he gets closer to the edge. The sounds out of him now are made possible by the punches in his stomach; they’re fucking restless in his throat.
Sam is putting every pornstar Dean’s ever watched to shame; the very best girl.
Dean’s very best boy.
One of the hands on Sam’s hips leaves, but again, Dean doesn’t break. He only fucks harder, gets in Sam impossibly deeper, all the while skipping past Sam’s dick and going to rest on his belly.
He massages. Presses.
There's an order in Sam’s ear, something about keeping his hands on his breasts. Sam loses that part, squirrels past it because his hands have always been there, because that’s where Dean put them. He loses that part, but he doesn’t lose this one: the “Gotta make sure you have enough milk for the new one,” which, Sam understands the implication; he understands it.
He just didn’t think he would want it so bad.
There’s a, “Like that? You like that, baby?” over his “I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I’m cumming”, and he wants to sob.
He does sob, gasp moaning carrying in the room despite the loud stabbing clapping that is his ass against Dean's front.
His thighs are quaking, he's sure, and he's right there, he can come without a single touch on him; but he’s being too loud, again, they’re being too loud, again, and someone could walk in, Jack could walk in; just like how he almost did when Dean had bent Sam over Baby in the garage, or when Dean had Sam up against the wall in the shower, or when Dean was pressed under Sam in his very own bed, getting ridden reverse cowgirl in the dead middle of the night when usually there’s no interruptions, but Jack needs milk to sleep now, Sam’s precious baby.
‘Cause, oh.
Jack’s his baby. Their baby. Jack’s their baby and they’re his parents and this is what parents do to make babies and Sam’s a mom, oh God, and Dean’s a dad, and Sam gave Dean a baby, he did. He gave Dean a fucking baby.
He wants another one. He wants another one.
He wants to ride Dean to hell, wants to slam his ass over his big brother’s dick and get his load, the biggest load that would fill him up so nice and warm. It would swim all the way up Sam’s intestines and it would catch, would get him swell with a baby. ‘Cause he wants a baby.
And they’re making a baby.
He’s dying, he thinks. That's definitely tears running down his cheeks.
It feels otherworldly, so good, like his soul is being ripped from his body but somehow, someway, Dean is trapping him inside his flesh with his dick. Their skin slapping penetrates his ears, so fucking filthy.
Dean, though, Dean always finds a way to be filthier. It’s why he says what he says the way he says it; a snarl as he holds Sam in place, pressing, pressing, “Gonna give you a fucking baby.”
Sam didn’t think he was mouthing off. He doesn’t— didn't, have the time to register the possibility anyway.
The world cracks in front of him, sends earthquakes and tornadoes and thunderstorms hurtling through him. His orgasm is a tsunami that washes over him and onto Dean, a supernova, a core-collapse that ricochets onto his brother and washes back up inside him, pulls all of his shattered entirety back into the black hole that is him left behind.
He’s dimly aware of the sensation of being filled. It makes him shiver, but that might be because it triggers another mini-orgasm within him. There's the classic, tell-tale rush, a crackle along the line that connects Sam's dick to his ass and brain.
His brains are on the floor, though. They must be. They’re right there, actually, caked along the ground with some splattered on the table.
“Again,” comes his brother's voice behind him.
Sam turns his head, catches his eye. He finds fury there, heat and arousal, and Dean’s not even soft inside him.
He’s just hard.
All hard.
Sam just has to hope Jack doesn’t walk in.