Drabbles
Stalk me?
(Sam/girl!Dean/Jess, r-rated, 539 words) Stanford-era (and I know you didn't request girl!Dean but the little fucker just wouldn't be a bloke) for misty_writes
They pick her up in a club. She's short and fierce and Sam wants her the minute he sees her. It's an insane, nebulous want but he sees her and he wants her, simple as that.
"Sure you're not going to be jealous?" he says to Jess.
She gives him a half-pitying, half-amused look.
"You're coming home with me. This is just fucking." Sam hesitates, because fucking is too serious to be just. But Jess pushes up against him and kisses him. "It'll be hot," she says, and he believes that.
The girl sees them approach and there's an open invitation in her eyes. It's to Sam first but then she sees Jess at his side, statuesque body and soft curls, and the invitation extends to her too.
"Dana," says the girl. "You can call me Dana."
Between them, Jess and Dana drag Sam into the club bathroom. Jess pushes him against the wall and kisses him again, her mouth pressed so hard to his he thinks his lips are going to split. And as Jess kisses him, Dana snakes her arms about her waist and Sam sees her small, tanned hand slide under the gauzy fabric of Jess's vest top, hears Jess gasp as fingers find her nipples. Dana's mouth is on her throat and eventually Jess turns her face away from Sam and gives her mouth to Dana.
Sam stays against the wall, sagging there weak-kneed as Jess and Dana wrap around each other. Dana's small but made of lean muscle. Jess pushes her t-shirt up to reveal small, high breasts and Dana makes a noise that's almost surprised when Jess covers one coral-pink nipple with her mouth. Her fingers twist in Jess's curls and she smiles, sharp and bright, at Sam.
"Oh God," Sam moans.
"S'right, Sammy," says Dana and she takes his mouth for a kiss, their first, while Jess goes on suckling at her breast.
When Jess drops to her knees, Dana hitches her skirt up and lets her lick at her thighs. She clutches Jess's hair, riding her face with stuttering jerks of her hips as she goes on kissing Sam until he thinks he's going to pass out.
They take it in turns sucking his cock, one taking him down deep into their throat while the other kisses and licks at whatever bare skin they can reach. Each time he thinks he's about to come, his cock slips free from whoever's mouth it is he's fucking and they switch over until he doesn't even think he remembers how to breathe.
He comes in Jess's mouth and feels obscurely bad for Dana, as if this final act confirms that she's the one who doesn't belong. But Dana takes Jess's face in her hands and slides her tongue between Jess's lips. And when she pulls away, Sam can see glistening strands of his come hanging between Dana's mouth and Jess's.
Dana looks up at Sam and now that the overwhelming need to fuck her has passed, Sam begins to realise that he knows her from somewhere. The smirk almost tells him everything he needs to know. Almost.
When Dana leaves, Sam's oddly peeved that her gaze lingers longer on Jess than it does him.
:::
(evil!Sam/Dean, nc-17, 309 words) for scarlet_avatar
Sam shoves Dean face-first onto the blood-sodden bed. Dean starts to flip over but is slowed by his wrists cuffed behind his back. It gives Sam enough time to bear down on him, to push him back down into the blood. He drags Dean's jeans down his thighs and brings his hand down hard on the curve of his ass, the sharp sound of the smack ringing in the air. The red print of his hand stands out beautifully on his skin.
"You need to understand," Sam says.
"I do!"
Sam hisses his irritation and jerks his cock from his jeans. He doesn't bother with fingering or lube, Dean's still fucked open from earlier, still traces of Sam's come glistening down the cleft of his ass. He fills Dean with cock in one, smooth thrust. Then he tugs on the handcuffs, wrenching Dean's arms up to drag him deeper down on his cock. Dean growls, the sound hoarse with pain and fury at being manhandled like this.
He rides him hard and steady, and with each thrust he takes care to wipe Dean's face against the blood-sodden sheet. When he feels he's about to come, he stops fucking Dean and simply pushes down on him, bearing him down into the blood, trapping him beneath his body.
"I need you to understand," says Sam.
He grips the back of Dean's neck and twists until Dean's face is turned towards the remains on the bed. The girl's eyes are fixed on the ceiling in a glassy stare. Between the claws of her spread-open ribs, her internal organs are mangled like a knot of red ribbons.
Sam feels Dean shudder beneath him and as he lets his softening cock slip from Dean's ass, he presses his lips to Dean's ear and says, "I don't deal well with being jealous."
:::
(genfic, g-rated, 459 words) Dean leaves (kind of) instead of Sam, for nomelon
Sam's fourteen when Dean leaves. Sam comes home from school and Dean's packing his duffel. He cuffs Sam lightly around the ear and says, "Be good for Dad, Sammy." His eyes are suspiciously red-rimmed. Just before he goes out the door, John pulls him tight against him and holds him for a second. Then he lets him go and Dean leaves and that's it.
Then there's just John and Sam.
Between them, they figure out how not to kill each other. It involves a lot of John drinking and a lot of Sam not speaking for days on end. They get by though. By the time Sam's sixteen, he's stopped suggesting he stay with Dean whenever John's looking for somewhere to leave him for a few days.
"You need to let your brother get on with his life," says John and that's the end of the conversation each and every time.
Besides, Sam's pretty much old enough then to go hunting with John and they do even better with each other then, when there are things to kill and hunts to plan.
Sam's twenty-two the next time he sees Dean. It's his birthday and John drives them out of the nowhere town from which they've just removed a banshee and takes them to Sacramento. He doesn't say where they're going or why, just pulls up on the street outside a garage. Sam looks to John but he just inclines his head back towards the garage.
It takes Sam a horribly long time to realise that the mechanic he's watching, with grease-stains on his t-shirt and Led Zeppelin playing on the radio, is his brother. Dean's whistling as he works under the hood, stops to chat when another mechanic brings him out a cup of coffee.
John's hand closes about Sam's wrist as he goes for the door handle. They struggle wordlessly, Sam trying to get out of the car and John holding him back.
"For your brother's sake!" John hisses suddenly.
Sam looks at him and John takes a shuddering breath. His eyes go soft and dark, and he chooses his words very carefully.
"When that thing killed your mother, it took away any chance of me ever having a normal life. And you and I both know that it's not going to let you have a normal life either. But your brother…"
As one, they both turn to look back at Dean, who's stretched out against the wall, drinking coffee and sunning himself. John uncurls his fingers from Sam's wrist and pats him gently on the shoulder.
"If you love your brother, let him have a normal life."
While John starts up the engine, Sam takes one last look at his brother.
They don't go back to Sacramento.
:::
(Sam/Dean, pg-13, 703 words) tattoo!kink for stephanometra
The mission’s only half-successful: Sam gets in to the tattoo parlour without detection, but he doesn’t get out. Dean’s leaning against the Impala, waiting for him, as Sam staggers back into the street. His skin is still stinging and the sunlight’s too bright after the relative gloom of the parlour, but he refuses to be intimidated by the look on Dean’s face.
“How’d you find me?”
Dean waits until Sam’s safely in the car before he climbs in and starts the engine up.
“Came to pick you up after soccer practice and you weren’t there. So I slapped your friends around ‘til they told me where you were.” Sam shoots him a furious glare, which Dean meets with a smirk. “Relax! I only had to hit ‘em a coupla times! No broken bones!”
Sam doesn’t dignify it with a response and besides, his hip is sore and he can’t sit comfortably in his seat. He’s so busy trying not to shift around that it takes him a while to catch the weird energy coming off Dean. Dean’s practically vibrating. His gaze slides over to Sam more often than it’s on the road and Sam begins to wonder if Dad’s the one whose response to the tattoo is the one he needs to worry about.
They’ve barely pulled up outside the house they’re renting, than Dean’s round Sam’s side of the car, all but dragging him out. Sam tries shaking Dean off once they’re inside and almost succeeds but the minute he tries to turn off to the kitchen, Dean’s got him by the scruff of the neck again - which is some trick, considering Sam’s been taller than Dean for a few years now - and is manhandling him towards their room.
Sam goes down on the bed with an oomph! as the breath is slammed from his lungs. He tries to right himself but Dean seems intent on clambering on top of him.
“Dude!” Sam shrieks. “What the Hell are you doing?”
"Where is it?" says Dean. He wrenches Sam's t-shirt up and Sam feels goosebumps erupt at the sensation of Dean's breath on his skin. "C'mon, kiddo, show me. I wanna see."
There's something in Dean's voice, a strained desperation he tries to hide, which drives the fight clean out of Sam. He goes still and silent as Dean's fingers spider over his lower back and belly. Then Dean makes this rough, frustrated noise and Sam flips over to catch his hand. He rolls over onto his elbows, Dean half-straddling him, and tugs his fly down. It feels stupidly intimate and Sam wills his cock not to even twitch.
He shuffles his jeans down his thighs and brings Dean's fingers to the small bandage over his hipbone. Dean's breath catches in his throat and he looks up at Sam with wide eyes.
"Can I?" he says. "I wanna see it."
Sam blinks and nods. It's hard to see how he could refuse Dean anything when his expression is so soft and pleading. He looks too vulnerable for Sam to tell him no. Sam doesn't get what's going on - how, somehow, this petty rebellion that was designed to piss John off has got Dean so hung up - but he knows he can't turn back now.
He peels the plaster back to reveal the black swirls of ink over angry red skin. He watches Dean's face for his reaction, knows he won't understand the significance of the symbol Sam's chosen, but needs his approval nonetheless.
Dean's fingertip skims the shape of the tattoo, so light it almost hurts more than if he applied any pressure. It's the suggestion of a touch and Sam bites down on his lip while he tries to settle his breathing. Then Dean pulls his hand back, tugs clumsily at Sam's jeans as if trying to cover him up again.
"S'pretty awesome, dude" he says. His voice is rougher than usual, can't quite manage its usual casual timbre. He slides from the bed and heads for the door, "Pizza for dinner, all right?"
Sam nods dazedly. He listens to Dean clattering about in the kitchen, closes his eyes and feels his tattoo flutter in echo of Dean's touch.
:::
(Sam/Dean, r-rated, 627 words) porn (in this case, gunplay, because I was feeling in that kind of mood and that's a totally adequate explanation, all right?) for godamnarmsrace
This is what John's made of his eldest son: an ever so slightly deranged, frighteningly devoted soldier who'll fight and fuck and die for the people to whom he feels he belongs. It does scare Sam, because the temptation to take advantage of it makes him push and push, just to see how far he can make Dean go.
The more fucked-up the command, the more eager Dean is to obey. He's quicker to follow the crazier orders than he is the sensible, well thought out suggestions. The more fucked-up the command, the better to prove how loyal he is.
Sam's dragged Dean into the motel room and made him get down on his knees. And Dean waits there, hands resting at his sides, gaze as watchful and full of anticipation as an attack dog awaiting the command to kill. It's an unnervingly intense gaze, as if Dean won't allow himself to miss even the faintest of non-verbal cues from Sam.
Sam brings the gun down between his spread legs as he stands over Dean, one hand curled about the metal and the heel of the other massaging the straining bulge of his cock beneath his jeans. He jerks the muzzle of the gun towards Dean, sees Dean's eyes dart towards it as he tries to determine what Sam wants from him before Sam even has to say it.
"Suck," says Sam.
It's a stupid, dangerous thing to tell Dean to do. John'd castrate Sam for not giving his guns proper respect, if he were still alive, that is. But none of that shows on Dean's face. He just tilts his mouth towards the gun and wraps his lips about the muzzle. Feeling a guilty rush of power, Sam pushes the gun hard between Dean's lips and hears his teeth clink against the metal, hears Dean gag for a second before he recovers.
Then Dean just cranes his neck back and pushes closer, so his chest is brushing against Sam's knees. Sam fucks his mouth with the gun in quick, shallow strokes. Dean's slick, pink lips leave the metal glistening as they slide up and down the muzzle.
"Use your tongue."
Dean doesn't look at him or give any indication that he's heard but right away, there's his tongue. His face tilts to the side as he opens up wider, the muzzle resting on his tongue briefly before Dean licks a long sweeping line along the metal. The wet sound of his mouth working is stomach-wrenchingly hot.
Sam's breath is coming harsh pants and his hips are moving like it's his cock in Dean's mouth, a desperate, jerking roll. He pulls the gun from between Dean's lips with a soft, moist pop. Dean doesn't moan or whimper. At times like this, he doesn't fight Sam, doesn't protest or push. He just gives himself up for whatever shape or role Sam chooses to bend him.
The gun shines in the dry, colourless sunlight that filters into the room. Sam looks back at Dean, with his parted, swollen lips and heavy-lidded eyes, the dark lashes brushing his flushed cheeks. His chest rises and falls in steady, shuddering sighs.
Sam drags the muzzle along the line of Dean's cheekbone, fixated on the way Dean leans into the touch of the metal. He uses the gun almost as a paintbrush, to smear the wetness of Dean's mouth back along the delicate bones of his face, until the gun is resting squarely between Dean's eyes.
Dean blinks at him and Sam hefts the weight of the gun in his hands, the cold, compact violence of it, and pulls the trigger.
The chamber's empty, of course, but what matters most to Sam, what makes his knees go weak, is that Dean doesn't flinch.
:::
(Ash/Dean, pg-13, 599 words) naked!Ash (I know you only said bare-chested but I couldn’t help myself) for _emeraldgreen
Ash is a genius. He's also allergic to clothes.
The combination of these two facts ultimately leads to him ending up naked and stoned in a field. He chews on a mouthful of dry grass while the drugs keep his brain nicely fuzzy and inactive. Too much thinking, when you've a mind as agile and imaginative as Ash's, is a sure-fire way to get depressed.
"Are you eating grass?"
Ash spits and tries to coordinate his limbs enough to roll over but is way past any motor-control. He manages a weird caterpillar move and that's it.
"Deeeeeean," he says, drawing the word out as long as possible.
"Ookay, you're stoned. Not that I had much doubt about it considering you're butt-naked in a field."
It goes quiet and Ash wonders if maybe Dean's gone away. He thinks he'd rather it if Dean stuck around and they could talk about hair or cock-rock or stuff. But he has no idea how long the silence's gone on for and Dean could be in another state by now.
Then everything shifts and Ash gets a moment of staring blearily at Dean's knees and then there's this crazy rolling thing and Dean's shoulder under his belly and then he's looking at Dean's ass. He opens his mouth against his jeans - the fabric's rough against his lips and doesn't taste like Dean. He'd kinda hoped it would.
"Wow," he says. "Are we gonna fuck now?"
The world jerks as Dean missteps and Ash thinks he might be getting on to the needing to vomit stage. His stomach's gone heavy and fluttery and being thrown around isn’t helping.
"No. I'm just taking you back to the Roadhouse."
"Are we gonna fuck when we get there?"
Ash drags his tongue over the coarse denim. If he could just make his arms work, he'd use his hands to get a better grip, to hold Dean's ass still so he could taste his jeans properly.
"Nope. And dude, are you kissing my jeans? It's kind of freaking me out."
"When are we gonna fuck?" There's a plaintive, whining note in Ash's voice that he tries to spit out and simply ends up hawking down the back of Dean's leg.
"Hmm, probably not ever."
Ash considers this as he watches his saliva dribble down Dean's jeans, glistening in the moonlight.
"That sucks."
"Doesn't it just?" Dean agrees, but he sounds oddly cheerful about it.
It's a testament to just how goddamn irritatingly brilliant Ash's brain is that it won't shut the fuck up and let Ash simply enjoy the scenery - the scenery being the road and Dean's ass. And the globule of spit.
"So, if we're probably not ever gonna fuck… why'd you come looking for me?"
"Roadhouse was missing its resident nudist freak. We were worried." Dean clears his throat, which sends an interesting rumble through Ash's head, and amends that to, "Ellen was worried. Me? I was just tryin' to get some sleep."
Ash nods and man, does that make him want to be sick! He thinks it through carefully, or as carefully as he is currently able, and then sinks his teeth into Dean's ass. Dean shouts and Ash thinks he's about to get dropped headfirst onto the road, so takes a death grip on Dean's legs. There's a moment of flailing and stumbling and then Dean gets Ash settled back on his shoulder and they're walking again.
"You do that again," says Dean, "And I'll frickin' well drop-kick you."
"You said probably never." Ash gives a blissful smirk. "Considerin' the prob'bilities, I like my odds."
:::
(Logan/Alec, pg-13, 441 words) coda to Fuhgeddaboudit for wildestranger
Alec finds it ridiculously funny. Logan doesn't.
Alec prods and prods: calls him 'buddy', invites him over for a beer, claps a hand on his shoulder. He's careful not to do it when Max is around. He's still bruised from the last time she kicked his ass and to see him flirting with her kind of boyfriend (and yes, Logan has no doubts about Alec and knows to call it flirting) well, that's just asking for another ass-kicking.
If there were a way of drawing Max's attention to Alec's behaviour that wasn't entirely emasculating, you can bet Logan would do it.
As it is, Logan grits his teeth, tries to be mature about it and eventually snaps, slams Alec up against the wall and snarls "I am not your friend," right in his face.
The breath knocked clear out his lungs, Alec can't speak for a second but fills the pause with a smirk. Logan's fingers are curled about his shoulders, digging into the flesh, and he's pressed so close he feels Alec shift down the entire length of his body.
"You called me a happy-go-lucky sociopath and hugged me."
"Doesn't make me-" Logan breaks off as Alec rolls his hips towards him. His expression is caught between amusement and arousal, cheeks flushed and one corner of his mouth still trying to tug into a smirk. "Doesn't make me your friend."
Alec jerks his hips towards Logan again, slower, a more deliberate move designed to grind his cock against Logan's.
"Guy could always do with more friends. I could be your friend."
Logan forces his mouth to Alec's and kisses him hard. He's still got hold of Alec by the shoulders but he knows Alec could break his grip, if he wanted to. The fact that Alec just opens up for him, pushing back as fervently as Logan tries to push his tongue between his lips, makes Logan feel a rush of contemptuous desire. His jaw works furiously as he kisses Alec as thoroughly as he can, as much about shutting him up once and for all as it is wanting his mouth.
Finally, he grabs a handful of Alec's hair and uses it to wrench his face away, knocking his head back against the wall as he does so. Despite the loud sound of Alec's skull making impact with the wall, or the kiss that's left Logan breathless and a little crazy, Alec still looks disgustingly smug.
"I don't want you to be my friend," says Logan and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. He means it too. Friendship is the last thing he wants from Alec.
(Sam/girl!Dean/Jess, r-rated, 539 words) Stanford-era (and I know you didn't request girl!Dean but the little fucker just wouldn't be a bloke) for misty_writes
They pick her up in a club. She's short and fierce and Sam wants her the minute he sees her. It's an insane, nebulous want but he sees her and he wants her, simple as that.
"Sure you're not going to be jealous?" he says to Jess.
She gives him a half-pitying, half-amused look.
"You're coming home with me. This is just fucking." Sam hesitates, because fucking is too serious to be just. But Jess pushes up against him and kisses him. "It'll be hot," she says, and he believes that.
The girl sees them approach and there's an open invitation in her eyes. It's to Sam first but then she sees Jess at his side, statuesque body and soft curls, and the invitation extends to her too.
"Dana," says the girl. "You can call me Dana."
Between them, Jess and Dana drag Sam into the club bathroom. Jess pushes him against the wall and kisses him again, her mouth pressed so hard to his he thinks his lips are going to split. And as Jess kisses him, Dana snakes her arms about her waist and Sam sees her small, tanned hand slide under the gauzy fabric of Jess's vest top, hears Jess gasp as fingers find her nipples. Dana's mouth is on her throat and eventually Jess turns her face away from Sam and gives her mouth to Dana.
Sam stays against the wall, sagging there weak-kneed as Jess and Dana wrap around each other. Dana's small but made of lean muscle. Jess pushes her t-shirt up to reveal small, high breasts and Dana makes a noise that's almost surprised when Jess covers one coral-pink nipple with her mouth. Her fingers twist in Jess's curls and she smiles, sharp and bright, at Sam.
"Oh God," Sam moans.
"S'right, Sammy," says Dana and she takes his mouth for a kiss, their first, while Jess goes on suckling at her breast.
When Jess drops to her knees, Dana hitches her skirt up and lets her lick at her thighs. She clutches Jess's hair, riding her face with stuttering jerks of her hips as she goes on kissing Sam until he thinks he's going to pass out.
They take it in turns sucking his cock, one taking him down deep into their throat while the other kisses and licks at whatever bare skin they can reach. Each time he thinks he's about to come, his cock slips free from whoever's mouth it is he's fucking and they switch over until he doesn't even think he remembers how to breathe.
He comes in Jess's mouth and feels obscurely bad for Dana, as if this final act confirms that she's the one who doesn't belong. But Dana takes Jess's face in her hands and slides her tongue between Jess's lips. And when she pulls away, Sam can see glistening strands of his come hanging between Dana's mouth and Jess's.
Dana looks up at Sam and now that the overwhelming need to fuck her has passed, Sam begins to realise that he knows her from somewhere. The smirk almost tells him everything he needs to know. Almost.
When Dana leaves, Sam's oddly peeved that her gaze lingers longer on Jess than it does him.
:::
(evil!Sam/Dean, nc-17, 309 words) for scarlet_avatar
Sam shoves Dean face-first onto the blood-sodden bed. Dean starts to flip over but is slowed by his wrists cuffed behind his back. It gives Sam enough time to bear down on him, to push him back down into the blood. He drags Dean's jeans down his thighs and brings his hand down hard on the curve of his ass, the sharp sound of the smack ringing in the air. The red print of his hand stands out beautifully on his skin.
"You need to understand," Sam says.
"I do!"
Sam hisses his irritation and jerks his cock from his jeans. He doesn't bother with fingering or lube, Dean's still fucked open from earlier, still traces of Sam's come glistening down the cleft of his ass. He fills Dean with cock in one, smooth thrust. Then he tugs on the handcuffs, wrenching Dean's arms up to drag him deeper down on his cock. Dean growls, the sound hoarse with pain and fury at being manhandled like this.
He rides him hard and steady, and with each thrust he takes care to wipe Dean's face against the blood-sodden sheet. When he feels he's about to come, he stops fucking Dean and simply pushes down on him, bearing him down into the blood, trapping him beneath his body.
"I need you to understand," says Sam.
He grips the back of Dean's neck and twists until Dean's face is turned towards the remains on the bed. The girl's eyes are fixed on the ceiling in a glassy stare. Between the claws of her spread-open ribs, her internal organs are mangled like a knot of red ribbons.
Sam feels Dean shudder beneath him and as he lets his softening cock slip from Dean's ass, he presses his lips to Dean's ear and says, "I don't deal well with being jealous."
:::
(genfic, g-rated, 459 words) Dean leaves (kind of) instead of Sam, for nomelon
Sam's fourteen when Dean leaves. Sam comes home from school and Dean's packing his duffel. He cuffs Sam lightly around the ear and says, "Be good for Dad, Sammy." His eyes are suspiciously red-rimmed. Just before he goes out the door, John pulls him tight against him and holds him for a second. Then he lets him go and Dean leaves and that's it.
Then there's just John and Sam.
Between them, they figure out how not to kill each other. It involves a lot of John drinking and a lot of Sam not speaking for days on end. They get by though. By the time Sam's sixteen, he's stopped suggesting he stay with Dean whenever John's looking for somewhere to leave him for a few days.
"You need to let your brother get on with his life," says John and that's the end of the conversation each and every time.
Besides, Sam's pretty much old enough then to go hunting with John and they do even better with each other then, when there are things to kill and hunts to plan.
Sam's twenty-two the next time he sees Dean. It's his birthday and John drives them out of the nowhere town from which they've just removed a banshee and takes them to Sacramento. He doesn't say where they're going or why, just pulls up on the street outside a garage. Sam looks to John but he just inclines his head back towards the garage.
It takes Sam a horribly long time to realise that the mechanic he's watching, with grease-stains on his t-shirt and Led Zeppelin playing on the radio, is his brother. Dean's whistling as he works under the hood, stops to chat when another mechanic brings him out a cup of coffee.
John's hand closes about Sam's wrist as he goes for the door handle. They struggle wordlessly, Sam trying to get out of the car and John holding him back.
"For your brother's sake!" John hisses suddenly.
Sam looks at him and John takes a shuddering breath. His eyes go soft and dark, and he chooses his words very carefully.
"When that thing killed your mother, it took away any chance of me ever having a normal life. And you and I both know that it's not going to let you have a normal life either. But your brother…"
As one, they both turn to look back at Dean, who's stretched out against the wall, drinking coffee and sunning himself. John uncurls his fingers from Sam's wrist and pats him gently on the shoulder.
"If you love your brother, let him have a normal life."
While John starts up the engine, Sam takes one last look at his brother.
They don't go back to Sacramento.
:::
(Sam/Dean, pg-13, 703 words) tattoo!kink for stephanometra
The mission’s only half-successful: Sam gets in to the tattoo parlour without detection, but he doesn’t get out. Dean’s leaning against the Impala, waiting for him, as Sam staggers back into the street. His skin is still stinging and the sunlight’s too bright after the relative gloom of the parlour, but he refuses to be intimidated by the look on Dean’s face.
“How’d you find me?”
Dean waits until Sam’s safely in the car before he climbs in and starts the engine up.
“Came to pick you up after soccer practice and you weren’t there. So I slapped your friends around ‘til they told me where you were.” Sam shoots him a furious glare, which Dean meets with a smirk. “Relax! I only had to hit ‘em a coupla times! No broken bones!”
Sam doesn’t dignify it with a response and besides, his hip is sore and he can’t sit comfortably in his seat. He’s so busy trying not to shift around that it takes him a while to catch the weird energy coming off Dean. Dean’s practically vibrating. His gaze slides over to Sam more often than it’s on the road and Sam begins to wonder if Dad’s the one whose response to the tattoo is the one he needs to worry about.
They’ve barely pulled up outside the house they’re renting, than Dean’s round Sam’s side of the car, all but dragging him out. Sam tries shaking Dean off once they’re inside and almost succeeds but the minute he tries to turn off to the kitchen, Dean’s got him by the scruff of the neck again - which is some trick, considering Sam’s been taller than Dean for a few years now - and is manhandling him towards their room.
Sam goes down on the bed with an oomph! as the breath is slammed from his lungs. He tries to right himself but Dean seems intent on clambering on top of him.
“Dude!” Sam shrieks. “What the Hell are you doing?”
"Where is it?" says Dean. He wrenches Sam's t-shirt up and Sam feels goosebumps erupt at the sensation of Dean's breath on his skin. "C'mon, kiddo, show me. I wanna see."
There's something in Dean's voice, a strained desperation he tries to hide, which drives the fight clean out of Sam. He goes still and silent as Dean's fingers spider over his lower back and belly. Then Dean makes this rough, frustrated noise and Sam flips over to catch his hand. He rolls over onto his elbows, Dean half-straddling him, and tugs his fly down. It feels stupidly intimate and Sam wills his cock not to even twitch.
He shuffles his jeans down his thighs and brings Dean's fingers to the small bandage over his hipbone. Dean's breath catches in his throat and he looks up at Sam with wide eyes.
"Can I?" he says. "I wanna see it."
Sam blinks and nods. It's hard to see how he could refuse Dean anything when his expression is so soft and pleading. He looks too vulnerable for Sam to tell him no. Sam doesn't get what's going on - how, somehow, this petty rebellion that was designed to piss John off has got Dean so hung up - but he knows he can't turn back now.
He peels the plaster back to reveal the black swirls of ink over angry red skin. He watches Dean's face for his reaction, knows he won't understand the significance of the symbol Sam's chosen, but needs his approval nonetheless.
Dean's fingertip skims the shape of the tattoo, so light it almost hurts more than if he applied any pressure. It's the suggestion of a touch and Sam bites down on his lip while he tries to settle his breathing. Then Dean pulls his hand back, tugs clumsily at Sam's jeans as if trying to cover him up again.
"S'pretty awesome, dude" he says. His voice is rougher than usual, can't quite manage its usual casual timbre. He slides from the bed and heads for the door, "Pizza for dinner, all right?"
Sam nods dazedly. He listens to Dean clattering about in the kitchen, closes his eyes and feels his tattoo flutter in echo of Dean's touch.
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(Sam/Dean, r-rated, 627 words) porn (in this case, gunplay, because I was feeling in that kind of mood and that's a totally adequate explanation, all right?) for godamnarmsrace
This is what John's made of his eldest son: an ever so slightly deranged, frighteningly devoted soldier who'll fight and fuck and die for the people to whom he feels he belongs. It does scare Sam, because the temptation to take advantage of it makes him push and push, just to see how far he can make Dean go.
The more fucked-up the command, the more eager Dean is to obey. He's quicker to follow the crazier orders than he is the sensible, well thought out suggestions. The more fucked-up the command, the better to prove how loyal he is.
Sam's dragged Dean into the motel room and made him get down on his knees. And Dean waits there, hands resting at his sides, gaze as watchful and full of anticipation as an attack dog awaiting the command to kill. It's an unnervingly intense gaze, as if Dean won't allow himself to miss even the faintest of non-verbal cues from Sam.
Sam brings the gun down between his spread legs as he stands over Dean, one hand curled about the metal and the heel of the other massaging the straining bulge of his cock beneath his jeans. He jerks the muzzle of the gun towards Dean, sees Dean's eyes dart towards it as he tries to determine what Sam wants from him before Sam even has to say it.
"Suck," says Sam.
It's a stupid, dangerous thing to tell Dean to do. John'd castrate Sam for not giving his guns proper respect, if he were still alive, that is. But none of that shows on Dean's face. He just tilts his mouth towards the gun and wraps his lips about the muzzle. Feeling a guilty rush of power, Sam pushes the gun hard between Dean's lips and hears his teeth clink against the metal, hears Dean gag for a second before he recovers.
Then Dean just cranes his neck back and pushes closer, so his chest is brushing against Sam's knees. Sam fucks his mouth with the gun in quick, shallow strokes. Dean's slick, pink lips leave the metal glistening as they slide up and down the muzzle.
"Use your tongue."
Dean doesn't look at him or give any indication that he's heard but right away, there's his tongue. His face tilts to the side as he opens up wider, the muzzle resting on his tongue briefly before Dean licks a long sweeping line along the metal. The wet sound of his mouth working is stomach-wrenchingly hot.
Sam's breath is coming harsh pants and his hips are moving like it's his cock in Dean's mouth, a desperate, jerking roll. He pulls the gun from between Dean's lips with a soft, moist pop. Dean doesn't moan or whimper. At times like this, he doesn't fight Sam, doesn't protest or push. He just gives himself up for whatever shape or role Sam chooses to bend him.
The gun shines in the dry, colourless sunlight that filters into the room. Sam looks back at Dean, with his parted, swollen lips and heavy-lidded eyes, the dark lashes brushing his flushed cheeks. His chest rises and falls in steady, shuddering sighs.
Sam drags the muzzle along the line of Dean's cheekbone, fixated on the way Dean leans into the touch of the metal. He uses the gun almost as a paintbrush, to smear the wetness of Dean's mouth back along the delicate bones of his face, until the gun is resting squarely between Dean's eyes.
Dean blinks at him and Sam hefts the weight of the gun in his hands, the cold, compact violence of it, and pulls the trigger.
The chamber's empty, of course, but what matters most to Sam, what makes his knees go weak, is that Dean doesn't flinch.
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(Ash/Dean, pg-13, 599 words) naked!Ash (I know you only said bare-chested but I couldn’t help myself) for _emeraldgreen
Ash is a genius. He's also allergic to clothes.
The combination of these two facts ultimately leads to him ending up naked and stoned in a field. He chews on a mouthful of dry grass while the drugs keep his brain nicely fuzzy and inactive. Too much thinking, when you've a mind as agile and imaginative as Ash's, is a sure-fire way to get depressed.
"Are you eating grass?"
Ash spits and tries to coordinate his limbs enough to roll over but is way past any motor-control. He manages a weird caterpillar move and that's it.
"Deeeeeean," he says, drawing the word out as long as possible.
"Ookay, you're stoned. Not that I had much doubt about it considering you're butt-naked in a field."
It goes quiet and Ash wonders if maybe Dean's gone away. He thinks he'd rather it if Dean stuck around and they could talk about hair or cock-rock or stuff. But he has no idea how long the silence's gone on for and Dean could be in another state by now.
Then everything shifts and Ash gets a moment of staring blearily at Dean's knees and then there's this crazy rolling thing and Dean's shoulder under his belly and then he's looking at Dean's ass. He opens his mouth against his jeans - the fabric's rough against his lips and doesn't taste like Dean. He'd kinda hoped it would.
"Wow," he says. "Are we gonna fuck now?"
The world jerks as Dean missteps and Ash thinks he might be getting on to the needing to vomit stage. His stomach's gone heavy and fluttery and being thrown around isn’t helping.
"No. I'm just taking you back to the Roadhouse."
"Are we gonna fuck when we get there?"
Ash drags his tongue over the coarse denim. If he could just make his arms work, he'd use his hands to get a better grip, to hold Dean's ass still so he could taste his jeans properly.
"Nope. And dude, are you kissing my jeans? It's kind of freaking me out."
"When are we gonna fuck?" There's a plaintive, whining note in Ash's voice that he tries to spit out and simply ends up hawking down the back of Dean's leg.
"Hmm, probably not ever."
Ash considers this as he watches his saliva dribble down Dean's jeans, glistening in the moonlight.
"That sucks."
"Doesn't it just?" Dean agrees, but he sounds oddly cheerful about it.
It's a testament to just how goddamn irritatingly brilliant Ash's brain is that it won't shut the fuck up and let Ash simply enjoy the scenery - the scenery being the road and Dean's ass. And the globule of spit.
"So, if we're probably not ever gonna fuck… why'd you come looking for me?"
"Roadhouse was missing its resident nudist freak. We were worried." Dean clears his throat, which sends an interesting rumble through Ash's head, and amends that to, "Ellen was worried. Me? I was just tryin' to get some sleep."
Ash nods and man, does that make him want to be sick! He thinks it through carefully, or as carefully as he is currently able, and then sinks his teeth into Dean's ass. Dean shouts and Ash thinks he's about to get dropped headfirst onto the road, so takes a death grip on Dean's legs. There's a moment of flailing and stumbling and then Dean gets Ash settled back on his shoulder and they're walking again.
"You do that again," says Dean, "And I'll frickin' well drop-kick you."
"You said probably never." Ash gives a blissful smirk. "Considerin' the prob'bilities, I like my odds."
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(Logan/Alec, pg-13, 441 words) coda to Fuhgeddaboudit for wildestranger
Alec finds it ridiculously funny. Logan doesn't.
Alec prods and prods: calls him 'buddy', invites him over for a beer, claps a hand on his shoulder. He's careful not to do it when Max is around. He's still bruised from the last time she kicked his ass and to see him flirting with her kind of boyfriend (and yes, Logan has no doubts about Alec and knows to call it flirting) well, that's just asking for another ass-kicking.
If there were a way of drawing Max's attention to Alec's behaviour that wasn't entirely emasculating, you can bet Logan would do it.
As it is, Logan grits his teeth, tries to be mature about it and eventually snaps, slams Alec up against the wall and snarls "I am not your friend," right in his face.
The breath knocked clear out his lungs, Alec can't speak for a second but fills the pause with a smirk. Logan's fingers are curled about his shoulders, digging into the flesh, and he's pressed so close he feels Alec shift down the entire length of his body.
"You called me a happy-go-lucky sociopath and hugged me."
"Doesn't make me-" Logan breaks off as Alec rolls his hips towards him. His expression is caught between amusement and arousal, cheeks flushed and one corner of his mouth still trying to tug into a smirk. "Doesn't make me your friend."
Alec jerks his hips towards Logan again, slower, a more deliberate move designed to grind his cock against Logan's.
"Guy could always do with more friends. I could be your friend."
Logan forces his mouth to Alec's and kisses him hard. He's still got hold of Alec by the shoulders but he knows Alec could break his grip, if he wanted to. The fact that Alec just opens up for him, pushing back as fervently as Logan tries to push his tongue between his lips, makes Logan feel a rush of contemptuous desire. His jaw works furiously as he kisses Alec as thoroughly as he can, as much about shutting him up once and for all as it is wanting his mouth.
Finally, he grabs a handful of Alec's hair and uses it to wrench his face away, knocking his head back against the wall as he does so. Despite the loud sound of Alec's skull making impact with the wall, or the kiss that's left Logan breathless and a little crazy, Alec still looks disgustingly smug.
"I don't want you to be my friend," says Logan and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. He means it too. Friendship is the last thing he wants from Alec.