Lar ||| Supernatural

lips like morphine
by Lar

EMAIL: HERE
RATING:NC-17
PAIRING: Sam/Dean
DISCLAIMER: Kripke, you magnificent bastard, they are all yours.
SUMMARY:Your perfect fucking mouth
A/N:Prompt by darkhavens in the rounds_of_kink challenge. Kink -- Oral Fixation. Slash, Wincest, language. Beta love to rubywisp, and all errors are mine because she is made of awesome. Title from song of the same name by Kill Hannah.

--- Ripe is the best description for those lips. Sam decided that a long time ago when he was just starting to work out why he couldn't stop staring at his brother. It takes him a while longer to fully understand the depth of his obsession and by then he's had his chance to explore the possibilities.

Dean's mouth is lush, full, soft as any girl's, and any time Sam does the mental comparison, there is no contest.

Dean's mouth is made for sex, made for kissing and sucking. Sam can't watch Dean for more than five minutes without wanting to walk over and stop him talking, stop him singing, by offering up a more satisfying activity.

It's worse whenever Dean is eating. One hot summer when they are somewhere in the lower southeast corner of Georgia, Dean pulls over at some ratty little roadside fruit stand. He buys a bag of peaches from the farmer, the fruit so ripe that it's almost impossible to pick it up without bursting the skin. When Sam asks him what the hell could prompt Dean to voluntarily pay cash for something that isn't deep fried, he gets a smirk in response. Fifteen minutes later, they pull off the interstate onto a side road, trespassing on some farmer's back acre where the trees are thick with leaves and the air is heavy with heat and humidity, only marginally thinner than honey.

Dean carries that bag of peaches to the side of the pond that shimmers glassy and green under the sun and sits down in the grass. His back pressed to the trunk of the tree, he proceeds to indulge in the most obvious cock tease of Sam's life to date. He devours three pieces of the ripe fruit, juice running down his chin and his hand, sticky trails over his wrist and his arm gathering in the crease of his elbow. Dean takes his time, opening wide to sink his teeth into the yielding flesh, licking his own fingers, sucking the flesh that remains stubbornly clinging to the deep red-brown pits.

Sticky sweet and sweating in the heat of the day, Dean tosses the last pit from his fingers and turns to Sam, first two fingers of his hand sucked between his lips. He draws them out with a sound that should have been obnoxious but to Sam sounds like an invitation. Then he grins, eyes dark and his perfect fucking mouth wet and curved.

"Somethin' on your mind, Sammy?" he asks, drawing the words out into something wicked as he slips his hips lower, sliding down the tree to sprawl with his legs open, one hand resting on his thigh. His tongue appears, slip of pink over his bottom lip and Dean tilts his head towards his brother, already sure of the inevitable reaction.

Sam's a stubborn bastard in the best of times but his dick is hard against his belly, straining the zipper of his jeans and any attempt to pretend any differently would have been laughable and a failure. Stubborn, but not stupid, he lunges forward and grabs Dean's shirt in both hands. There is enough time for Dean to laugh, low and smug, and then Sam can taste those peaches for himself. Sweet and earthy, they make Dean's lips sticky and Sam lingers there, sucking at the top and then the bottom until Dean is the one panting.

Dean lets Sam do what he wants once he's provoked him into action. He lets Sam push him down to the grass, a grunt of annoyance at the scrape of his back against the trunk of the tree his only token protest. He opens his mouth under the assault of Sam's teeth and lips and tongue, pliant and wet and slick, swollen from the desperate hunger of Sam's kisses. He lays there in wanton disarray when Sam stops kissing him long enough to lean up, drag himself to his knees and yank at his belt, his jeans. His shirt bares a strip of skin above the waist of his own jeans, the fine trail of hair glinting in the sun as his belly tightens with anticipation but Sam's eyes skirt that temptation to watch the plump curve of Dean's mouth.

One hand on his jeans, finally open after that frantic attempt, Sam reaches the other out and cups Dean's chin roughly, squeezing there and forcing Dean's mouth into an exaggerated pout. Dean's breath hitches in at the touch and Sam's huffs out in a low groan at the sight. He lets go, sliding two fingers into Dean's mouth, swearing under his breath when he feels the nip of teeth, the slippery lick of tongue.

Sam pushes them further in, fucking the sulky perfection of Dean's lips with his fingers as his other hand wraps around his dick and squeezes, strokes, slides up to let the wetness at the head coat his palm. He jerks hard, pushes his fingers into Dean's mouth far enough to make him choke but it doesn't make Sam pause, stop, or pull back. Dean's hand grabs hold of Sam's wrist and he holds it steady, squeezes to make him hold still and then proceeds to suck on Sam's fingers with a slow, intense dedication to the act that has Sam moaning and shaking as he watches. Spit slick lips wrap around one finger, then two, tongue flicking over fingertips. He licks each crease, tip of his tongue pointed and then drawn flat up over them like Sam's fingers are popsicles melting in the heat of the day, the heat of Dean's mouth.

Sam wants to tell him to stop, to tell him to come suck him off and stop teasing, but the truth of the matter is that this is as hot as Dean having his lips around Sam's dick. Because he can watch, because he can see every bit of Dean's mouth as he does it to his fingers with attention to detail here, flicking the tips with his tongue and making Sam rub his thumb there on the slit at the head. It's enough to make him shudder, and he can't quite catch his breath and he's sure he hasn't been able to blink since he started fucking Dean's mouth with his fingers.

"Harder." The word jerks out of him, guttural and rough. Dean grins, white teeth flashing before he catches Sam's fingers in his teeth, bites down hard enough to leave marks, tongue a slippery muscle as he arches his neck. Sam can feel the back of Dean's throat for a brief second and then he's jerking his dick hard and rough, spilling between his fingers with a strangled sound. The bare strip of belly and the bottom half of Dean's shirt are marked with the creamy strands before they're smeared when Sam drops down against him.

His fingers pulled free, Sam kisses Dean again. Slow this time, breathless as he lets those slippery wet fingers find their way under the waistband of Dean's jeans. There's a pool on Dean's belly, hot as it lets Sam's fingers slide easily to their target. Not even bothering to try and get the buttons undone, he rubs over the head of Dean's dick and in a moment there's another rush of heat, Dean coming all over Sam's fingers with a groan that's stifled by Sam's greedy kisses.

They lay there in the grass for a long time, tangled together, sweating and messy and boneless. Dean points out in a lazy, careless mumble that if the farmer decides to take himself a walk down to the swimming hole, they'll get shot for trespassing and sins against God and nature.

Sam puts his hand over Dean's mouth, tells him to shut the hell up, and feels the curve of Dean's lips and the warm huff of his breath when he laughs. It's decadent, and he grins before he draws his hand back again. But not before he rubs his fingers over that ripe and perfect curve, and brings the taste of Dean's mouth to his own.

-end

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