#i start reading even slower like it’s gonna change the chap length or something

[dulciechi]

tumblr finally told me “girl stfu”

The cave is narrower than they expect, barely big enough to fit a giant god like Kallamar. And it is dark beyond measure. No light from the distant sun reaches here. Only their own fire illuminates the cave walls, ignoring the shift in pressure as they dive deeper and deeper. There is no colorful coral, no kelp reaching for the light, not even tiny mindless fish. In this place, there’s only darkness and cold seawater. It seeps into their wool and grinds salt into their skin. The faster they get out of here, the better. After what feels like at least half an hour of swimming, the cave mouth widens into a strange stone antechamber. Two giant doors loom above them, their stone etched with runes and glyphs. Their pulse quickens. This is it. Kallamar’s secret Vault.

[carry-the-sky]

like thunder under earth, the sound it makes

(aka an AU in which Frank makes his way to Karen’s place after the hotel bombing. Hurt/comfort, a whole lotta angst, absolutely no semblance of a plot, and probably some medical inaccuracies because I really just wanted to write the smut. Also on ao3.)

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His old man used to say  — if you’re gonna do something wrong, Frankie, do it right.

Well, shit — guess the joke’s on him. He’d laugh, if it didn’t hurt just to fuckin’ breathe. His arm is a deadweight, cradled to his torso as he follows his feet, stumbling, from the hotel, and he thinks sharply of those old marionette dolls Lisa used to play with when she was little, nothing but string holding their limbs together.

(What’s holding you together, Frankie boy?

He’s not sure he could answer even if he wanted to.)

.

.

The flowers are still in her windowsill. He focuses on that, keeps his eyes fixed on them even as he sags against the fire escape. Every inch of him aches — his field of vision splinters like a kaleidoscope when he blinks, but the roses —

He thinks of Karen, bleeding. Red on those white, white petals.

Frank heaves himself up, and the world lurches with him. He can hear himself breathing, fast and wet like someone’s kneading his lungs into a pulp. The window’s an arm’s length away, so he staggers into it, bracing a splayed hand against the glass. It slides open with a hiss, when he tugs at it.

He grinds his teeth together, to keep from laughing. After every fuckin’ thing she’s been through, she still —

Her place is the same. At least he thinks it is —  everything’s sliding out of focus again, narrowing like a scope. Frank gropes blindly for something, anything to keep him upright, but he must black out for a second or two, because when he he blinks, he’s on the ground.

Karen’s hovering over him. Her hand is on his shoulder, warm even through the fabric of his shirt.

“Jesus, Frank,” she breathes. She sounds — scared, he thinks, and he almost laughs again, because he didn’t think she was afraid of anything, because it’s fuckin’ hilarious he’s the thing she’s decided to waste her fear on. He wants to tell her as much, he wants to —

“Y’didn’t — lock your window,” he says instead.

For a moment she says nothing. He can’t get a read on her face, probably because he’s about two seconds from going unconscious, but he tries anyways, catalogues the pinched line of her mouth and the column of her throat as she swallows. She’s scared, she’s pissed, she’s —

It startles him, when she laughs. “Frank, I swear to christ —”

Karen dips her head, hair sliding over her face like a curtain. Her hand is still on his shoulder, and that’s how he can tell she’s laughing, her whole body convulsing with it.

“So this —” he rasps, “this is funny, huh?”

She only laughs harder at that, which — is okay, actually, because the sound stirs something to life in his gut, slow like sun-warmed honey. He’s never heard her laugh like this. He could listen to her do it all day, he thinks, even like this, battered and bleeding on her apartment floor.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” she’s gasping, “I’m sorry, it’s just — you’re here. You’re — here, in my apartment, after —”

She drops her face into her hands, and for a brief moment he thinks she’s laughing again, but — no, her breath is slower, fragmented. The warm spot in his stomach turns to ice.

“Hey,” he says. He feels far away from her, so he props himself up on his good arm, tilts his head and tries to catch her gaze. Bright spots burst like fireworks in his periphery, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t fuckin’ care. “Hey, Karen —”

“It’s okay,” she says, swiping at her eyes. “It’s okay, Frank, come on —”

They stand together, slowly. His right arm is slung around her neck, but the movement still jostles his other side, sends a fissure of pain up through his shoulder girdle. He hisses through his teeth. Karen threads her fingers through his, squeezes gently. “You good?” 

He looks at her then, really looks at her like he did in the elevator. Her eyes are wide, tracing every line of his face, every angle and edge. He can feel her trembling, from shock or supporting his weight or — something else, he’s not sure, but she’s still here, holding him up, keeping him on his goddamn feet.

He shouldn’t — he shouldn’t do what he does next. It’s the pain, he thinks, it’s making his head fuzzy, but he leans in anyways, presses his lips to her temple. Her hair is soft, against his cheek, the smell of her shampoo filling his nose and his lungs, clean and sweet.

“Think —” he mumbles into her hair — “think ’m good, now.”

Karen squeezes his hand again. She sways, holding him up, but Frank knows — she won’t let him fall.

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They make it as far as the couch before his knees give out.

“Just sit tight, okay?” Karen says as she eases him down, and then she’s moving away, towards the kitchen. He hears her rummaging around for something in one of the cabinets.

“Yeah, okay,” he croaks, or tries to. His throat feels like it’s been scrubbed with sandpaper. He closes his eyes for a second, just a second, and when he opens them again, Karen’s crouching next to him on the floor. She’s got a glass of water in one hand and there’s a med kit open at her feet.

“Here,” she says, handing him the glass and three ibuprofen.

Frank forces himself to drink slowly. “Don’t suppose you have anything stronger?”

Karen gives him a look, but he can see the corners of her mouth twitching. “Let’s do your arm, first. Get it out of the way.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Frank says, handing her the glass of water. She pushes up on her knees so she’s eye-level with him, and grips his arm below the elbow.

“Ready?” she asks, and he nods, keeps his eyes on her face even when she looks down at his arm. “On three, yeah? One, two —”

There’s a popping sound, a jolt of pressure. His shoulder throbs in protest, but the stabbing pain is gone. He blows out the breath he was holding. It really shouldn’t surprise him that Karen knows what she’s doing. She’d have made one hell of a marine, he thinks, and immediately regrets it, horrified at the ease with which he inserted her into his past, blurred those boundaries.

“Hey,” she’s saying, eyes wide with worry. “Hey, you still with me?”

Frank feels heavy, like he’s being pulled straight through the floor. He’s not sure which way is up anymore, he’s not sure of anything, except that coming here was a mistake. He shouldn’t be here, looking into her blue, blue eyes, he shouldn’t be bleeding all over her couch.

He’s not sure he would do anything differently, given the chance.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he says. “I’m here.”

(What’s holding you together, Frankie boy?

He thinks he’s starting to figure it out.)

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.

It takes him a second, when he comes to. He shoots up, disoriented, fist swiping at empty air  —

“Whoa, easy —”

Frank blinks, and Karen’s there. She’s got a hand around his wrist. “Easy, Frank.”

He blows a breath out through his nose. “What —”

“You’ve been for awhile. Resting.” She gently eases his arm back down. “And I really, really, don’t want to reset your shoulder again, so — easy does it, yeah?”

Frank looks from her to his arm, gives his fingers an experimental flutter. Good as new. It’s coming back, now — he remembers Karen stitching his forehead, setting his arm, him gritting his teeth and keeping his eyes on her, just her.

He remembers feeling delirious, watching her. Wanting —

Frank pushes himself up. It’s early evening, judging by the angled shadows stretching across the living room. He’s on the couch, and Karen’s perched next to him, fingers lingering on his forearm. She’s changed her clothes, but the purple-blue bags beneath her eyes tell him she didn’t rest while he was out. Guilt twists his insides.

What the hell was he thinking, coming here? 

“You, uh —” he sputters, glancing away. “You really should lock your window.”

Karen snorts. “You’re unbelievable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

She’s quiet for a beat, so he darts a glance her direction — but she’s smiling, softly. He wishes she wouldn’t. He wants to grab her and shake her, shake and shake until the smile slides from her lips and she finally sees, finally gets it, who he is, what kind of man he is. He doesn’t deserve that smile. He doesn’t deserve anything as beautiful as she is in this moment.

Get away from this, he remembers telling her. Get away from me. Only he’s the one who couldn’t stay away, couldn’t stay out of her orbit. Frank’s never been one to believe in things like fate or karma, but that shit — that shit’s funny.

God’s kind of funny, even.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m — I’m sorry, yeah? Bustin’ in on you like this — ‘m really sorry, Karen.”

Her thumb is moving, tracing lazy circles against his arm. “I meant it, when I said I care about what happens to you. You know that, right?”

“I —” he clears his throat, tries to focus on something other than where her skin is touching his. “I figured you’d be, uh — tired of my bullshit, by now.”

She laughs sharply. “I’m not gonna lie, Frank. You coming back into my life — it hasn’t been easy. After Schoonover — I thought that was it. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. But, all of this —” her eyes flick from his arm to the stitches running down his temple. “This is your life, Frank. It’s your life. It’s not bullshit, at least not to me.”

He meets her eyes. Her face tangled in light and shadow, from this angle, like those abstract paintings that almost look real, something and nothing all at once. He wants to reach out and touch her face, make sure she’s real. He wants —

What, Frank? What do you want?

(If you’re gonna do something wrong —)

It’s not his body, anymore. These aren’t his hands, hooking around the nape of Karen’s neck to pull her close, not his lips, slanting up to meet hers. It’s not him.

But — it has to be, because she’s kissing him back. Her lips are slightly chapped, rougher than he’s expecting, but he feels her holding back, the uncertainty even as her mouth moves with his. He’s feeling it too. Every nerve in his body is humming like a livewire, potential energy ready to bolt, turn tail and run. He should. He should get as far away from her as he can.

He kisses her harder, instead.

Her lips part as she sucks in a surprised breath, and he seizes the opportunity to catch her lower lip between his teeth. Karen makes a sound low in her throat, and — christ, it’s been awhile since he made a woman sound like that. Her hands are on his arm, still, like she’s bracing herself against him, but there’s still too much space between them, so he slides an arm around her waist and pulls her flush against him.

“What —” she gasps in between kisses — “what the hell is happening, now?”

Frank kisses her deeply, slips his tongue between her teeth. “No fuckin’ idea,” he manages, breathless. “You okay?”

She pulls back, then. Her breathing matches his, fast and shallow, and for a split second, he thinks this might be it. She’s calling it, she’s done. Probably would be for the best, he thinks. She always was smarter than him.

“Why did you come here?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “C’mon, Karen, I don’t —”

“You do.” Her eyes are bright, searching his face. “You know, Frank. Just say it.”

He could. A million responses crowd behind his teeth — it’d be so easy, to open his mouth and let one of them slip past. After everything he’s put her through, Karen deserves this. She deserves something true. She deserves a hell of a lot more than he can give. There’s pieces of himself buried in the cold ground with his family, and he knows, he sure as shit knows that those pieces are gone for good. He’s not sure if the rest of him is enough.

He’s not sure if it’s enough, to be broken.

Frank dips his forehead to rest against hers. “I don’t — have the answers, Karen. This thing, you ‘n me —” he lets his eyes drift shut. For a moment, all he can hear, all he can feel is her breathing, out and in. “I can’t lose this, Karen. I can’t lose you.”

She tilts her head up, lips ghosting over the corner of his mouth. “I’m right here, Frank.”

( — do it right, Frankie. Do it right.)

They come together again, slowly, his hands cradling her waist, fingers splayed just beneath her ribs as she settles on his knees. He takes his time, kissing her — his lips drift to the soft hollow of her cheek, then down, tracing her jawline. He wants to savor every second of this, the way her skin feels under his mouth and the stuttered little sounds she’s making. He’s going straight to hell for this, he knows it, he knows, but that doesn’t matter, not when she’s threading her hands through his hair, fingers curling just hard enough to sting. Her breath hitches ragged in her throat, and he thinks it might be the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

“Frank —” she gasps — and, no, that’s the most beautiful sound, his name in her mouth.

He responds by pressing his mouth to her collarbone. She — shudders, tipping her head back, and the movement grinds her hips forward, against his thigh. He’s halfway to hard in a second, canting upwards to chase the friction.

Karen seems to notice, because she bears down on him again, harder, this time. Hazy-hot desire shoots straight through him — his chest, his dick, everything aches with wanting her, wanting nothing but her. His hand drifts south, drags across the thin band of her sleep shorts.

“This okay?” he asks the sweet, soft curve of her clavicle. When he looks up, she’s watching him hungrily. Her eyes never leave his face as she dips her hand beneath her shorts.

“Meet you there,” she says, and the fuckin’ noise he makes is — undignified, to say the very least. Karen smiles, her head falling back again. He’s dizzy, looking at her, eyes tracking the long column of her throat down to the juncture of her thighs, splayed wide over his as she works herself. 

He’s in over his fuckin’ head, but that doesn’t stop him from sliding a hand past her underwear and pressing the pad of his thumb to her cunt.

“Oh,” she sighs, eyes screwing up. Her wrist is moving, the wet, rhythmic sound rushing in his ears — he almost misses the half-choked noise she makes when he digs a knuckle into her clit.

“I got you,” he pants against her throat. She’s so, so warm. His skin burns everywhere he’s touching her. “I got you, yeah?”

It’s muscle memory, after that, his fingers skimming and teasing and slip-sliding against hers until she’s good and slick. Nothing is real, nothing beyond the slope of her body as she arches back, the bite of her nails digging half-moon imprints into his shoulder.

Danger, he thinks, as together they slip their fingers inside her.

“Jesus, fuck —” she hisses as they stumble through the first few strokes, and she drops her forehead to his shoulder. “Just —” her other hand closes over his, and he freezes, holding his breath. “I’m okay, just give me a second.”

He’s terrified, suddenly. She feels so fragile beneath his hands, every inch of her trembling and the way his entire palm cups the back of her skull. He’s killed, with these hands, and worse — all that ugly shit, and he’s touching her with them, wanting the warmth of her skin even as he knows it’s wrong.

Karen pulls back slightly, changing up the angle and easing back down with a slow swirl of her hips. “Okay,” she says, “okay, Frank.”

He swallows past the ball in his throat. “You sure?”

Karen just smirks, and he feels her finger press against his, a long, languid stroke. Her other arm twines around his neck as she buries her face there, her breath swooping hot and fast against his skin. Everything goes concave, his only reference point his finger, and hers, as they thrust together into her sweet, hot center.   

“C’mon,” she pleads between gritted teeth, a sound that goes right to his dick. He’s not sure if she’s talking to herself or to him, but he pumps his finger faster, slick and hot and hard. “Oh — god —” Karen snags his earlobe between her teeth, and he growls, strumming a rapid staccato against her swollen clit in retaliation. It’s almost too much for him, the way she’s matching him stroke for stroke, but he wants it. He wants all of it, less and slow but also more, now. He wants her to fall apart.

He feels it when she does, her tight walls clenching around his finger as she goes taut against him. “Frank,” she gasps, shoulders heaving with the force of the aftershock. “Frank —”

“Shh shh,” he breathes in her ear, “It’s okay, Karen, you’re okay.”

He’s not just telling her. It’s a mantra in his head, turned over and over again like a record skipping. You’re okay, he thinks as they cling to each other, her cheek soft against his. You’re okay, you’re okay. Karen’s heartbeat’s a rapid-fire flutter, through her shirt, and he wonders if she can hear his, rushing like thunder in his ears. His brain’s reeling with what this means, what happens next — but his hand’s still between Karen’s thighs, moving softly. He’s still here.

He’s okay.

[zmediaoutlet]

//crashes through wall// mid-coffee bj in the bunker OR frottage (anywhere, anytime) OR plug + FBI suits OR 'Sam wants to wear a blindfold and Dean is kinda unsure'

(read on AO3)

Itwasn’t so much a problem getting Dean to go to a strip club. He’s usually goodto go as soon as the promise of cheap drinks and smiling women are on thehorizon, and really, Sam has never minded that. Well—okay, he doesn’t mindit now. It’s been a hard few weeks, a hard month. What monthisn’t, really. Now, though, with how hard Dean’s been taking everything, Samjust wants—

“Are youkidding me,” Dean says, eyes bright in the wash of neon lights. Sam shrugs,keeping his smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Sammy, areyou kidding me,” he says again, delight all through his voice,and he pushes open the ridiculous pleather doors and—yes, Sam looked on thewebsite ahead of time, and it is indeed Cowgirl Night at Cherry’s. Hefollows Dean into the dim interior, already rolling his eyes at the terriblepop country song that’s playing, but there’s a girl down to her assless chapsand a fringed bra on stage, bouncing around as someone urges her to save ahorse.

The guy at thedoor looks at their suits and waves them in and Dean makes a beeline for abooth, about halfway between the stage and the bar. Sam sits carefully on theother side of the table, content to look for now. The hunt wasn’t too bad andthey’re not going to drive back home to the bunker until the morning, so this—thisshould be good. A girl wearing a cowboy hat and not much else comes smiling upto the table and Dean gives her his biggest grin and says, “Howdy, ma’am,mighty fine place you got here,” and Sam just leans back into the booth andresigns himself to an evening of Dean’s charm.

The beer’scheap and the girls are—well, young, but they’re beautiful, too,and more importantly Dean’s smiling. He applauds when one of the girls finishesher dance, and cheerfully tucks a five into the sparkly western-themed bra ontheir waitress when she brings them a new round of drinks. One girl who can’tbe more than five feet trots over and offers both of them lapdances, and Samraises his eyebrows at Dean. He’ll do it, if Dean wants. Dean only laughs,though, and says, “Sorry, darlin’, you’ll have to ride some other cowboy,”but he sends her on her way with a twenty and she’s smiling genuinely when sheleaves. “Sam,” Dean says, watching her ass bounce away in its frame of pinkleather chaps, “this is the best idea you’ve ever had.”

“Yeah?” Samsays, and Dean turns his eyes fully on Sam’s. He’s flushed, his tie undone andhis eyes dark and dancing.

“Yeah,” Deansays, and clinks his bottle against Sam’s. Sam takes a swallow, and watches Deanwatch him, and smiles, thinking that Dean hasn’t seen anything yet.

The bathroom’sdim, kind of filthy. It has locks on both sides, but Sam knows his way around asimple deadbolt and jams his pick in deep enough that the pins won’t catch ifsomeone tries to unlock it. Dean’s tipsy at his back, laughing,saying, “Sammy, Sammy,” and Sam turns around and gathers his face in bothhands and kisses his grinning mouth, licking in and tasting beer, overlaid withthat sugary pink thing that the bartender had sent over, somewhere in themiddle of the dance that sent them in here. Dean leans into it, groans, hishands wrapping into the lapels of Sam’s jacket.

“You hard?” Samsays, pulling back for a second, and slides one hand down. “Oh, look atthat,” he says, mildly, and Dean groans and pushes into it, the line of himstraining against Sam’s palm through the fine material of his slacks. God, helooks good like this—flushed and ready and happy, half-undonealready in his suit. Sam walks him backward, kissing his temple and his cheekand his jaw while Dean breathes hard against his ear, until his ass fetches upagainst the cheap pedestal sink.

“There is noway in hell,” Dean starts—and interrupts himself with another groan when Sampalms again at the bulge of his dick and then starts undoing hisbelt. “Sam, you are not fucking me over a sink in a strip club.”

Sam smiles downat him, shrugging. “Wasn’t planning on it,” he says, and Dean looks downbetween them and then up at Sam again, eyebrows raised. The music changes, andSam tugs Dean’s belt open and then the slick button on the slacks, and tugsDean’s shirt out of the way, and then goes down to his knees in one move,ignoring the grit and nastiness of the floor in order to watch Dean’s mouthpart with surprise, the deep breath he takes. Sam leans in and kisses the softplace under Dean’s belly button, just above where the line of his boxer-briefscuts into his skin, and watches Dean’s hands curl tight over the lip of thesink out of the corner of his eye. “Can you be quiet?” Sam says, looking upagain.

Dean blinks athim, already breathing open-mouthed and heavy. “Don’t think I really needto, Sammy,” he says, and yeah, the music’s loud even in here, bass-heavy andtrembling the cheap lights.

“Well, try,”Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes, and then Sam tugs his zip down and pullsdown his briefs and there’s his dick, full and heavy and straining after anight of watching girls he’ll never fuck, and Sam ducks his head and lips asoft kiss against the base, his mouth already wet and full in anticipation, andthen opens his mouth and sinks down on it, wide-open and eager.

“Oh, christalive,” Dean says, shocked like it’s something new, and then laughsbreathlessly. Sam closes his eyes, tries not to smile. He draws up slow, bobsdown again slower, savors the thickness of it. Dean’s not as big as him, butthat doesn’t matter—he loves it. Loves the weight, the shape, the perfect ridgeof the head he can lip over, the tender give of the crown that never stopsbeing soft, not even when Dean’s this hard. He tongues idly against the headfor a moment, just appreciating, and then screws down all the way to the base,ignores the threatening pressure at the back of his throat for the way Deangasps, one hand appearing at the back of Sam’s head and fisting into his hair,tugging. Another benefit, to be able to do this. Sam holds there, just for aminute, just to hear Dean say—”Oh my god, Sammy, your mouth, whatthe fuck,” and then he pulls back, gasping, to smile up into Dean’s face.

“Yeah, be moresmug,” Dean says, but he’s breathing hard and so it doesn’t really come off theway he thinks it does. He tucks Sam’s hair behind his ear while Sam fists thewet length of him, slowly, blinking the slight tears out of his eyes. Dean getsso slick, right away. He settles more comfortably on his knees, leans in andlicks a flat swipe over the head, and smiles again at Dean’s whole-bodyshiver. “Are you, like, deliberately messing with me,” Dean says, and ashe does there’s a rattle at the door, someone trying the handle. 

“Hey,” a guysays, muffled under the music, “stop jerkin’ off in there, I gotta piss,”and Sam snorts, has to bury his face against Dean’s hip to muffle it.

“Oh my god,”Dean whispers, “this was your idea, say something,” and Sam kisses theside of his dick and whispers back, “you say something, you’re the onegetting a happy ending,” and Dean says, “I hate you,” in a fiercerwhisper, and Sam smacks his belly with his free hand and says, then,loud, “Sorry, buddy, I—uh, I had bad shrimp, I’m puking in here,” and Deansays oh my god again, both hands covering his face, butapparently that works because the guy says, “Oh, nasty, why would you eatanything from a strip club buffet, dude!” and Sam slips his slick fingers downto Dean’s balls where they’re still half-trapped inside his briefs andhalf-shouts, “I know, I’m an idiot, it’s just—it’s gonna be a minute,”while Dean spreads his legs wider and gasps above his head, and the guysays, “Nasty,” again, like he’s disappointed, and Sam shrugs at Dean’sincredulous look and goes right back down, his free arm wrapped around Dean’slower back to hitch him closer, lips and tongue working, long sucks as he pullsup. Dean groans, his hips jerking into Sam’s mouth, and Sam goes with it,capably. This isn’t even the nastiest place they’ve done this, thoughadmittedly it’s been a while since Sam was on his knees on the hard ground. Hejust—he loves getting Dean like this, sex-drunk and glowing,groaning his name, the way he shudders and moans, all his worries falling away.Dean’s thighs are starting to tremble, his hips rocking in tight little motionsagainst Sam’s working mouth, and Sam breathes in deep through his nose andsucks harder, lets his tongue slip-slide over the underside as he goes backdown, and Dean puts both hands in his hair, slides his hands through it andgets a double grip at the back of his skull, pulling just enough that itprickles all the way down Sam’s back.

“Sammy,” Deanwhispers, and Sam pulls off his dick, gasping, and says soft into the dark warmspace between them, “Dean, I gotta tell you something,” and shifts hisweight on his knees again, groans. Oh, god, he’s hard—he’d been able to put itout of his mind, but the pulse of it is thick between his legs and for a secondhe doesn’t want anything but to flip Dean around against the sink and fuck him,watching his face in the mirror, protest be damned. But Dean’s leaking into hishand, and he wants— “I had a plan,” he says, “I wanted to give yousomething,” and when he looks up Dean’s watching him, face pink and his mouthbitten to red. Sam suckles once more against the pretty head of Dean’s dick,lets the salt of it fill up his mouth, and then he puts his hands on the sinkon either side of Dean’s hips and gets to his feet, knees cracking, and theshift as he stands is so intense that he groans, hips flinching forward intoDean’s.

“Sam,” Deansays, hands sliding over Sam’s shoulders, down his chest, and Sam leans in andknocks Dean’s mouth open, kisses him wide and open, lets Dean taste himself. Heunbuckles his own belt, Dean’s dick brushing against the back of his hands, andthen grabs one of Dean’s hands and pulls back from his mouth and watches hiseyes while he pushes Dean’s hand around his hip, under the waistband of hisbriefs, down and down until he can feel Dean’s fingers brush the plug. Deanfrowns, for a second, and then his eyes go wide and his expression almostblank, and Sam lets his grip on Dean’s hand loosen. He leans forward a little,free hand braced against the sink, and their faces are close together, they’re breathingthe same air, while Dean’s fingers slip around the lube-wet base of the thing,while he circles the silicone where it’s breaking Sam’s body open.

“What,” Deansays, blinking, and looking up into Sam’s eyes. His cheeks are brick-red, hisears and throat flushed dark. 

“If you want,”Sam says, and has to clear his throat. Dean presses his fingers flat againstthe plug and Sam closes his eyes, just for a second. It’s not—it’s not that hedoesn’t like it at all, but it’s usually not something he goes for, and thepressure is amazing even with this small thing, barely three inches, justsomething to hold him open, to make it easier if Dean wanted to—if he decidedto— “You want to fuck me, Dean?” he says, opening his eyes, and Dean leansup and crushes their mouths together, his arms wrapping around Sam’s neck, andSam grabs him by the waist and pushes his still-covered dick against Dean’sbare slick one, knows his slacks are getting stained and disgusting but itdoesn’t matter, not with the way Dean’s shaking in his arms.

“You—” Deansays, against Sam’s mouth, and then he breathes something, so quiet Sam can’thear it over his own breath and the thumping music, but he slips his hand downand closes it over Dean’s dick, jerks him long and slow all the way from rootto head, and Dean jerks in his arms and says, breathless, “I’m gonna come,Sam, I’m—” and Sam turns him around and crushes him in against the sink,says, “Come on, let me see,” into his hair, and in the mirror Dean’sbeautiful, suit wrecked, his face glowing pink and sweat gleaming at histhroat, lips as dark as his dick where Sam’s fisting it, quick and hard, andhis eyes are open and fixed on Sam’s in the mirror, right up until he has tosqueeze them closed and he arches his back, ass grinding back into Sam’s crotchright before he shoots, dirtying up the sink, groaning out so loud that someoneoutside the door really could hear them. Sam wraps his other arm around Dean’schest, works him softly, letting Dean shudder in the cage of his body, his lipspressed against the tender space under his ear, the one that only Sam touches.

Dean reachesdown and stills Sam’s hand, after a minute, and lays his other hand over Sam’sarm, circles his fingers around Sam’s wrist. It takes a minute for his eyes toopen, but when they do they find Sam’s, right away.

“You’re amenace,” Dean says, after a few seconds.

Sam shrugs. Helets his thumb stroke at the root of Dean’s dick, in the damp short hair, andDean bites his lip. God. Dean says enough when Sam’s mouth is on him that Samknows he doesn’t exactly dislike it, but Dean—he’s got no idea of his ownappeal, and that’s saying something for one of the most sexually smug peopleSam’s ever met. “What do you think?” Sam says. He’s—god, his dick’s almostpainful, and he feels—wetter, somehow, more open, just from Dean touching him.The plug’s unignorable now.

Dean takes adeep breath. “You’re gonna help me clean up, Sexzilla,” he says, “andthen we’re going to figure out a way to leave this place so we don’t get arrested,and then I’m gonna drive back to the motel.”

Sam lets go ofDean’s dick and turns his chin, carefully with his slick soiled hand, andkisses him, gentle and shallow. When he pulls back, Dean’s face is soft, open,his eyes heavy-lidded. “Then what,” Sam says.

“That’s for meto know, Agent Rose,” Dean says, turning in Sam’s arms and putting a soft handto his jaw, his smile relaxed and full of promise, “and for you to findout.”

[angstandhappiness]

NICE

The cave is narrower than they expect, barely big enough to fit a giant god like Kallamar. And it is dark beyond measure. No light from the distant sun reaches here. Only their own fire illuminates the cave walls, ignoring the shift in pressure as they dive deeper and deeper. There is no colorful coral, no kelp reaching for the light, not even tiny mindless fish. In this place, there’s only darkness and cold seawater. It seeps into their wool and grinds salt into their skin. The faster they get out of here, the better. After what feels like at least half an hour of swimming, the cave mouth widens into a strange stone antechamber. Two giant doors loom above them, their stone etched with runes and glyphs. Their pulse quickens. This is it. Kallamar’s secret Vault.