Shameless PWP for braincase

Dean’s frantic. Jack kinda guessed he’d be a tiger in the sack but this is something else. It’s biting and bucking and so hard it physically hurts. Not that good, nearly-there-on-the-edge-hurt, but a dry burn, a deep, bone-rattling, irritating ache as Dean ruts against his thigh and licks into his mouth like he’s trying to crawl inside him and stay there. Jack should try to still him. Soothe him. But he’s old and tired and impossibly worn and he wants this too. He knows what it’s like to want it to hurt, to claw beneath someone else’s flesh and wear their skin because your own’s too tight. So he lets Dean rip at his clothes and struggle with his braces, let’s him shove him down on the bed with a hand around his throat. He lets Dean’s palm grind against his Adam’s apple, rocking up into the smooth, solid bulk of his thigh as he scores lines into his shoulderblades. 

It’s hot and squirming and uncomfortable, sweat burning in his eyes and hair sticking to his nape. Dean rubs against his sunburn and bites his nipple a little too hard and holds his cock too tight but it’s not clumsy. It’s intentional. It’s punishment. And when Dean sinks down onto his dick, barely lubed, mostly dry, salty tears squeezing outta the corners of his shut eyes Jack knows it’s not meant for him. It’s not his benediction. It’s Dean’s. Dean offers the sacrifice of his body up to every God he can fucking think of and when he groans it’s not pleasure but a prayer. He chokes low and gruff in the back of his throat, holding onto Jack’s slick shoulders with shaking hands. Jack holds his waist, presses his cheek against the brand on Dean’s shoulder and Dean shudders violently, insides clenching and shivering around the girth of Jack’s cock. 

The mattress squeaks and the headboard slams into the plaster so hard a framed watercolour print of a barn in Kansas drops to the floor and shatters. The sheets are tangled around their ankles, fabric pulling and tugging, and Jack’s pants aren’t even all the way off, binding his legs at the knees. Dean squirms against him, every muscle in him so damn tight it’s like holding a brick wall. He fucks himself against Jack’s body like it’s the only thing keeping alive, like it’s oxygen, like it’s blood letting, fingers cramping in Jack’s hair and breath hot and wet against his neck as he bounces a rhythm into his hips. Deep breaths escalate into choked little whimpers, into throaty moans, into grunts as he slams down hard, his cock slippery slick between their sliding stomachs. And then, toward the end, when his muscles are bound like wire beneath Jack’s hands, when his ass tenses beneath his fingers, he sobs. A dry, desperate lttle sound in the back of his throat as he mouths at Jack’s temple and writhes into him, shooting wet, sticky strings into the hot, empty space between them. He sobs, and he shakes, and Jack fills him to his core, emptying into him with shameful little thrusts. 

He’s barely finished before Dean’s pulling off of him, flinching, his face pained and flushed and sweaty, pink from stubble rash. His lips aren’t swollen and Jack realises they kissed once, barely, before Dean started focusing on clothes and skin and cock. Dean dresses quickly, leaves Jack to wipe himself off on moth-eaten motel sheets, his back to the window, shadowed in the yellow glow of a streetlamp. He clears his throat when he’s done, wipes his damp hands on the thighs of his jeans and stares at the floor. Like he’s waiting for Jack to say it. One of them to say it. Like he’s waiting for him to ask. Who. Who did you lose. Whose name did you bite into my neck. Whose vengeance are you seeking. Who do you want to hurt you. But instead there’s silence. Silence and two guys catching their breath in a room that reeks of sweat and semen and lost, broken things. So Dean picks up his keys, and he walks out, and Jack doesn’t even watch him go.