Citizenship & Raspberry Jam

I have a snippet.  I'm supposed to be writing a 6,000 word journal article that's due Friday, and editing my BigBang, but oh, no, my brain has to get a line stuck in it that won't leave me alone.  Stupid brain.

So here.  I give you some

Sam/Dean?
NC-17 for dirty talk
763 words
unbeta'd, untitled

Sam shuddered.  It was all his deepest darkest fantasies come true.  With one little problem:  it wasn't his brother saying it.  Well, it was, which is what made Sam's dick sit up and pay attention and the sparks flash behind his eyes and his heart pound in his throat and the base of his spine tingle, but it wasn't DEAN.  He clutched the edge of the bed and willed himself still.

It was something wearing Dean's body.  There was another presence in there.  Something not Dean.  Problem was, it seemed to know all the right(wrong?) things to say to Sam to make him desperately want to believe that it was Dean.  That somehow, his brother had finally read the long suppressed signals, the desire that bubbled constantly just below the surface of Sam's skin, the long hisses of air he took into his lungs after Dean touched him--no matter how casually. 

"Know what you want Sammy.  Know what you need."  Dean's breath was moist against the shell of his ear, "I hear you in the night.  Your hand slicking up and down your cock, the way you breathe heavy and quick.  I know you watch me.  I can feel your eyes on me when you bring yourself off."

He tried not to groan.  He honestly did, but hearing the words come tumbling out of his brother's mouth, whether it was really Dean or not, it didn't matter because it was Dean's voice.  Dean's voice acknowledging these things, while ghosting across the nape of his neck as the bed gave under the weight of his knees, to breathe hot, wet words of lust in his other ear.

"Have you even thought about what I want?  Have you, Sam?  Have you ever wondered what I think about when I've got my fist wrapped around my hard prick in the shower, slick with lather, pumping my hips back and forth?"

Sam's head fell in defeat as he was pretty sure that whether he wanted to know or not (and God help him he really DID want to know) the thing using Dean's body was going to tell him.

"You, baby brother.  I think about you.  About fucking your mouth.  About sliding in and out of your tight ass.  About how good I could make it for you."

Something like a sob wrenched out of Sam's chest as he squeezed his eyes shut and swung his head back and forth, trying, trying so hard not to respond, not to want, not to take what was being offered.  He pressed his feet into the floor keeping himself from turning and and grasping.

The bed dipped and bounced with the motion of Dean's body moving to the floor.  Warmth began to soak through his jeans into the caps of his knees from where the thing that was and was not Dean put its palms.  His skin was burning with sensation where not!Dean's thumbs were swirling on the inside of his knees, and then they began to move up, slowly, ever so slowly...

"Please,” stuttering, harsh and broken, the word hovered in the air between them, waiting to see which way to go.  "Please, stop." 

A sudden chill and an intensely claustrophobic sensation filled the room as not!Dean stood and eyed him speculatively.  "Fine then."  The cold claustrophobia pressing around him was just as abruptly replaced by a hot vacuum of air as Sam's brother threw his head back and rocked on his heels, a bright light filling the dank motel room.  Then Dean collapsed backward on the opposite bed.  Chest rising and falling as if in a deep sleep.

Moments later, Dean sat up wincing, heel of his hand pressed to his temple.  "Fuck.  What was in that drink, Sam?"

Taking a deep breath, Sam said, "Which one?  The first or the fortieth?" Sam's voice warbled a bit as he tried to readjust to the situation.  To the normality in front of him.  Dean was still too focused on the throbbing pain in his head to peck at him about it, thank God, groaning as he stood up and fumbled his way to the bathroom where Sam heard the water start to run in the sink followed by splashing.

By the time Dean returned, fringes of his hair damp with water, eyes squinted against the harsh florescent light in the room, Sam was sitting at the laptop, tapping away at the keyboard, scanning the screen.

Back to normal then. Except that now, occasionally, more than once, he'd palm himself in the night and wonder if his brother was listening...