Graveyard Digger, Coffin Case Sinner

Wake Up On Your Knees

"She doesn't make my heart want to crawl out of my chest the way you do. She doesn't make me forget how to breathe the way you do." His mouth brushed Dean's, light and teasing, and the older man followed after him as he pulled back again to murmur, "She doesn't make me want to give everything - heart, body, blood, and insides - the way you do."

His brother's pupils were blown wide, fingers digging into his hips and eyes searching his face. He watched as Dean's tongue slid out to lick his lips, and he leaned in to finish,
"Her name isn't carved on my skin, the way yours is."
Moments later he found him self slammed back against the wall as Dean's mouth crashed into his own.

Sam moaned softly as his brother's mouth claimed his, possessive and hungry; Sam could feel Dean's rock-hard dick pressing against his own. He gasped softly, arched against the older man, as Dean's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling his head back. Teeth nipped hard at his throat and Sam rocked his hips forward, fingers clutching at the other's muscled arms.

"Hey!" A voice called from somewhere near them, "You can't do that in here!"

Sam watched as his brother reached back to pull his gun from the waist of his jeans, where it had been tucked beneath his jacket. Dean pointed the weapon at the man – the bar's manager or owner, he wasn't sure and didn't care – without raising his head from Sam's throat. The aim was accurate, pointed right at the man's face, and the bar manager muttered several colorful curses.

"Whatever," the man finally muttered, turning away, "Try to not make a mess, willya?" The man stomped off, and Sam chuckled, slightly breathless: Dean was sucking at a spot below his ear.

"He's probably going to call the police," he warned, spreading his legs as the other reached down to rub his throbbing cock through his jeans. He could feel the other man smirk against his skin as Dean answered,
"He was smoking meth in the corner when we walked in. He's not calling anyone."

When Dean's fingers reached for the button of his jeans, Sam pressed a hand against his chest. His brother halted, raised questioning eyes to him, and he leaned in and nipped the man's ear lobe. "Let's get out of here," he suggested, rocking against Dean's teasing hand, "Don't want to freak out the locals."

"Fuck the locals."

Sam laughed at the growling words, and Dean shot him a slight grin, eyes locked on his face. He could feel himself flush as the older man murmured,
"You're beautiful when you laugh, Sammy."
He bit his bottom lip, shot his brother a shy glance, and Dean cursed softly, pressing hard against him.

"You can fuck me here," he licked a path along his brother's neck to nuzzle at his ear, "or you can fuck me on the hood of the Impala."

Dean's fingers tightened on his aching cock for a moment, drawing a low moan from him. The other pulled away suddenly and commanded,
"Car. Now."

They were barreling down some backroad, south of the bar, in the Impala several minutes later. Sam couldn't tear his eyes off his brother; Dean was behind the wheel, face illuminated in the darkness by the dashboard lights, obvious tension burning beneath his outwardly relaxed appearance. The older man glanced at him as he muttered a soft, "Fuck". He undid his seat belt and scooted across the bench seat to press against Dean's side.

"Wanna suck you, Dean."

The other man shot him a smirk which had Sam's cock twitching.
"Yeah?" the other man reached over to catch a handful of his hair in one fist. He exhaled a sharp breath, shivers wracking him, as Dean pulled hard, tugging his head closer.

"Ask me nicely and I'll think about it."

"Please, Dean," he leaned in, relishing the feel of his brother's fingers tangled in his hair, controlling how far he was able to move his head, "Can I please suck you off?"