The Salt of Your Skin

by Nomelon

Rating: NC-17

Characters: Sam/Dean

Summary: Semi-drunken wall sex. Porn. Bittersweet boys.

Setting/Spoilers: season 3

Disclaimer: all belongs to CW & Kripke. No money is being made, yadda yadda.

~~~

As they fall in the door of their motel room, Sam fumbles and drops the room key on the floor. He just stands there, staring down at the huge, stupid, palm tree key fob, and giggles. Actually giggles. That's when Dean knows that getting him that last shot of tequila was a bad idea.

Of course, Dean had a shot right along with him, then snuck in another one while he was waiting for Sam to get back from the restroom, but Dean can totally deal. There's just no way that he's more of a lightweight than Sam when it comes to drinking. No way.

"Sammy," he says, laying his hand very precisely in the centre of Sam's chest and nudging with his fingertips. "You're drunk."

Sam sways alarmingly, but plants his feet and looks like he's having a lot of fun with it. He has a big dopey grin on his face as he shoves at Dean's chest in retaliation.

"So're you. Dorkface."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Oh, it's like that, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam says, leaning in. "That's what it's like." He wobbles a little, but still manages to look ridiculously pleased with himself.

Dean smirks and leans right into Sam's space. Sam can't get it together enough to even try and back out of the way, he just tips over like a felled giant redwood, shoulders hitting the wall behind him with a thud. He stumbles a little, tripping over his own feet, but catches himself, his arms spread out, his hair in his eyes.

Dean grins, nearly washed away in a huge wave of fondness for his little brother. Straddling Sam's thigh, he grabs at Sam's ass to haul him upright, then pins him against the wall with his whole body. Sam gasps at the contact, not expecting it, and his mouth falls open, his eyes on the ceiling. He reaches blindly, anchoring himself with fistfuls of Dean's shirt.

They haven't been doing this very long. Dean hasn't exactly been keeping score, but it's been more than days, less than weeks, and every time they touch like this it feels brand new. Every time Dean thinks, no. I shouldn't. Not this time. We'll stop. But his plan hasn't exactly been working. All it takes is one look from those eyes, Sammy hopeful and wanting and just a little sad, and common sense flies right out the window. Every time Dean is weak enough to let it happen.

Sam asks with a touch or a glance, and Dean says yes without saying a word, and they end up tangled in each other like there's nowhere else in this world or the next for them to go.

But this, this is the first time Dean has decided to just go for it. They're both a little drunk, happy and mellow for once, and Dean wants it. He wants it, and he's not going to second guess himself this time. He's just going to take what Sam is willing to give and not tear himself to shreds over it. Sam is his happy place. Dean is man enough to admit it, even if it is only to himself. When he's all wrapped up in Sam, right and wrong don't matter. Only Sam. It's always been that way. And this new thing they have, it's more than Dean ever expected. He wants to lose himself in it. It'll never be perfect, there's too much hanging over their heads for that, but sometimes it comes pretty damn close.

Sam had been cheerful tonight, no dark clouds looming over him for once, laughing a little at Dean's stupid jokes, kicking him under the table when Dean had leered a little too obviously at their waitress. Dean had even let Sam beat him at pool, and it had been a good night. Actual fun, a rare enough occurrence, and Dean wants to savour it. He wants to keep Sam smiling, because it's been good, really good, to see Sam smile at him all night, nothing overt, just being happy, just being Sam.

Yeah. Just being Sam. Because it hadn't been torture or anything watching Sam drink all those shots of tequila in that kitschy Mexican bar. Watching him lick salt off his skin, pink tongue sliding over the back of his hand, slow and thorough, licking up every last crystal of salt. Watching him turn his wrist to chase a trickle of lemon juice off the heel of his thumb. The long column of Sam's neck as he'd downed every shot, slamming his empty glass on the table with a manly grunt of satisfaction. Hearing the little gasp he'd made right after he bit down on his wedge of lemon, sucking it dry then tossing it away and licking his lips, his eyes lit up with alcohol.

The way he'd looked at Dean, amused and indulgent, because Dean was still sitting there, staring stupidly, salt still not licked, shot still not drunk, lemon definitely still not sucked.

Sam grunts, and rolls his hips as he hums low in his throat, smiling to himself and biting on his lower lip. There's heat pouring off him, pinking his cheeks, burning through the thin shirt he's wearing: a warm wall of muscle pressed up against Dean's chest.

He murmurs Dean's name, and his voice comes out as a husky little whisper, the soft, guttural sound laden with want, like Sam can't believe they're really together like this. Like it's all he's ever wanted.

Dean loves the way Sam stares at his mouth with a soft frown of concentration. It's that moment when things get still and serious, and it flips something hot and achy in Dean's stomach.

Dean leans in like he's going for a kiss. Sam's eyes close for it, but Dean ducks his head and drags the flat of his tongue over the dip between Sam's collarbones, visible where the neck of his shirt gapes open, tasting salt and citrus and Sam. He scrapes his teeth lightly over Sam's Adam's apple and grins when Sam groans and rolls his head on the wall. Sam's a biter in bed, and it drives him crazy when Dean turns the tables. They're both still covered in fading bruises from making that particular discovery. It's pretty obvious to Dean that Sam was a vampire in a previous life.

He sucks a leisurely bruise low on Sam's throat as he slips his hands under Sam's shirt and scratches blunt nails over the flat muscle of his stomach. Sam arches into it, making a surprised little sound, and apparently that's enough teasing for one night. He hauls Dean up for a kiss that tastes of Cuervo and lemon, his hand on the back of Dean's neck, pulling him in close and licking behind Dean's teeth. It's fierce enough to bump Sam's head against the wall, but he's too busy trying to taste every part of Dean's mouth and get his hands inside Dean's pants to notice. He manages to get Dean's belt open, tugging at his jeans until the buttons give, shoving his hand inside, and getting an awkward grip on Dean's dick.

Dean swears and grunts, pushing his hips up into it. The feel of Sam's hand, strong and a little rough, always catches him off guard, always makes him feel sex-stupid and greedy. He stares at Sam's face, amazed at how he can make Sam look like that, all Sam's desire focused on him.

Getting Sam's clothes off, getting skin on skin, suddenly seems very important.

Of course, Sam pouts and whines when Dean tries to get Sam's hands out of his pants. Then when he's trying to wrestle Sam out of his shirt, Sam's sleeve gets caught on his watch. The two of them try to free him, Sam's ridiculous flapping counteracting Dean's yanking, but eventually he's free and Dean tosses the shirt over his shoulder. Dean pauses, just looking at the broad expanse of Sam's chest, running his fingertips over Sam's tattoo. He watches the muscles clench and tremble as Sam shifts restlessly under his touch.

With a surprising display of dexterity, Sam flips them, pinning Dean to the wall, trapping him there with hands and hips and heat. Sam's strength, the sweet way he's rocking up against Dean, the hard length of him, this comes as no surprise, but the low growl in Dean's ear, the things Sam is saying, that's all new and it sends shivers over every inch of Dean's skin.

"God. I need. Wanna do it, Dean. Want to. Been thinkin' about it. Think we should."

Dean's mouth goes dry and there's a buzzing inside his head. This is a line. One he told himself he wasn't going to cross.

He has to swallow and lick his lips in order to speak. "Yeah," he says, not recognising his own voice. "Yeah, okay. We can do that."

He starts working at his jeans, shoving them down his hips, but Sam's grabbing at his wrists, getting in the way, and Dean's too focused on his task to really register what Sam's doing. Sam just moves Dean's hands behind him, pressing them against his ass and hissing when Dean's instinct is to grab and draw him closer, snugging their hips tightly together, making them both groan.

Sam's lips brush Dean's jaw when he murmurs, "No, man. I want you to do me."

Dean is stunned, and swallows again, harder, licking his lips over and over, just trying to get his chest to work. "Jesus, Sam, you're... Fuck. You're too drunk for this."

Sam pulls back and grins evilly, suddenly looking a whole lot less drunk and a whole lot more sure of himself. "Dude, most of the rounds I bought I was doing shots of water."

Dean's mouth falls open. He doesn't know whether to be proud or appalled. "You... you cheater. You got me drunk? And now you expect me to put out?"

"What?" Sam asks, innocent as hell apart from the hand he's sliding down Dean's body. "Is that going to be a problem for you?"

"Hell, no, it's not going to be a-- fuck." Dean's eyes flutter closed as Sam slides his fist up Dean's very hard, very interested cock. No problem there.

"Good," Sam breathes, his words licking over Dean's skin, "because I've been thinking about this for a while now."

"Sam," Dean groans, catching the taste of Sam when he licks his lips. "I don't think--"

"Don't think."

"But Sam, don't you--"

"I want it. I want you."

"Sammy--"

Sam nips at Dean's bottom lip, effectively cutting him off, and murmurs, "I'll beg if I have to."

Dean sucks in a sharp breath and closes his hand around Sam's, stopping him, putting a little pressure on the base of his dick, because fuck. Sam can't say things like that and expect Dean to be able to hold it together long enough go the distance, drunk or not.

Dean takes a couple of breaths and pushes Sam back, holding him at arm's length. Sam's too much of a distraction up close and personal like this, whispering filthy little things that slip past all of Dean's defences, and he knows it too, the sneaky bastard.

Dean wants to look him in the eye, wants to be sure.

Sam stays loose, letting Dean move him around, just waiting it out, but he starts moving his hand again. He works Dean slow and secretive, keeping his touch light enough to tease, the angelic innocence on his face ruined only by the devious twinkle in his eye.

Dean knows he's a weak, weak man, because he's nodding. He's sliding his hands into Sam's hair and pulling him into a kiss, murmuring soft things like, "Yeah, Sammy, anything. Anything you want."

Then he's kissing air, and when he opens his eyes to complain, he catches Sam watching his mouth move like it's the hottest thing Sam's ever seen.

Sam grins when he sees he's been caught, presses Dean back against the wall and says, "Stay."

So Dean stays.

There's a rush of cold air when Sam disappears, and Dean feels more than a little exposed with his t-shirt all rucked up and his jeans obscenely low on his hips. He curls his hand around his dick, not really doing anything, just holding it, just thumbing the head, watching Sam with heavy-lidded eyes.

Sam dives over his bed, pulling off a neat little duck and roll manoeuvre like it's the hood of the General Lee, and ends up sitting on the other side, yanking at his bootlaces with one hand and rooting through his duffel with the other.

Dean watches the play of muscles in Sam's back, the way Sam's broad shoulders move under his skin, the damp curl of his hair at the nape of his neck. Dean slides his fist slowly down his cock, just enjoying the view. Sam glances over his shoulder, his eyes flaring when he sees what Dean is doing. Dean barely has time to register the heat there, the disapproval, before Sam is standing in front of him again, barefoot and shirtless.

"I said stay, not touch."

Dean's grin curls up one side of his face as he holds out his hands in surrender. "Pretty pushy for a guy who's about to get fucked in the ass."

Sam's breath catches, and he's suddenly right there, supporting his weight on the wall on either side of Dean's head, boxing him in. "Yeah?" he breathes, his eyes dark and serious.

Dean hooks two fingers over the waistband of Sam's jeans and thumbs open the top button. "Yeah," he nods, glancing up and hoping like hell he doesn't look as terrified as he feels.

Sam kisses him again, looming over him, making Dean tilt his head back and strain up into it. Sam keeps his hands on the wall, making encouraging noises when Dean gets his fly open, and pushes his jeans down and off. It leaves Sam naked and eager against him, damp and hot through the thin cotton of Dean's t-shirt.

Sam tucks a tube of lube into Dean's pocket, impatient, like they have more important things to do, and starts working on getting Dean naked too. Dean lets him do it, lets Sam have his way, but keeps him close, keeps his hands on Sam as much as possible, keeps pulling him in for kisses that halt Sam's quest until Sam remembers again that naked is good, naked is what they're aiming for. He breaks their kisses to yank Dean's shirt over his head, grinning when he traps Dean's arms behind his back, the shirt still wrapped around his elbows, making Dean rumble with vague disapproval and arch against the wall. Sam only bites at Dean's lips, twisting the material tighter and holding Dean in place.

Sam shoves Dean's jeans to his knees, and there's the beautiful first flush of connection as their bodies touch, their skin sliding and catching, sweat mingling and heat rising.

Sam goes very still, staring at Dean, just staring, his jaw set, something bright behind his eyes that Dean has seen too many times recently.

"Sammy," Dean murmurs, shifting his shoulders. "Let up, man. Gotta give me room to work."

Sam touches Dean's face, a gentle brush of fingertips over his cheek, and there's something so open about it, something so intimate, that Dean has to closes his eyes. Sam kisses him again, letting go of the shirt, and Sam's hands are everywhere, grabbing and tugging, looking for skin. Dean peels the t-shirt off his arms. He stumbles a little as he switches their positions against the wall, trying not to trip over his jeans tangled around his ankles.

He just stands there, looking at Sam, trembling and compliant against the wall, waiting for whatever it is that Dean wants to do to him.

Dean runs his hand down the length of Sam's body, sternum to belly, over all that smooth skin, broken here and there by old scars, fighting the tremble in his knees, the tightness in the pit of his stomach. Sam's skin feels so soft against the rough calluses of Dean's palm, so vulnerable. He kisses Sam again, gentler this time, trying to say all the things he doesn't have the words for. As Sam turns slowly to face the wall, he strains back over his shoulder, keeping their mouths together for as long as he can.

Dean licks sweat off the solid muscle of Sam's shoulder, trailing biting kisses up Sam's neck, making Sam shudder and moan. Sam's back is a long, elegant curve, the bumps of his spine endlessly fascinating. Dean runs his hands down Sam's back, fingers spread wide, his thumbs just touching. He noses into the damp hair curling at the nape of Sam's neck and presses another kiss there. Dropping to a crouch, Dean smoothes his thumbs over the dimples at the base of Sam's spine, smiling against Sam's skin when he hears a sharp intake of breath from somewhere high above.

Dean keeps his mouth busy as he works at getting his bootlaces undone. He keeps kissing and licking and biting, pressing the flat of his tongue to the beginning of the crack of Sam's ass... and he thinks about it. He thinks about working Sam open with his tongue, just doing it, tasting him, and experiences a sudden bright stab of longing to make Sam come apart just like that. Dean's stomach flutters and clenches, torn between desire and disgust at the thought of putting his mouth there.

He settles for biting the curve of Sam's ass, pressing kisses to his lower back, and running his thumb between Sam's ass cheeks. He presses the pad of his thumb to Sam's asshole and looks up the long line of Sam's body to watch him shudder and gasp, every muscle tensing, his skin glistening with sweat.

Dean stands up slow, letting their bodies touch and slide, leaning against the hard muscle of Sam's thigh, just to get a little pressure, just to feel Sam's heat against his dick. He steps out of his boots and his jeans, holding onto Sam for balance, and kicks lightly at the inside of Sam's ankle to make Sam spread his legs.

Dean takes it slow at first, working his way inside with his fingers, making Sam tremble with the effort to stay still. Dean crooks his fingers, works the smooth muscle slow and easy, relaxing Sam while he opens him up, pressing deep and rubbing against the spot that makes Sam groan and swear. Sam screws his eyes shut, his forehead pressed tight against the wall. He's drenched in sweat, lines of it running down his cheek, dripping off the point of his chin, trickling down his chest.

"Easy, Sammy," Dean murmurs.

"Dean," Sam whispers, over and over, his voice hoarse and breathless.

Dean keeps working his fingers, pulling them out just to listen to Sam whimper. He slides three fingers back in, and this makes Sam whine.

"Sam," Dean says, and there's someone else talking because Dean knows he doesn't sound like that, that low, rough-edged voice filled with want and need. "You want me to keep going?"

"Don't stop," Sam pleads. "Please. Just. Don't stop."

Dean's stomach feels hollow, his skin too tight. He's all tied up in knots inside; too centred on Sam and all the things that the two of them should never be doing together. But the thought of stopping doesn't enter his mind. And if he's honest with himself, he's not sure he could stop now if he tried.

He slicks himself quickly and tosses the lube to the floor. He stands behind Sam and lets his cock slip between Sam's spread legs to nudge behind the dark shadow of his balls. It's sweet torture for both of them, making Sam jolt and swear, rising up on his tiptoes, only to arch his back and push his hips back against Dean. Sam's hands are splayed on the wall, his fingertips white, like he wants to dig in and hold on.

"Jesus, I can't..."

"No. Dean. C'mon. Please."

Dean presses his forehead to Sam's shoulder, because he wants it, oh god, he wants it, he can practically feel it already, the long, slow, slide inside, slick and tight and hot as hell, but this isn't working.

"I can't," he admits. "You're too fucking tall."

Sam snorts with surprise. Then he laughs, actually throws his head back and laughs, the fucker, and that shit isn't on. It's just not cool to laugh at a naked guy with a boner, so Dean grabs him and shoves him down face first on the bed.

"Hands and knees," he growls, feeling a little pissy, his gut twisting with want when Sam scrambles to obey.

He drapes himself across Sam's back, smoothing over hot skin, his cock slipping between Sam's thighs.

No more teasing. Dean lines himself up and nudges inside. Sam's body clenches tight around him, greedy and obscene. Dean can see it, and it drives him crazy, making him groan.

Sam's pushing back against him, his hips making sweet little figure eights as Dean slides in all the way, Sam's head bowed low, his hands white-knuckled in the sheets.

"Yes," Sam hisses, his body tense, one hand slapping against the wall at the head of the bed. "Fucking yes finally."

Dean's inside him, deep as he can go, but he nudges forward, impossibly deeper, and it's good. It's awesome. They're breaking all kinds of rules here, but it doesn't matter, not to them.

They're really doing this thing.

Dean wants to stay inside this moment, inside his brother, bowing over Sam's back, pressing kisses against Sam's shoulders.

Dean starts to move, taking it slow at first, but his body wants more, giving Sam the whole length on each thrust. And Sam's just taking it, getting caught up in the sweet friction of it, moaning out encouragement when Dean takes tight hold of his hips and fucks him deep.

Dean pulls out and flips Sam over onto his back. This is better, because now he can see Sam's face. He bites on Sam's lip, and sucks on his tongue, just keeping their mouths together because proper kissing takes more coordination than he has right now.

Dean shifts his hips, trying to get closer, and nudges the spot inside Sam that makes him gasp and grab tight to Dean's hips. Sam's staring up at him, his eyes wide and shocked.

Dean pushes his face into Sam's throat, moving inside Sam, fucking him deep, giving him everything he's got. Sam writhes underneath him, twisting up with his hips, working with Dean, until he goes still, his face turned away into the pillow, coming hard all over his belly and chest. Dean loses it, the tight clench of Sam's body his undoing, coming deep inside, the world fading into white noise.

He collapses on top of Sam and they lie there, sweaty and exhausted, just breathing.

Dean gets it together enough to try and pull out, but Sam tightens the leg he has wrapped around Dean, keeping him there.

"Stay," Sam says. "Stay there."

Dean raises his head and recognises the look in Sam's eyes. The one he first saw when Sam woke up that morning in Broward County and pulled Dean into a hug. The way he's caught Sam looking at him in unguarded moments ever since.

Dean pulls a face, breaking the moment, because it's so much easier this way. "Gross. And, plus, dude. I think you broke my back."

Sam huffs and starts to complain, a little crease of annoyance right between his eyebrows giving him away, so Dean diffuses it by kissing him, a soft touch of lips. He pulls out carefully, making Sam tense and suck in air over his teeth, but he doesn't go anywhere, just slumps to one side and drapes himself over Sam, making an abortive grab for the sheets. They've slipped off the bed and onto the floor, but it's too hot for them anyway, and Sam is putting out heat like a furnace, just like always. Dean swipes his forehead on the pillow only for sweat to form again.

Sam pats Dean's thigh and gets out of bed, clearly having some freakish energy reserves Dean wasn't aware of. He wanders over to the window and cranks up the air conditioner from a low rumble to an unhealthy whine. A cooler breeze wafts through the room and Dean closes his eyes and turns his face into it, letting out a happy little sigh.

He jolts awake, not even aware he was dozing, when Sam holds a bottle of lukewarm water against his ribs, tapping it against Dean's skin until he takes it and sits up on his elbows to drink long and deep. He knows he's looking at a healthy hangover for tomorrow anyway, there's no need to add dehydration to the list. Sam crawls back into bed and curls up along Dean's side, way too close and way too hot, but Dean doesn't move far, just enough to separate their skin where they're sticking together and turn his face into the curve of Sam's throat.

He's falling fast, shadows blotting out the world as he sinks into sleep.

"I'm not going anywhere, Sammy," he murmurs, his words thick and heavy with sleep.

Dean feels Sam's hand find his, lacing their fingers together and holding on tight.

The end.