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SPN: Kryptonite (Sam/Dean) NC17

Title: Kryptonite
First posted: November 2006 by technosage here
Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Word count: 2361
Spoilers/Warnings: general spoilers through "No Exit", incest, m/m sexual content, dirty language
Disclaimer: If they were mine, they'd do more than bump shoulders.
Thanks: to the awesomesauce strippedpink and maygra for kickass beta, and pushingyouaway for helping me get unstuck when Sam was so emo I wanted to kill him, and just_katarin for, well, everything.
Summary: It's hot. Too damned hot to move, but with the way Dean looks bent over the Impala, certain parts of Sam just don't care.

It's hot. Too damned hot to move. Even in the shade of the palo verde tree in the rest area where he's pretending to read while Dean buffs the Impala, it's 112 degrees.

It's too hot to fuck when the air sears your lungs, but the sun kisses off Dean's back. Sweat drips between his shoulder blades, tracking the scratch Sam raked last night when Dean took him hard and un-prepped. His ass aches, and he wonders if the salt stings, reminding Dean of how it felt to have Sam willing beneath him.

His gaze follows the bead of sweat down Dean's spine, and when it disappears under the waistband of faded and torn denim shorts, Sam's dick says fuck the heat. Even the metal of his zipper is hot, burning into his inconvenient hard-on for his brother.

Inconvenient, but inevitable with Dean bent over, legs spread and braced, while he reaches into the middle of the hood to rub away water marks from the sun drying the Impala faster than he can.

"Starting to feel like a coolie, Sam. You could help," Dean drawls without looking back.

"And be subjected to a never-ending stream of 'be careful, don't scratch the finish?'" Which is ironic, considering the way Dean's breath catches and his body tightens when Sam's fingernails tear his skin. "No thanks, dude. I'm reading."

Dean turns, knowing smirk already in place. Tanned skin stretches over his chest, tight from too much sun. His gaze drops to Sam's groin, then lifts to meet Sam's, and dry, spiky heat prickles over his chest and arms.

"Must be one hell of a book, Sammy."

It actually is a good book, what Sam's managed to read of it since he picked it up in the Albertson's three nights ago. He's had better things to do. Dean.

Because Dean leans against the Impala looking like sex on legs and Sam's higher brain function thinks a vacation's in order, he paraphrases the review blurb while his fingers worry the pages, wanting Dean's skin. "It's a complex psychological thriller about a literary joke that turns into a deadly conspiracy. An expert on the medieval Knights Templar enlists the help of friends working with him at a vanity press in Milan to invent a history of the occult that ties the Templars to just about every occult manifestation ever recorded."

Slow blink, shared-joke smile, head-tilting half-shrug: you know me. "It's kind of the obscure literary version of Craig, Ed, Harry and the tulpa."

Dean's smirk grows; it's like he's developed a radar for Sam and sex. "Thanks for the capsule summary, Oprah. Is it a kissing book?" His hot, dry tone slyly turns Sam's childhood into innuendo.

For a second, a heartbeat, Sam's fingers clench around the paperback. This isn't normal and both of them know it, but it's real and Dean has no goddamned right to tease because he's as much a part of it as Sam. But it passes when Dean's expression shutters, closing down because he pushed too hard and now he feels guilty for hurting his little brother, the one person left in this world he gives a damn about. Sam knows that as well as he knows that Dean's doing the best he can with all of this.

"'And as they reached for each other... Ah, it's kissing again. You don't want to hear that.'" The corner of his mouth turns up, wry, and he pushes at Dean with his gaze, insisting: it's okay, I'm okay. "It's also a brilliant exploration of themes of power and—"

The rag hits him in the face before he can finish spouting the pseudo-intellectual bullshit that he makes up to annoy Dean, and the spray of bath-temperature water from the faded-out sun-baked hose catches him in the groin – not at all by accident – as he climbs to his feet.

"Do it again." His voice drops, rasping over lips dry from heated breath as much as sunburn. He's not sure when it happened that Dean's wiseass grins became grounds for deep-dicking, only that they are when they're faced off like this in the pounding heat. "Do it again, I dare you."

The hose comes up, and Sam takes advantage of his greater reach to cuff Dean's head. Dean ducks away, fist flashing out for Sam's ribs. He absorbs the glancing blow with a huff of breath, stepping in to drop Dean with a sweep-kick.

Thumbing the mouth of the hose, Dean sprays him in the face. When Sam spins his head away, Dean grabs his legs and knocks him down.

Dean rolls, pinning his hands and straddling him. With his arms stretched out like that, he has no leverage and Sam could flip him easily. But Dean's hard and grinding down against him, and not even the bathwater pooling under his calf can stop him from hissing out, "Fuck."

"You're such a horny little bitch, Sammy."

He doesn't care that Dean's calling him a girl because his breath fans Sam's mouth and his hips circle, giving him friction where he wants it most. He tightens his ass, flexing up into Dean. The pale green and gold of Dean's irises shrink, pupils dilating to fuck-me dark and glazed.

"And you're a slut for my dick." Because last night had been an exception, Dean in his ass instead of on his knees taking it hard.

"It's too damned hot to fuck," Dean whisper-growls, but he doesn't deny that he wants it.

Sam's heart leaps like he just won the Powerball. It shouldn't feel this good that Dean wants him, but with Dad dead and Jess dead and Jo and Ellen pissed at them it's the only goddamned thing worth living past killing the Demon. "Too damned hot not to," he whisper-growls back and lifts his head to grab Dean's mouth before he can pull away.

As soon as their lips touch, Dean presses down into the kiss, opening to him and the conclusion is as inevitable as his arousal at the sight of Dean's bare back and the scorching Sonoran sun.

His tongue curls from the bitter-basic taste of the sunscreen in their chapstick as Dean forces his hand between them to fumble with Sam's belt. "Shit, Sammy," he groans and his hands are clumsy. Not like Sam's making it easier, bucking with the brush of Dean's fingers over damp denim molded to his dick. "You could help."

"Said that already," Sam pants around a grin.

Dean gives up and dives down to rake his teeth over Sam's throat. "Could let you go back to your book."

"Dare you."

Dean lifts up slow, like he's really going to do it, and Sam's body screams in protest. He seizes the space between them to pop the button on Dean's shorts and tug down his zipper. Before Dean can get one knee lifted, Sam grabs a fistful of denim and yanks the shorts off his ass.

While Dean's off-balance, he pushes him, riding him down to the ground. He really couldn't care less about the dirt and dust, because he when he looks down at Dean, head tipped back to expose the stubbled edge of his jaw and the clean curve of his throat, eyes closed and lips parted to take in air that's too-hot-to-breathe, if he doesn't get his dick in Dean's ass soon, he's going to come in his jeans.

He can't take his eyes off of Dean, though, can't stop watching his perfect lips form a steady stream of curses. "Fuck, Sam. Just fucking do it, already. Goddamn it. Today, Sam."

It's not like he's trying to delay it, not this time. It's just hard to choose between watching Dean buck into Sam's fist around his leaking dick and stopping long enough to get his belt undone and his jeans off.

"You could help," he growls, low and hungry-soft, when Dean says the first "please."

Dean's fists unclench, but Sam's managed to get the belt off and he swears he's going to stop wearing the goddamned things if they're going to keep fucking like this. It takes too damned long and pulls him away from the slick-hot feel of Dean's dick in his palm and the harsh, bitten-off moans that say Dean needs this too.

Letting go hurts, even just to shuck his jeans off his hips. Dean makes a tiny whimpering sound in the back of his throat and reaches for Sam, but he's got to lose the goddamned jeans so he can give them both what they need. He locks their gazes together, puts in his eyes the promise he's not leaving, not now, and not ever.

Dean blinks once, chin dipping in a tiny nod. He doesn't believe it yet, not really, but he accepts it now, for this instant between the hard-packed dirt and the ceaseless sun.

It's not good enough, but he'll make it right, help Dean believe. That's what this is about, some of it. Some of it is about fucking into Dean and the haunting sound of him chanting, "fuck, fuck, yes, god, Sam yes."

Finally, he's braced over Dean, aching dick in hand, when he realizes it. "Fuck."

"That's the general idea, Sam." Somehow, even with his thighs spread and needy, Dean manages to sound cocky, and Sam loves that about him.

"We don't have—"

Dean just spreads his legs wider, lifts his hips to paint a slick trail over Sam's abs with his cock. "Do it."

Two words, two words to say if that's what it takes to keep you here, then do it and make it hurt, and Sam's throat closes down around his thoughts as tight and dry as Dean's ass around the head of his cock. Letting go of Dean before had hurt wrong, but this, Dean's fingers clawing at him -- stop, wait, god it hurts, but yes, okay, okay -- the slow, painful push into Dean, hurts right.

Like the first burning breath after running too hard, too fast, too far to save each other.

Dean's panting, bruising Sam's hips, and even though he's pulling him deep, his ass is stretched so tight around Sam's cock that blackout creeps around the edges of Sam's vision. He blinks it away. Nothing will make him miss the exact moment when Dean opens to him and starts to push back.

Another series of ragged breaths and Dean's hands relax. His eyelashes fan his cheeks, then he's looking back up at Sam, nothing in his eyes but yes and Sam wants it to feel this good forever.

Dean's eyebrow quirks upward. "Sam," he pants, and time lurches into motion again. "Less chick-flick. More fucking."

Sometimes he swears Dean's telepathic, and it kind of pisses him off. He drops his head to purr downright filthy across Dean's ear. "That's it, baby, beg for it." Then pulls back and thrusts into him, hard, and the smirk drops into a pleasure-pained 'o' and Sam fucks his mouth as deep as his ass.

There's no more talking after that, only Dean's ass, and the sun burning handprints on his back from Dean trying to climb up his dick. Their sweat dries almost as fast as it forms and his skin pulls tight over his shoulders, while he pounds into Dean, and he doesn't care. Doesn't care about anything except too-much friction and Dean raking tracks in his flesh to mark his passage.

Dean tightens, which shouldn't even be possible, then warm, wet come splashes his abs and Sam just fucks him harder. Slams into him, opening him again because Dean doesn't get to shut down on him. Again and again and again, and his balls draw up, his orgasm swirls in his hips, but it feels too good to stop and Dean just doesn't get to close down on him.

Then Dean's voice, raw and hoarse and whimpering hits him, "Sam. Sammy, please…please."

Dean's "please" is his kryptonite, it weakens his resistance. He plows in one last time, and lets it all go for Dean. It's easier after he starts. Stings, but his dick slides in Dean's ass while he rides it out.

"Jesus," Dean breathes out at the same time Sam whispers, "Fuck," against his neck.

Dean's head thuds against the ground. One arm falls away to his side: not cuddling, not hugging, no matter how good it feels. But Sam smiles into his throat, biting his lip both to keep from laughing and to keep from whining, because Dean can't stop dragging his fingers over the scratch along Sam's spine and it burns.

He stays in Dean, over Dean, as long as his brother will let him. It's not long. It never is, before Dean pushes him up and off. "Ground's fucking hard, dude, and there's a rock jabbing my ass."

Sam grabs the hose when he stands and twirls his finger. "Turn around, princess."

Dean flips him off but he turns, and Sam's blown away again by the powerful muscle moving under the sweat-and-dirt streaked skin. He hoses him down up close, and sleeks his hand over his back and ass. When Dean looks back, objecting to the intimacy with the arch of an eyebrow, Sam shows him the grime on his hand. If Dean needs to, he can use it as an excuse, even though they both know Sam just wants to touch him.

But Sam knows better than to push it, and turns the hose on himself before he yanks his jeans up. He grimaces. Damp, abraded skin against wet denim is one of his least favorite ways to get dressed.

"Now who's the princess?" Dean chucks a towel at him.

One bird deserves another, and Sam flips Dean off. "Fuck you."

"What, and listen to you bitch while I scratch your precious finish, Sammy? I don't think so, man." Dean nods to the Impala, lets his gaze travel over Sam's chest and down to his groin, before meeting his gaze again and smiling. "Might have to borrow your book."

Sam doesn't know when it happened, but it did. Dean's smiles are his addiction, and he'll do anything for them.

Even when it's 112 degrees.

* * *

A/N: For the interested, the book Sam's reading is a real book, and the 'review blurb' is a splicing together of parts of the Amazon copy. Foucault's Pendulum by Umberto Eco. It's entirely fabulous and ridiculously esoterica, and what Sam was going to say is that the entire thing is about themes of power, so much so that it's been speculated that the name may refer not to the maker of the famous pendulum, but to the theoretician Michel Foucault.


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