Fic: Instruction
Title: Instruction
Author: britomart_is
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Words: 1172
Notes: Originally written anonymously for a prompt on the kink meme. So, uh, hasty commentfic.
~
This morning begins differently than most--when Dean wakes up, the other half of the bed is empty, rumpled sheets and a spot still warm from body heat. No shower sounds. Dean squints at the nighstand and finds Sam's note--out interviewing a local historian, he'll meet Dean later. Dean's lip curls at the note's ending exhortation, Be good, but his moment of defiance wanes and Dean's caught by the sudden urge to wait right here till Sam gets back and their morning rituals can proceed.
He gets out of bed, stretches. A little sore from the night before. Dean pads to the bathroom and brushes his teeth before checking out the clothes Sam's laid out for him. No underwear. Dean thinks about grabbing some boxers anyway, but doesn't. As Dean's wriggling into the jeans, wondering if he oughta lay off the chili cheese fries, he realizes they're the ones that got shrunk in the hot water at the laundromat a couple weeks ago. Son of a bitch. He sucks in until he can get them on, and checks himself out in the mirror. They're tight, verging on obscenely so. Not what Dean'd choose in a hundred years. A little uncomfortable, just enough that every twinge of discomfort throughout the day will remind Dean that he's wearing what Sam picked out.
Dean's still a little unsettled when he heads out to get breakfast. He leaves the radio off because Sam's not there to tell him what station to put on. When he slides into the vinyl booth and Doris hands him a menu, his nervousness grows. Ever since they started this thing, Sam's been ordering for him, and yeah, it gets them some funny looks, but now Dean's not sure what to do. His hand goes to his coat pocket to fidget with his keys, and that's when he finds the note. Pulls it out and unwrinkles it - motel notepad, Sam's careful handwriting. One cup coffee, decaf, NO REFILLS. Half serving hashbrowns, one tablespoon ketchup on the side. One slice cantaloupe, three blueberries. Hard boiled egg. Clean your plate. As much water as you want. Dean motherfucking hates hard-boiled eggs, but nonetheless he finds himself instantly relaxing in his seat, running his fingers over the note and smoothing out the creases. Doris' thinly-plucked eyebrows rise up almost into her hairline as she takes down his order, but she brings it out just like he asks. Dean savors his one cup of coffee. Scrapes up every bit of ketchup with the last of his hashbrowns. Guzzles three glasses of water. Chokes down the egg. Eats the last of his three blueberries and realizes he's hard, he's gonna have to walk out of here like this, in these pants no less, and thinks that little bastard must've known this would happen.
Dean's walk of shame out of the diner leaves him flushed - he figures he gave the blue-haired ladies in the booth by the door something to talk about at their knitting circle. There's a note under the windshield wiper on the car, written on a sheet ripped out of the yellow pages--Need to talk to the widow, meet you @ the Roadside 6pm. Get medical examiner to talk if you can. No bathroom breaks.
When they first entered into their arrangement, Dean imagined it a little differently. More bondage and spanking (though there's that, too) and less sartorial and nutritional advice and general tyranny. Sometimes Dean curses himself for giving up the reins to that gigantic control freak. This afternoon is one of those times, as Dean shifts uncomfortably in a room that smells like formaldehyde, trying to listen to the M.E. talk about lividity. His cell phone rings at 3, and Dean ducks into the hall to take Sam's call.
"Any luck with the M.E.?"
Dean shifts his stance again, finds his voice. "Yeah. Body looks like a totally normal car-crash victim--who died in his sleep." He squirms. "Sam--"
"You can pee now. Don't hang up."
Dean's down the hall and in the bathroom in a flash, doesn't even try to stifle his groan as he takes a good long piss, phone tucked between ear and shoulder. He can hear Sam smiling, damnit.
The Roadside is a real dive, the kind of place where you get hepatitis just from touching the doorknob. Dean's not so thrilled to be walking in past the bikers outside wearing jeans two sizes too small, but then there's Sam waiting for him, and Sam looks up and sees him and the look on his face is worth any amount of aggravation. Not aroused, not really even sexual, just--happy. Proud. Because of Dean.
Sam orders Dean's beer for him and sits him on a bar stool, takes the one next to him. They turn out to look at the crowd. Blue-collar boys in cowboy boots and overprocessed blonds.
"So who're we watching for?"
"Nobody. Not here for the case," Sam says, taking a pull of his beer. "If anything, they're watching you." He taps Dean's knee. "Spread your legs."
Dean does.
"Little more."
Dean does.
An hour later, Sam's politely flirting with the woman next to him, smiling a little as he watches Dean do the same. Sam's breath is hot in Dean's ear when he leans in and whispers, "Tell her to meet you outside in five minutes. Go out back."
This girl's certainly happy about that plan, biting her lip as Dean walks away, her eyes focused on the seam of his pants, the bulge that she thinks is for her.
The night air is cool on Dean's skin when the back door of the bar creaks open. He keeps his eyes shut, waits for Sam's big hand to curve around the side of his head. Sam's mouth is hot against his neck.
"You were so good today," Sam says. Dean shivers. Sam turns him. "Hands," he says, and Dean plants his hands against the wall. Sam's knee nudging his thigh has him spreading his legs again. The breath shudders out of him and his forehead drops to rest against the wall when Sam's hand pops the button on his jeans and starts working inside. Sam's hand finds bare skin and he gently bites the back of Dean's neck. "Good," Sam says, voice low and a little shaky, "So good for me."
Dean's completely forgotten about his would-be paramour when he hears the gasp, turns and sees her coming out of the bar. She scurries away and Dean feels Sam's chin rest on his shoulder, Sam's arms coming to squeeze around his middle, affectionate and secure. Sam kisses his shoulder. "All mine."
He lets Dean hitch up his pants, leads back to the car. Dean'd maybe hoped for a blowjob right there, but that's okay, the motel will be better. Lube and horizontal surfaces and they won't get arrested for public indecency no matter how loud Sam makes him scream.
'Cause this is the part where Dean gets his reward.
~
Author: britomart_is
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Words: 1172
Notes: Originally written anonymously for a prompt on the kink meme. So, uh, hasty commentfic.
~
This morning begins differently than most--when Dean wakes up, the other half of the bed is empty, rumpled sheets and a spot still warm from body heat. No shower sounds. Dean squints at the nighstand and finds Sam's note--out interviewing a local historian, he'll meet Dean later. Dean's lip curls at the note's ending exhortation, Be good, but his moment of defiance wanes and Dean's caught by the sudden urge to wait right here till Sam gets back and their morning rituals can proceed.
He gets out of bed, stretches. A little sore from the night before. Dean pads to the bathroom and brushes his teeth before checking out the clothes Sam's laid out for him. No underwear. Dean thinks about grabbing some boxers anyway, but doesn't. As Dean's wriggling into the jeans, wondering if he oughta lay off the chili cheese fries, he realizes they're the ones that got shrunk in the hot water at the laundromat a couple weeks ago. Son of a bitch. He sucks in until he can get them on, and checks himself out in the mirror. They're tight, verging on obscenely so. Not what Dean'd choose in a hundred years. A little uncomfortable, just enough that every twinge of discomfort throughout the day will remind Dean that he's wearing what Sam picked out.
Dean's still a little unsettled when he heads out to get breakfast. He leaves the radio off because Sam's not there to tell him what station to put on. When he slides into the vinyl booth and Doris hands him a menu, his nervousness grows. Ever since they started this thing, Sam's been ordering for him, and yeah, it gets them some funny looks, but now Dean's not sure what to do. His hand goes to his coat pocket to fidget with his keys, and that's when he finds the note. Pulls it out and unwrinkles it - motel notepad, Sam's careful handwriting. One cup coffee, decaf, NO REFILLS. Half serving hashbrowns, one tablespoon ketchup on the side. One slice cantaloupe, three blueberries. Hard boiled egg. Clean your plate. As much water as you want. Dean motherfucking hates hard-boiled eggs, but nonetheless he finds himself instantly relaxing in his seat, running his fingers over the note and smoothing out the creases. Doris' thinly-plucked eyebrows rise up almost into her hairline as she takes down his order, but she brings it out just like he asks. Dean savors his one cup of coffee. Scrapes up every bit of ketchup with the last of his hashbrowns. Guzzles three glasses of water. Chokes down the egg. Eats the last of his three blueberries and realizes he's hard, he's gonna have to walk out of here like this, in these pants no less, and thinks that little bastard must've known this would happen.
Dean's walk of shame out of the diner leaves him flushed - he figures he gave the blue-haired ladies in the booth by the door something to talk about at their knitting circle. There's a note under the windshield wiper on the car, written on a sheet ripped out of the yellow pages--Need to talk to the widow, meet you @ the Roadside 6pm. Get medical examiner to talk if you can. No bathroom breaks.
When they first entered into their arrangement, Dean imagined it a little differently. More bondage and spanking (though there's that, too) and less sartorial and nutritional advice and general tyranny. Sometimes Dean curses himself for giving up the reins to that gigantic control freak. This afternoon is one of those times, as Dean shifts uncomfortably in a room that smells like formaldehyde, trying to listen to the M.E. talk about lividity. His cell phone rings at 3, and Dean ducks into the hall to take Sam's call.
"Any luck with the M.E.?"
Dean shifts his stance again, finds his voice. "Yeah. Body looks like a totally normal car-crash victim--who died in his sleep." He squirms. "Sam--"
"You can pee now. Don't hang up."
Dean's down the hall and in the bathroom in a flash, doesn't even try to stifle his groan as he takes a good long piss, phone tucked between ear and shoulder. He can hear Sam smiling, damnit.
The Roadside is a real dive, the kind of place where you get hepatitis just from touching the doorknob. Dean's not so thrilled to be walking in past the bikers outside wearing jeans two sizes too small, but then there's Sam waiting for him, and Sam looks up and sees him and the look on his face is worth any amount of aggravation. Not aroused, not really even sexual, just--happy. Proud. Because of Dean.
Sam orders Dean's beer for him and sits him on a bar stool, takes the one next to him. They turn out to look at the crowd. Blue-collar boys in cowboy boots and overprocessed blonds.
"So who're we watching for?"
"Nobody. Not here for the case," Sam says, taking a pull of his beer. "If anything, they're watching you." He taps Dean's knee. "Spread your legs."
Dean does.
"Little more."
Dean does.
An hour later, Sam's politely flirting with the woman next to him, smiling a little as he watches Dean do the same. Sam's breath is hot in Dean's ear when he leans in and whispers, "Tell her to meet you outside in five minutes. Go out back."
This girl's certainly happy about that plan, biting her lip as Dean walks away, her eyes focused on the seam of his pants, the bulge that she thinks is for her.
The night air is cool on Dean's skin when the back door of the bar creaks open. He keeps his eyes shut, waits for Sam's big hand to curve around the side of his head. Sam's mouth is hot against his neck.
"You were so good today," Sam says. Dean shivers. Sam turns him. "Hands," he says, and Dean plants his hands against the wall. Sam's knee nudging his thigh has him spreading his legs again. The breath shudders out of him and his forehead drops to rest against the wall when Sam's hand pops the button on his jeans and starts working inside. Sam's hand finds bare skin and he gently bites the back of Dean's neck. "Good," Sam says, voice low and a little shaky, "So good for me."
Dean's completely forgotten about his would-be paramour when he hears the gasp, turns and sees her coming out of the bar. She scurries away and Dean feels Sam's chin rest on his shoulder, Sam's arms coming to squeeze around his middle, affectionate and secure. Sam kisses his shoulder. "All mine."
He lets Dean hitch up his pants, leads back to the car. Dean'd maybe hoped for a blowjob right there, but that's okay, the motel will be better. Lube and horizontal surfaces and they won't get arrested for public indecency no matter how loud Sam makes him scream.
'Cause this is the part where Dean gets his reward.
~