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“I like my whiskey like I like my men: on the rocks, ready for death as I devour at their first intent.” - Dominic Riccitello
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It’s strangely peaceful in the war room, an oddly calming part of the bunker. That thought makes Sam hum quietly to himself, a small smile rising on his face. He raises the curved tumblr to his lips.
Glenfiddich 21 years aged single malt. Dean had got it for him, a little gift for his birthday, had said that if Sam is going to drink a single malt then he should at least ‘do it right, Sam’.
It tastes smooth on his tongue, he let’s it slither down his throat. Sam enjoys the burn. Notes the taste of of honey springing up, sweet and rich. He closes his eyes and relaxes back. Enjoys the peace.
His relaxed demeanour makes him feel carefree, a sort of devil-may-care attitude. He feels that smile grow on his face again.
He spreads his legs wide, his black work pants stretched, the slim fit polyester material only allowing him to spread out so much. They hadn’t changed back into their comfort after the hunt had finished. Too fixated on getting back to the bunker.
“Dean, spread open for me. Let me see everything” his voice is a raspy, makes him feel a little rugged. He brings the whiskey up for another sip.
“Now, Dean.” He brings himself to sit up straight. Slowly opening his eyes to take it in. It can be so luminous in the war room sometimes, he thinks.
The sight he sees before him causes him to nip his lip between his teeth in a hard sting. He can feel the blood rushing up to the surface, he traces his tongue over the wound.
The light in this room illuminates everything, so bright, everything is on display to be seen.
Dean is on the war table, perfectly placed in the centre, on all fours just like Sam had told him to be. His hands pressed flat, face laid down on the side, his legs spread and ass prominent in the air. He still has his black socks snug on his feet, shirt and tie a little ruffled but still on. No boxers or work dress pants, nope, they’re laying in a pile somewhere to the left. Shoes, again, probably lying somewhere to the left.
The chair creaks as Sam leans forward, locks eyes with Dean. No more verbal communication needed, Dean knows what to do.
Deans breathing heavily, faced still laid against the table as he moves his hand to his ass. That juicy, peachy ass. Sam adjusts his pants a little, relives the pressure. Deans hands grab at his cheeks, spreads them wide.
Eyes still locked with Sams. There’s so much trust in those eyes. Sam wants to swim in it.
Deans hole is pink, the pinkest pink you can imagine. So warm and pink, Sam can feel his mouth water heavily at the sight, has to gulp and swallow it down so he doesn’t unconsciously dribble down his chin.
He downs the rest of the whiskey, chases the burn.
Walks closer to wear Dean is displaying himself.
He brings three fingers up to his mouth, soaks them wet, make sure his fingers have that 21 year aged whiskey smell radiating off them. He brings his three fingers flat against Deans hole, Dean whines impatiently at the contact. Sam has been keeping him on edge for a while, but he likes to savour and enjoy so Dean will have to learn to be patient.
Hmm, training Dean, just the thought shoots a thrill through his body. Makes him throb and get wet in his pants. It’ll never happen, Sam doubts, Dean would have too much pride for that but he can work on it. He hums again, hopeful.
Deans makes a small whine again, Sam locks eyes back with him again. His fingers still placed perfectly over Deans warm hole. Fingers stinking of whiskey, dripping in the smell. He eases those fingers into Deans pliant hole, slowly sinking in. Dean whimpers high, bites the inside of his cheek to stop words forming. Sam doesn’t want to hear meaningless drabble.
Sam angles his fingers to reach for the sweet spot in Dean, the spongy tissue that makes Dean writhe and squirm like a slut. He finds it, rubs it mercifully. Watches as Deans eye roll back into his head, mouth gone slack against the table. Ass grinding back against Sams fingers, those long fingers that can reach inside Dean and reduce him to a wreck.
“Speak to me Dean” Sam’s still massaging Deans prostrate, he’s gonna make sure it’s swollen and used good before the night is up. Make Dean easy and sloppy. Eyes wet from overstimulation, he likes it when Dean becomes too sensitive.
Sam leans down to latch his teeth into the thick meat of Deans thighs.
Dean yelps at the sting, ass still grinding back hard against Sams fingers. Eyelids fluttering, Dean can’t focus.
“Fuck... fuck my ho-hole Sam.” Mouth again going slack, saliva dripping past his plush lips. Beautifully puddling over Alaska on the war table. Sam reaches between Deans legs to tug on Deans dick. It’s an angry red, looks ready to burst, dripping all over, strings of precum swinging. He gives a few tugs on it.
He slowly pulls his fingers out of Deans hole, holding both thumbs to the rim to stretch lightly. He can see all the pink. Dips his tongue in a little which gains a little moan from Dean. Leans back and slaps his hand against Deans hole.
“Please...please” Dean whines again.
“Shhh now, Dean, no more words” Sam soothes, he knows Dean doesn’t like to beg too much.
“Turn over for me Dean, come here to me. Spread your legs wide for me now” Sam watches as Dean turns over shaken but steady. Wipes his arm against his mouth to clean himself up as he scoots down. Sam grabs hold of his socked feet and pulls him closer those last few inches to the edge so his ass is hanging up and off.
Sam lubes himself up, watches as Dean is lazily stroking his own dick, eyes fixated on Sams.
Sam lines himself up against Deans hole. He can still smell the whiskey coming up in waves.
He grabs hold of Deans tie, pulls Deans face hard up to his own, resting forehead to forehead. Eyes locked on to each other again. He eases in slowly. Fiercely eats up the gasps coming from Deans mouth. He pushes in to the hilt, balls smack hard against Deans ass.
Dean wraps his legs tight around Sams waist. Thick legs, always so firm and secure. Makes Sam weak.