Dean's fascinated by them; can't keep his hands off them, keeps idly reaching out and stroking the ends until Sam glares at him and tells him to quit it. "Dude. Wings." Dean can't get over the novelty. Sam grunts at him and shifts restlessly on the bed. "You wanna give them a go for a while? Be my guest!" He rolls over a little to throw his best bitchface in Dean's direction, and grunts softly as the heavy mass of feathers and bones tilts and threatens to dislocate his shoulder. "Fuck!" "Jesus fuck, Sammy, stop moving," Dean growls. "They hurt," Sam whispers, rolling back onto his stomach and pillowing his face on his arms. "You're probably meant to stretch them, or fly with them or something," Dean points out. "Eagles don't lie on their stomachs all day groaning about how their wings hurt. They go out and, y'know, eat mice." Sam laughs into his folded arms, and the laugh turns into a grunt, his wings shuddering slightly as the tense muscles sieze up again. "You want me to..." Dean hesitates, and Sam turns his head to look at him. "What?" "You want a wing-massage?" Sam looks perplexed, and then his face settles into a knowing grin. "You just wanna get your hands on them," he says with a slight grin. "That too," Dean admits, but Sam doesn't do anything to stop him from climbing onto the bed and sitting astride Sam's thighs. He slides his hands over the swollen skin where the eagle's wings erupted from Sam's back, and Sam lets out a little sigh. It looks kinda painful, and Dean makes a mental note to rub some of Sam's antiseptic cream into them later, but forgets it almost immediately when he runs his hands lightly over the root of the wing. It's so warm and soft and Dean's always been a tactile kinda guy. He likes stroking the stray cats and dogs that hang around motels; he's the sort of person who'll touch anything just to see what it feels like. There are vivid memories of John eventually giving up trying to teach Dean that the stove is 'hot, Dean, you'll hurt yourself!' and letting him find out the hard way. He'll run his fingers over anything - metal, wood, plastic - to get a feel for it and to get a grip on his surroundings. Dean's lost in his musing, his fingers running lightly over the heavy wings on his brother's back, massaging carefully and enjoying the feel of silky-soft feathers under his hands, and he's taken completely by surprise when Sam moans and jerks his hips, hard, into the mattress beneath him. He's panting audibly, and Dean leans over to see if he's okay. Jesus fuck. Sam's face is bright red, his eyes half-closed and lazy, a light sheen of sweat decorating his forehead. "Dude, did you just come?" Dean asks, pulling his hands away from Sam's wings. "I... look, sorry man... but..." "Wow," Dean says, putting his hands back where they were. "That good, huh?" Sam tries to shift, tries to push Dean off his legs, but Dean's not going anywhere. Sam whines softly when Dean starts stroking again, and now Dean's aware of Sam's hips moving slightly, thrusting gently into the mattress. "Dude, get off me," Sam mutters, his voice threaded through with embarrassment. "I wanna take a shower..." Dean snorts. "Like you could, with these on," he says. It's gotta be uncomfortable, though - he imagines Sam's underwear is probably soaked through, and his dick must be almost painfully oversensitive from the friction so soon after coming. But still... "You want me to keep going?" Dean whispers. Sam hesitates, and it's a moment before he nods almost imperceptively. Dean gets to work, starting at the shoulders and working his thumbs into the stiffened joints. Sam moans unabashedly as Dean massages the aching muscles and tendons, and after a very short amount of time, he's pushing his hips hard into the bed, biting down on his lip and panting softly. "Dean..." Sam whispers between clenched teeth. "Yeah?" Dean doesn't stop; he combs his fingers through the flight feathers, straightening them out and enjoying the smooth slide against his fingers. "I'm gonna come again." Damn, Dean's been trying to ignore his own erection, pushing hard against his zipper and making his underwear damp, but the sound of Sam's breathy voice almost does him in. He bites his lip, hard, and strokes Sam's wings more firmly, tickling the ends and running his hands back up the bone to massage the joint again. Sam gasps - Dean! - and his hips are jerking again, harder this time, as he comes with a soft whine. Jesus fucking Christ. Sam's lying there, sated and wrung out, and Dean has a truly wicked idea. Leaning close to Sam's ear, he whispers "I wonder how many times I can make you come just by stroking your wings?" Sam groans softly, but doesn't make any move to buck Dean off him again. He spreads his wings slightly (Dean's impressed; he couldn't do that earlier), practically inviting Dean to continue, and Dean's only too happy to. --- It's torturous, but if this is torture, Sam's quite happy to be tortured. His jeans are a mess; he can feel his come seeping through his underwear, through the heavy denim, into the blankets. It's been four times now, and Dean's doing his damndest to get Sam off a fifth time. Sam doesn't know how the hell he's doing it - it shouldn't be physically possible for someone to come five times in an hour - but damn, he's getting hard again, his dick rubbing smoothly through the come already filling his pants. Dean's gotten himself off once too - he stopped stroking Sam for just a moment, and Sam managed to crane his neck around just in time to see Dean jerk his cock and come all over Sam's back - but apart from that, it's all been about Sam and making Sam come more times than should be humanly possible. It's gotta be the wings. There's something supernatural about them - well, apart from the obvious - because Sam's pretty certain golden eagles don't come whenever something touches their wings. Just then, Dean's fingers press into the joints again and Sam comes apart once more. --- "I have an idea," Dean says an hour later. He's gotten the tally up to nine, and is wondering if he can make it a perfect ten. Sam's groaning constantly, his hands clenching around the pillow and his hair stuck to his face in dark curls. Dean's managed to get himself off twice already, and is now gunning for a third. Sam pushes himself up slightly to turn and look at Dean, and damn, his eyes are dark with lust and sex. "What?" Sam murmurs, his voice scratchy and worn out. He sounds like he's been sucking cock for the past hour, and shit, Dean's gotta stop thinking things like that or he's gonna come without touching himself. He pulls gently at Sam's body, rolling him and turning him until he's sitting on the edge of the bed. Sam's languid and heavy, and it doesn't take much effort for Dean to unzip his jeans and push them off. Jesus Christ, Sam's soaked, there's a damp spot on the bed where it seeped through his jeans, and Dean moans softly. Sam looks up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, and smiles in a way which does not make Dean want to get on his knees and lick his brother clean. There's lube and condoms in the bedside drawer - a very considerate motel, this one - and Sam watches Dean slick his fingers and slide them into himself with a look of pure hunger on his face. Then Dean's sliding a condom down over Sam's erection - oh god, it's gonna be ten times - and straddling his lap before Sam can even think. "Wait," he murmurs, just as Dean's about to impale himself on Sam's dick. "What?" Dean says, his forehead pressed against Sam's, his breath hot against Sam's face. "You sure about this?" Dean shakes his head and grins. "Dude, you have magic sex wings. Just shut up and go with it." Minutes later, Sam's flying again, and he's decided that there's a fine line between being cursed and blessed. Sure, they'll have to figure out how to get rid of the wings sometime, but for now, Sam's quite happy to take full advantage of them. Sequel: Stranglehold |
