SPN fic: Five Times Sam and Dean Almost Got Caught
Title: Five Times Sam and Dean Almost Got Caught
Author: D. (abrupte)
Rating: R.
Fandom: Supernatural.
Genre: I'd say it's pretty fluffy.
Pairing: Sam/Dean.
Wordcount: 1400ish.
Spoilers: I'd say up to "Everybody Loves a Clown," just to be safe.
Disclaimers: It goes without saying that the boys don't belong to me.
Summary: There have been a few close calls over the years.
A/N: Bet you can't guess -- oh, wait. Damn. Yes, you're right, this is yet another prompt from clex_monkie89. These "five things" fics are ridiculously addictive... I think I need a twelve step program. I'm gonna give you guys a break for a few days though (unless I get hijacked during my next class) 'cause I've got a paper due on Thursday that I haven't even started yet. This ones a little rough in spots, but... well, here it is anyway. Like most of my IM fics, this one isn't beta'd and is barely edited. ;)
†
One.
It's stupid. He shouldn't be blowing Sam on the couch and he knows it, but his brother's aching for it. Neither of them meant for it to happen, but it's been a week since they did anything. They were watching TV and next thing Dean knew, he had his tongue down Sam's throat and then Sam's cock in his mouth, sucking and stroking, his little brother moaning and squirming, begging for more.
It's not exactly a close call because he hears the Impala park outside, and by the time their father comes in, they're both watching TV and the blanket's covering how hard and fucking desperate they are. Dean, though, Dean can still taste Sam on his tongue, thick and salty and sweet.
They eat dinner in silence, not looking at each other, but when it's over they sneak out to the tool-shed in the back yard and Dean finishes sucking off his little brother, then fucks him until neither of them can walk. They spend half an hour sitting on the plywood floor, jeans around their ankles, shaking and muttering one another's names.
Two.
There's a tiny little room behind the pulpit where Jim preaches, more of a broom closet than anything else. It's covered by a flimsy curtain and it's filled with candles and religious tokens and all sorts of other crap. It's some sort of blasphemy that they end up fucking back there on a Tuesday while Jim's out running errands, Dean's cock deep inside his brother's ass, fucking him slow and sweet on a hot and lazy summer afternoon.
They're close, too close for Dean to stop even when he hears someone's footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. He can't stop, just claps a mouth over his brother's mouth, keeps thrusting, jerking Sam's cock and feeling his brother quiver and lean into him. Dean can be quiet, but Sam's mumbling against his hand, begging and whispering Dean's name.
Sam's so fucking close and Dean's going to come inside him any second. When he glances behind, he can see Jim's shadow on the other side of the thin purple curtain. Sam's whimpering low and soft, shuddering, and Dean can feel his muscles tense with the impending orgasm. Sam comes a second later, biting into Dean's palm. Dean winces but doesn't make a sound as he comes, too, both of them shaking. Dean holds his brother close, kissing the back of his neck until Jim walks away.
"That was a close call," Dean mutters with a sigh, pulling up his pants.
"Close call? What?" Sam asks, oblivious, and Dean actually laughs.
Three.
It's not that Dean's not relieved that their father is back, because he is. It's like this massive fucking weight lifted off his shoulders, because he's okay, he's alive, he's still Dad, and for the first time in a fucking year, Dean isn't scared. The only thing he's scared of is that John is finally going to figure out that he's been fucking Sam since his kid brother was sixteen. That ball of sick fear in the pit of his stomach isn't enough to stop him from pushing Sam down on the bed the second John says, "I've got some to grab a few things, I'll be back in an hour," and leaves.
An hour. It's not long enough, not at all, but it's been three days and by Dean's book that's way too fucking long, and Sam agrees. There's no foreplay, just a lot of lube, and Dean goes slower than he would because the last thing they need is for Sam to start walking funny, like Dean's cock is still up his ass. So it's slow even if it isn't all that soft, and Dean pushes his brothers legs up, trying to get in a little further, pressing kisses over Sam's throat.
They lose themselves in the simple motions, because three days feels like forever. Dean feels like he's almost forgotten how it sounds like to have Sam whisper his name in that soft, breathy, begging tone, and it's so fucking good to hear it again that he forgets about everything else, everything that isn't the slide of skin against skin, Sam's tongue against his, the taste of sweat and the texture of Sam's soft cotton t-shirt.
Dean doesn't hear his father's truck, which is really fucking weird, considering he does hear the twist of the key in the lock. And Dean's suddenly relieved instead of annoyed that they didn't get around to taking their shirts off. He flattens Sam down to the bed, pulling out of him and hissing sleep under his breath. He flings an arm haphazardly over Sam's back, closes his eyes, breathing deep and slow while his heart hammers in his chest. Next to him, Sam does a really fucking impressive fake snore.
He prays. Dean doesn't believe, doesn't think anyone's listening, but he prays anyway, prays that their father will just let them sleep, that he won't wake them up and realise that Dean's still hard from being buried inside his brother, that his hands are slick with Sam's pre-come. He hears his father chuckle, mutter, "Goodnight, boys," and breathes a silent sigh of relief.
It's three tense hours before John finally goes to bed. "Wanna finish?" Dean asks, and Sam shakes his head. "Yeah, me neither." He gets up and tosses Sam his jeans. They get dressed, then crawl back under the covers and fall asleep. Dean keeps a hand on Sam's hip, wanting to touch him. He wakes up the same way he does every morning, with Sam drooling on the back of his neck. Their father smiles but doesn't say a word. And Dean thinks he's got no fucking clue.
Four.
It's been four weeks. Four weeks and Dean's falling apart, breaking, and the only thing he's got to keep him together is Sam. Which is how they end up fucking against the side of the house, Sam thrusting deep inside him. His hands are large and warm on Dean's skin, rough with gun calluses as he jerks Dean's cock. Sam presses kisses against Dean's neck, lips sticky with come from when he sucked his brother off.
Sam doesn't go slow, presses in hard and fast, and it fucking hurts. Dean aches, back arching as he pushes back against his brother. He wants it hard, wants to feel that pain inside him, undoing him. It's the only way he can let go, gasping and groaning, muttering Sam's name. Harder, harder, harder. It feels right, like it's the only thing left that they can do, fucking each other against the sun-baked siding of Bobby's house, hidden by the rusted shell of old cars.
Sam grunts and moans and whispers in Dean's ear, saying we're alright, we're alright, we're alright until it blurs together into this quiet, comforting buzz of words that Dean can't distinguish. It doesn't matter, as long as he can push back against Sam, bracing himself against the house, and feel his brother sink deeper inside him, as long as he can hear the soft sound of Sam's voice saying nothing in particular.
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, Sam, please.
They'll never know that Bobby hears them from the kitchen, hears Dean gasping for more, begging, and Sam's quiet promises. They'll never know that he hears them and doesn't look, figuring they should take comfort where they can find it, even if it means -- well. Bobby doesn't go all the way down that road, because he doesn't look down out of that window, doesn't see them fucking against the side of the house, and he can say he doesn't know what it means.
It's better that way.
Five.
It's just a kiss. Dean's not sure if Ellen saw them or not, but her shadow across the window made him jerk away before Sam could start sliding his hands into his boxers, which he's pretty sure his brother was on the verge of doing.
"Was that --"
"Yeah," Dean murmurs, and Sam sighs, pulling away.
'Think she saw us?"
"I don't know."
He looks back at the window, shrugs, and pulls Sam down for another kiss, slow and deep and perfect, like there's no chance anyone will see them. Dean should care, he should, but it's hard now, when all he wants is to keep Sam close to him, to forget the way his chest aches every minute of every fucking day.
When they break apart, Sam's breathless and smiling. "You want us to get caught?" he asks, leaning in to nip at Dean's jaw.
"I don't care anymore," Dean says. "Who gives a fuck what they think, right?"
Sam laughs and the knot in Dean's chest eases a little more. "Yeah," Sam agrees. "C'mon. Let's go back to the motel and I'll blow you."
Author: D. (abrupte)
Rating: R.
Fandom: Supernatural.
Genre: I'd say it's pretty fluffy.
Pairing: Sam/Dean.
Wordcount: 1400ish.
Spoilers: I'd say up to "Everybody Loves a Clown," just to be safe.
Disclaimers: It goes without saying that the boys don't belong to me.
Summary: There have been a few close calls over the years.
A/N: Bet you can't guess -- oh, wait. Damn. Yes, you're right, this is yet another prompt from clex_monkie89. These "five things" fics are ridiculously addictive... I think I need a twelve step program. I'm gonna give you guys a break for a few days though (unless I get hijacked during my next class) 'cause I've got a paper due on Thursday that I haven't even started yet. This ones a little rough in spots, but... well, here it is anyway. Like most of my IM fics, this one isn't beta'd and is barely edited. ;)
†
One.
It's stupid. He shouldn't be blowing Sam on the couch and he knows it, but his brother's aching for it. Neither of them meant for it to happen, but it's been a week since they did anything. They were watching TV and next thing Dean knew, he had his tongue down Sam's throat and then Sam's cock in his mouth, sucking and stroking, his little brother moaning and squirming, begging for more.
It's not exactly a close call because he hears the Impala park outside, and by the time their father comes in, they're both watching TV and the blanket's covering how hard and fucking desperate they are. Dean, though, Dean can still taste Sam on his tongue, thick and salty and sweet.
They eat dinner in silence, not looking at each other, but when it's over they sneak out to the tool-shed in the back yard and Dean finishes sucking off his little brother, then fucks him until neither of them can walk. They spend half an hour sitting on the plywood floor, jeans around their ankles, shaking and muttering one another's names.
Two.
There's a tiny little room behind the pulpit where Jim preaches, more of a broom closet than anything else. It's covered by a flimsy curtain and it's filled with candles and religious tokens and all sorts of other crap. It's some sort of blasphemy that they end up fucking back there on a Tuesday while Jim's out running errands, Dean's cock deep inside his brother's ass, fucking him slow and sweet on a hot and lazy summer afternoon.
They're close, too close for Dean to stop even when he hears someone's footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. He can't stop, just claps a mouth over his brother's mouth, keeps thrusting, jerking Sam's cock and feeling his brother quiver and lean into him. Dean can be quiet, but Sam's mumbling against his hand, begging and whispering Dean's name.
Sam's so fucking close and Dean's going to come inside him any second. When he glances behind, he can see Jim's shadow on the other side of the thin purple curtain. Sam's whimpering low and soft, shuddering, and Dean can feel his muscles tense with the impending orgasm. Sam comes a second later, biting into Dean's palm. Dean winces but doesn't make a sound as he comes, too, both of them shaking. Dean holds his brother close, kissing the back of his neck until Jim walks away.
"That was a close call," Dean mutters with a sigh, pulling up his pants.
"Close call? What?" Sam asks, oblivious, and Dean actually laughs.
Three.
It's not that Dean's not relieved that their father is back, because he is. It's like this massive fucking weight lifted off his shoulders, because he's okay, he's alive, he's still Dad, and for the first time in a fucking year, Dean isn't scared. The only thing he's scared of is that John is finally going to figure out that he's been fucking Sam since his kid brother was sixteen. That ball of sick fear in the pit of his stomach isn't enough to stop him from pushing Sam down on the bed the second John says, "I've got some to grab a few things, I'll be back in an hour," and leaves.
An hour. It's not long enough, not at all, but it's been three days and by Dean's book that's way too fucking long, and Sam agrees. There's no foreplay, just a lot of lube, and Dean goes slower than he would because the last thing they need is for Sam to start walking funny, like Dean's cock is still up his ass. So it's slow even if it isn't all that soft, and Dean pushes his brothers legs up, trying to get in a little further, pressing kisses over Sam's throat.
They lose themselves in the simple motions, because three days feels like forever. Dean feels like he's almost forgotten how it sounds like to have Sam whisper his name in that soft, breathy, begging tone, and it's so fucking good to hear it again that he forgets about everything else, everything that isn't the slide of skin against skin, Sam's tongue against his, the taste of sweat and the texture of Sam's soft cotton t-shirt.
Dean doesn't hear his father's truck, which is really fucking weird, considering he does hear the twist of the key in the lock. And Dean's suddenly relieved instead of annoyed that they didn't get around to taking their shirts off. He flattens Sam down to the bed, pulling out of him and hissing sleep under his breath. He flings an arm haphazardly over Sam's back, closes his eyes, breathing deep and slow while his heart hammers in his chest. Next to him, Sam does a really fucking impressive fake snore.
He prays. Dean doesn't believe, doesn't think anyone's listening, but he prays anyway, prays that their father will just let them sleep, that he won't wake them up and realise that Dean's still hard from being buried inside his brother, that his hands are slick with Sam's pre-come. He hears his father chuckle, mutter, "Goodnight, boys," and breathes a silent sigh of relief.
It's three tense hours before John finally goes to bed. "Wanna finish?" Dean asks, and Sam shakes his head. "Yeah, me neither." He gets up and tosses Sam his jeans. They get dressed, then crawl back under the covers and fall asleep. Dean keeps a hand on Sam's hip, wanting to touch him. He wakes up the same way he does every morning, with Sam drooling on the back of his neck. Their father smiles but doesn't say a word. And Dean thinks he's got no fucking clue.
Four.
It's been four weeks. Four weeks and Dean's falling apart, breaking, and the only thing he's got to keep him together is Sam. Which is how they end up fucking against the side of the house, Sam thrusting deep inside him. His hands are large and warm on Dean's skin, rough with gun calluses as he jerks Dean's cock. Sam presses kisses against Dean's neck, lips sticky with come from when he sucked his brother off.
Sam doesn't go slow, presses in hard and fast, and it fucking hurts. Dean aches, back arching as he pushes back against his brother. He wants it hard, wants to feel that pain inside him, undoing him. It's the only way he can let go, gasping and groaning, muttering Sam's name. Harder, harder, harder. It feels right, like it's the only thing left that they can do, fucking each other against the sun-baked siding of Bobby's house, hidden by the rusted shell of old cars.
Sam grunts and moans and whispers in Dean's ear, saying we're alright, we're alright, we're alright until it blurs together into this quiet, comforting buzz of words that Dean can't distinguish. It doesn't matter, as long as he can push back against Sam, bracing himself against the house, and feel his brother sink deeper inside him, as long as he can hear the soft sound of Sam's voice saying nothing in particular.
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, Sam, please.
They'll never know that Bobby hears them from the kitchen, hears Dean gasping for more, begging, and Sam's quiet promises. They'll never know that he hears them and doesn't look, figuring they should take comfort where they can find it, even if it means -- well. Bobby doesn't go all the way down that road, because he doesn't look down out of that window, doesn't see them fucking against the side of the house, and he can say he doesn't know what it means.
It's better that way.
Five.
It's just a kiss. Dean's not sure if Ellen saw them or not, but her shadow across the window made him jerk away before Sam could start sliding his hands into his boxers, which he's pretty sure his brother was on the verge of doing.
"Was that --"
"Yeah," Dean murmurs, and Sam sighs, pulling away.
'Think she saw us?"
"I don't know."
He looks back at the window, shrugs, and pulls Sam down for another kiss, slow and deep and perfect, like there's no chance anyone will see them. Dean should care, he should, but it's hard now, when all he wants is to keep Sam close to him, to forget the way his chest aches every minute of every fucking day.
When they break apart, Sam's breathless and smiling. "You want us to get caught?" he asks, leaning in to nip at Dean's jaw.
"I don't care anymore," Dean says. "Who gives a fuck what they think, right?"
Sam laughs and the knot in Dean's chest eases a little more. "Yeah," Sam agrees. "C'mon. Let's go back to the motel and I'll blow you."