Pie Porn (Sam/Dean, 1312 words, NC-17)
Pie Porn
In which there is pie, porn, Dean and nothing like plot. For godamnarmsrace, who put thoughts in my head.
(Sam/Dean, 1312 words, NC-17)
"You're cheating on me with pie?" Sam slides into the seat opposite Dean. "I thought you'd come out to get laid, and instead you're… with the pie."
"S'good pie, man," says Dean, shovelling another forkful into his mouth. He smacks his lips obscenely - his sticky red lips that glisten in the diner's buzzing electric light.
Sam watches Dean work the tines of the fork back through the pastry, watches a single sauce-slick cherry slither onto the plate. Dean catches it up on his fork and makes a small, throaty sound that Sam doesn't think is deliberate. The cherry disappears into his mouth and Dean drags his thumb along the corner of his lips to catch the juice. His eyes are hooded, his long lashes sweeping towards his cheeks.
Sam blinks and starts breathing again.
"So, I'm guessing you like the Impala more than you like pie, but I'm curious where I come on the list. Do I make the Top Ten?"
Dean's fork grates against his plate as it scoops up sticky clumps of pastry crumbs. Dean tilts his mouth towards his fork, tip of his pink tongue just between his parted lips as he moves to lick the fork clean. He pulls a face suddenly and drops his fork. The clatter of metal on china reminds Sam once more to breathe, because damn if he hasn't stopped again.
"Aww, Sammy! Don't make me say it. I like you plenty, all right? Just… y'know… pie."
"What about the pie? What is it about the pie? Seriously."
He rests his elbows on the table and leans closer. It's close enough that he can smell the sweetness of cherries and sugar on Dean's breath. Heat creeps over him, into his belly and his cheeks. His t-shirt sticks to the gathering sweat at the small of his back. It's too warm tonight to sleep or to fuck. All he wants to do is sit at this diner table and watch Dean play with his food.
Dean bites through the crust - neat white teeth sinking through golden pastry - and the marks those same teeth have left on Sam's shoulders and hips ache in understanding. Through the rising red haze, Sam finds it hard to remember whether Dean always eats this slowly, this lazily. He doesn't think he does. But if Dean's got the energy to unstick himself from their stained, sweaty motel-room bed sheets and bring himself to the diner, then he's got no excuse for the way he's dragging out devouring the pie.
His wrist twists languidly as he drives a morsel of pie on the end of his fork through a stream of cherry sauce. The slip-slide of the sinews of his forearm is clear beneath the light shine of sweat on his skin.
"It tastes good," says Dean. "Simple as that."
He holds the fork up between them. Cherry sauce glistens on the pastry, then rolls slowly down the metal. Sam watches its progression along the line of Dean's thumb and the curve of hand to wrist. Dean ducks his head and his tongue darts out, leaving a damp trail where the sauce once was.
"Put it in your mouth."
He doesn't recognise the voice as his own, too rough and too hoarse, but Dean obeys and that means it must have been him. His lips close about the fork and pluck the cherry-drenched pastry from it. It sounds wet in his mouth. Sam reckons it's probably sweet and hot in there too. He shifts in his seat and tugs at his t-shirt, which is clinging to the sweat along his spine.
Dean's eyes close as he chews, his head tilting back towards the dingy, tiled ceiling. The cockiness drains away from his expression and leaves his face nothing but blissful. Sam is transfixed by the play of the muscles in his throat when he swallows. He can hear his swallow, the moist rolling sound of it. If he closes his eyes, he can maybe pretend his cock's just slipped from Dean's ever-greedy mouth, that it's his come sliding down his brother's throat and not pastry and cherry sauce.
"Want some?"
He opens his eyes to find Dean stretching a hand towards him, a messy crumb of pie resting on the pad of his thumb. The pie glistens, red and moist, and Dean's eyes are fixed on him. His lips are slightly parted and Sam realises he's trying to catch his own breath.
Sam nods and opens his mouth for Dean's thumb. He latches on as soon as he tastes skin, hears Dean's soft noise as his teeth graze him, but he keeps on sucking, dragging Dean's thumb deeper into his mouth until his tongue's sliding through cherry sauce, over the delicate webbing of skin between thumb and finger.
He doesn't mean to grip Dean's wrist that hard, his long fingers closing easily about him, but the sweetness of the sauce with the sweat on his brother's skin is the best thing he's ever tasted. Dean doesn't fight him, just keeps leaning in closer over the diner table until he's half-standing. Then he jerks away, his thumb popping from Sam's mouth with a loud, moist squelch.
"Outside."
There's no pie left on the plate; Dean handfed him the last. So Sam stumbles out of the diner behind him, leaving behind the droning pop on the radio and the muttering disapproval of the waitress. Dean strides along under the amber glow of the parking lot lights then spins back to grab Sam by the t-shirt, hands fisting into the material, and slams him into the shadows, against the wall.
Sam sags against the bricks as Dean drops to his knees before him. He doesn't feel strong enough to stay on his feet, not when he's burning up like this. His legs almost give way beneath him when Dean drags his jeans down his hips. His long body curls over him and he has to steady himself against the broad line of Dean's shoulders as Dean mouths over his cock, face pressed into his lap, then swallows him down like he's never done anything but this in his whole damn life.
His cock slides easily over Dean's hot, wet tongue. Sam scrapes his fingers through the short, soft spikes of Dean's hair and mumbles something. He's really trying not to fuck Dean's mouth like he wants to, not to shove deep and hard until he's buried tight between his lips, down his throat, right where Dean can't even make those pretty, desperate noises that always make Sam need to come really really badly.
It's cruel to do that, because Sam doesn't like to see Dean's eyes tear up, even if he's not really crying. And he doesn't like how it makes Dean's voice hoarse and weak after Sam's had his cock down his throat, even if the tight, spasms of protest make Sam come with sometimes only a single thrust.
But Dean's as greedy about cock-sucking as he is with pie. Sam can't make out what it is he's growling about, Dean's mouth is too full of Sam's cock to be coherent, but he tugs at Sam's hips, and it doesn't take much more for Sam to be coming, urgent and messy.
He slumps forward over Dean and cradles his head in his arms. Dean's so solid, so dependable, Dean's his rock. Dean's also protesting that Sam's gonna break his freaking neck if he doesn't straighten up right now.
A car rolls through the parking lot and it sounds so close that Sam can't put off moving away from Dean any longer. While Dean rocks back on his heels and rubs the back of his neck with a relieved groan, Sam pulls his jeans back up. Then he stops and glances at his brother.
"Dude," he says. "You got cherry sauce on my cock."
~end
In which there is pie, porn, Dean and nothing like plot. For godamnarmsrace, who put thoughts in my head.
(Sam/Dean, 1312 words, NC-17)
"You're cheating on me with pie?" Sam slides into the seat opposite Dean. "I thought you'd come out to get laid, and instead you're… with the pie."
"S'good pie, man," says Dean, shovelling another forkful into his mouth. He smacks his lips obscenely - his sticky red lips that glisten in the diner's buzzing electric light.
Sam watches Dean work the tines of the fork back through the pastry, watches a single sauce-slick cherry slither onto the plate. Dean catches it up on his fork and makes a small, throaty sound that Sam doesn't think is deliberate. The cherry disappears into his mouth and Dean drags his thumb along the corner of his lips to catch the juice. His eyes are hooded, his long lashes sweeping towards his cheeks.
Sam blinks and starts breathing again.
"So, I'm guessing you like the Impala more than you like pie, but I'm curious where I come on the list. Do I make the Top Ten?"
Dean's fork grates against his plate as it scoops up sticky clumps of pastry crumbs. Dean tilts his mouth towards his fork, tip of his pink tongue just between his parted lips as he moves to lick the fork clean. He pulls a face suddenly and drops his fork. The clatter of metal on china reminds Sam once more to breathe, because damn if he hasn't stopped again.
"Aww, Sammy! Don't make me say it. I like you plenty, all right? Just… y'know… pie."
"What about the pie? What is it about the pie? Seriously."
He rests his elbows on the table and leans closer. It's close enough that he can smell the sweetness of cherries and sugar on Dean's breath. Heat creeps over him, into his belly and his cheeks. His t-shirt sticks to the gathering sweat at the small of his back. It's too warm tonight to sleep or to fuck. All he wants to do is sit at this diner table and watch Dean play with his food.
Dean bites through the crust - neat white teeth sinking through golden pastry - and the marks those same teeth have left on Sam's shoulders and hips ache in understanding. Through the rising red haze, Sam finds it hard to remember whether Dean always eats this slowly, this lazily. He doesn't think he does. But if Dean's got the energy to unstick himself from their stained, sweaty motel-room bed sheets and bring himself to the diner, then he's got no excuse for the way he's dragging out devouring the pie.
His wrist twists languidly as he drives a morsel of pie on the end of his fork through a stream of cherry sauce. The slip-slide of the sinews of his forearm is clear beneath the light shine of sweat on his skin.
"It tastes good," says Dean. "Simple as that."
He holds the fork up between them. Cherry sauce glistens on the pastry, then rolls slowly down the metal. Sam watches its progression along the line of Dean's thumb and the curve of hand to wrist. Dean ducks his head and his tongue darts out, leaving a damp trail where the sauce once was.
"Put it in your mouth."
He doesn't recognise the voice as his own, too rough and too hoarse, but Dean obeys and that means it must have been him. His lips close about the fork and pluck the cherry-drenched pastry from it. It sounds wet in his mouth. Sam reckons it's probably sweet and hot in there too. He shifts in his seat and tugs at his t-shirt, which is clinging to the sweat along his spine.
Dean's eyes close as he chews, his head tilting back towards the dingy, tiled ceiling. The cockiness drains away from his expression and leaves his face nothing but blissful. Sam is transfixed by the play of the muscles in his throat when he swallows. He can hear his swallow, the moist rolling sound of it. If he closes his eyes, he can maybe pretend his cock's just slipped from Dean's ever-greedy mouth, that it's his come sliding down his brother's throat and not pastry and cherry sauce.
"Want some?"
He opens his eyes to find Dean stretching a hand towards him, a messy crumb of pie resting on the pad of his thumb. The pie glistens, red and moist, and Dean's eyes are fixed on him. His lips are slightly parted and Sam realises he's trying to catch his own breath.
Sam nods and opens his mouth for Dean's thumb. He latches on as soon as he tastes skin, hears Dean's soft noise as his teeth graze him, but he keeps on sucking, dragging Dean's thumb deeper into his mouth until his tongue's sliding through cherry sauce, over the delicate webbing of skin between thumb and finger.
He doesn't mean to grip Dean's wrist that hard, his long fingers closing easily about him, but the sweetness of the sauce with the sweat on his brother's skin is the best thing he's ever tasted. Dean doesn't fight him, just keeps leaning in closer over the diner table until he's half-standing. Then he jerks away, his thumb popping from Sam's mouth with a loud, moist squelch.
"Outside."
There's no pie left on the plate; Dean handfed him the last. So Sam stumbles out of the diner behind him, leaving behind the droning pop on the radio and the muttering disapproval of the waitress. Dean strides along under the amber glow of the parking lot lights then spins back to grab Sam by the t-shirt, hands fisting into the material, and slams him into the shadows, against the wall.
Sam sags against the bricks as Dean drops to his knees before him. He doesn't feel strong enough to stay on his feet, not when he's burning up like this. His legs almost give way beneath him when Dean drags his jeans down his hips. His long body curls over him and he has to steady himself against the broad line of Dean's shoulders as Dean mouths over his cock, face pressed into his lap, then swallows him down like he's never done anything but this in his whole damn life.
His cock slides easily over Dean's hot, wet tongue. Sam scrapes his fingers through the short, soft spikes of Dean's hair and mumbles something. He's really trying not to fuck Dean's mouth like he wants to, not to shove deep and hard until he's buried tight between his lips, down his throat, right where Dean can't even make those pretty, desperate noises that always make Sam need to come really really badly.
It's cruel to do that, because Sam doesn't like to see Dean's eyes tear up, even if he's not really crying. And he doesn't like how it makes Dean's voice hoarse and weak after Sam's had his cock down his throat, even if the tight, spasms of protest make Sam come with sometimes only a single thrust.
But Dean's as greedy about cock-sucking as he is with pie. Sam can't make out what it is he's growling about, Dean's mouth is too full of Sam's cock to be coherent, but he tugs at Sam's hips, and it doesn't take much more for Sam to be coming, urgent and messy.
He slumps forward over Dean and cradles his head in his arms. Dean's so solid, so dependable, Dean's his rock. Dean's also protesting that Sam's gonna break his freaking neck if he doesn't straighten up right now.
A car rolls through the parking lot and it sounds so close that Sam can't put off moving away from Dean any longer. While Dean rocks back on his heels and rubs the back of his neck with a relieved groan, Sam pulls his jeans back up. Then he stops and glances at his brother.
"Dude," he says. "You got cherry sauce on my cock."
~end