Fic: Cheaters | NC 17 | Sam/Dean
Title: Cheaters
Author: girlguidejones
Rating/Pairing/Words: NC 17 | Sam/Dean | 1300 wds
Notes: Written for the prompt: "You sure you know how to use that thing?" for salt_burn_porn
It really wasn't all that hard for Dean to periodically be unattractive as far as Sam was concerned. (Even if it never lasts that long.) It's as easy as Dean opening his mouth, most days, and God knows that's a constant, like Pi or the speed of light.
But he never thought that simple b.o. would be a factor.
"Dude. Seriously. Give up already," Sam moans from his spot on the concrete floor. "I'm begging you. We haven't showered for days and you smell like the inside of a dumpster." He pauses. "A restaurant dumpster." And then-"A seafood restaurant. In August."
Dean rolls back from his own spot on the floor, where he's peering into the innards of the ancient hot water heater, to scowl at Sam.
"You're no can of Axe yourself, little brother," he growls. "At least I'm trying to do something about it."
"You've been trying. For days." Sam knows he's every bit the whiny little brother at this point, but he doesn't care. He just wants to go to the Home Depot the next town over, buy a nice little energy efficient, environmentally responsible tankless hot water heater and install it. Easy peasy. Or it would be, if your brother weren't a freak of nature with a hard-on for fixing things.
"Why can't you admit that it's gone? There's no shame in it."
"There's no reason I can't fix it. I've got all the spare parts I'd ever need."
And that part is true, at least. The Men of Letters had built the bunker to last, including a vast room full of the tools and parts to repair everything in it several times over, all neatly labeled, hanging on hooks and color-coded with little fading tags, so you would know what went with what. It's like somebody combined Snap-On with Garanimals.
"You just want to ditch it because it's old." Dean points an accusing finger at Sam's nose. "You're-ageist."
"You are a good bit older than me. Worried I might trade you in for a younger model?"
"Fuck you," Dean says, but there's no heat to it. He knows better.
"It's had a nice life, Dean. Let it go in peace. For fuck's sake, it's old enough to be the Impala's grandpa."
That gives Dean pause for a moment, but he shakes it off and turned back to the water heater. He shimmies forward on his belly, which, okay, Dean's ass is still shaped nicely, even if it surely smells like ass at this point. Sam's not dead.
"Maybe it's time to incentivize this little mission of yours," he says, crawling forward to straddle Dean's ass, settling comfortably down on it. Dean grunts, but otherwise doesn't react. "Give you something to shoot for." He punctuates his challenge by rocking forward a little into Dean's ass.
"Oh yeah?" Dean's head is half-buried in the water tank's guts, and his voice echoes oddly. "Why does it feel like you're the one planning on doing the shooting here, Sammy?" Sam can feel him chuckle, even if he can't hear him, the tremors of his laughter shivering up Sam's thighs.
Sam ignores the jibe. That's what little brothers do.
"I'll give you one more hour. If you can't fix it, you have to drive us to the nearest truck stop and blow me in the shower. Then we go have a party at Home Depot."
"Hmmm," Dean says, rocking his hips from side to side as he works. "And if I do fix it?"
"If you do fix it, I'll blow you in our shower."
"I don't think so, Samuel," he says precisely. "If I fix it, you'll blow my dirty cock, and then we'll shower."
Sam swallows, a soft gasp giving himself away. He sees Dean glance back over his shoulder with a grin and Sam knows he heard.
"Kinky, bro," Dean teases. "You're so easy."
"Fine," Sam says, ignoring the flush he can feel creeping up his neck, because he's got the (literal) upper hand at this moment. He rocks into Dean, feeling himself get harder by the minute. "Clock started five minutes ago."
"Cheater."
"Whatever." Sam runs his hands up under Dean's shirt. He can't take it off, because Dean's hands are busy in the guts of the heater, but he can lean down and stroke and twist and tweak, and that's what he does. Cheater, schmeater. He's just taking any advantage that's open to him, like they were raised to do.
Apparently he isn't the only one, because Dean lets out a triumphant cry not long after, maybe only fifteen minutes into Sam's challenge period, scooting back and dislodging Sam.
"Move, you giant dork-face."
"There's no way you could have fixed it so fast," Sam accuses, "you had to have already had it almost done." Dean just hums and smiles, refusing to answer as reaches for a blowtorch to mend a rotted section of piping. "You sure you know how to use that thing?" Sam challenges.
"I'll tell you what I'm sure of, Sammy-boy," Dean grins, and fuck, but he's pretty when he's smarmy. Sam's never hated him-or wanted him-more. "I'm not the one who needs to worry about his 'blowing' skills right now."
Dean shoos Sam back, and waits to make sure he's safely looking away, before donning goggles and flicking the torch to life. It's only minutes before he's got clean, good copper pipe sectioned to the heater, and is lighting the pilot. The telltale, tea-kettlish hum of heating water isn't far behind.
The next sound Sam hears is a zipper.
"Time to pay up, baby brother."
Goddamnit, Dean knows how that turns him on, the fucker. Sam is instantly, painfully hard all over again. He can't really be angry, though, because for all that Dean's voice is pure sass, the look on his face is pure adoration for Sam.
"You can't blame me for cheating. Just want your pretty mouth on me Sammy, c'mon…"
Said mouth is watering at the thought, and Sam lays him back right there on the floor next to the tools and the torch and the torn-out parts, tugging Dean's pants and his briefs down enough to leave his ass pressed naked into the concrete. Sam noses around his cock, licking a stripe up the side, and yeah, Dean's sweaty and salty and not a little bit in need of some soap, but he's already moaning like a porn star and it doesn't seem to matter too much to Sam at the moment.
He sinks down, taking Dean deep, sucking on the way down because Dean's a freak and he likes it when thinks are twisted all up in ways they aren't supposed to be. Sam figures that's the only way he's put up with Sam's shit all these years.
He flicks his tongue on the upstroke, repeatedly pushing the tip of it into Dean's slit while he sucks at the velvety head, before sliding back down again and setting a demanding rhythm.
"Christ, Sammy, goddamn…" Dean gasps, hipping up into Sam's mouth again and again. Sam can hear Dean's bare ass smacking against the cool cement floor as he pulls back for the leverage to thrust upward into Sam's throat. Sam gags on him-twice-before Dean stutters and eases, muttering nonsensical endearments and sorry's, but Sam refuses to back off.
Instead he reaches beneath Dean, spreading him with his hands as he swallows him down again and pushes a dry fingertip into his hole.
"Ohhhh, fuuuuck. Fuck. Sam!" and Dean comes, bitter-flooding Sam's throat with rich, hot salt. Sam coughs, swallowing, and leaning back in to lap at what's leftover in the cut of Dean's abs.
Dean's fingers thread through Sam's hair, getting stuck in the dirty tangles as he tries to pet him, serotonin dump making him slur the words he's giving up.
"S-sammy. Pretty boy. Your mouth, oh fuck. Your mouth. Loveyou…god…"
Sam grins, his cheek resting against Dean's belly.
"Me too, old man. Me too."
Author: girlguidejones
Rating/Pairing/Words: NC 17 | Sam/Dean | 1300 wds
Notes: Written for the prompt: "You sure you know how to use that thing?" for salt_burn_porn
It really wasn't all that hard for Dean to periodically be unattractive as far as Sam was concerned. (Even if it never lasts that long.) It's as easy as Dean opening his mouth, most days, and God knows that's a constant, like Pi or the speed of light.
But he never thought that simple b.o. would be a factor.
"Dude. Seriously. Give up already," Sam moans from his spot on the concrete floor. "I'm begging you. We haven't showered for days and you smell like the inside of a dumpster." He pauses. "A restaurant dumpster." And then-"A seafood restaurant. In August."
Dean rolls back from his own spot on the floor, where he's peering into the innards of the ancient hot water heater, to scowl at Sam.
"You're no can of Axe yourself, little brother," he growls. "At least I'm trying to do something about it."
"You've been trying. For days." Sam knows he's every bit the whiny little brother at this point, but he doesn't care. He just wants to go to the Home Depot the next town over, buy a nice little energy efficient, environmentally responsible tankless hot water heater and install it. Easy peasy. Or it would be, if your brother weren't a freak of nature with a hard-on for fixing things.
"Why can't you admit that it's gone? There's no shame in it."
"There's no reason I can't fix it. I've got all the spare parts I'd ever need."
And that part is true, at least. The Men of Letters had built the bunker to last, including a vast room full of the tools and parts to repair everything in it several times over, all neatly labeled, hanging on hooks and color-coded with little fading tags, so you would know what went with what. It's like somebody combined Snap-On with Garanimals.
"You just want to ditch it because it's old." Dean points an accusing finger at Sam's nose. "You're-ageist."
"You are a good bit older than me. Worried I might trade you in for a younger model?"
"Fuck you," Dean says, but there's no heat to it. He knows better.
"It's had a nice life, Dean. Let it go in peace. For fuck's sake, it's old enough to be the Impala's grandpa."
That gives Dean pause for a moment, but he shakes it off and turned back to the water heater. He shimmies forward on his belly, which, okay, Dean's ass is still shaped nicely, even if it surely smells like ass at this point. Sam's not dead.
"Maybe it's time to incentivize this little mission of yours," he says, crawling forward to straddle Dean's ass, settling comfortably down on it. Dean grunts, but otherwise doesn't react. "Give you something to shoot for." He punctuates his challenge by rocking forward a little into Dean's ass.
"Oh yeah?" Dean's head is half-buried in the water tank's guts, and his voice echoes oddly. "Why does it feel like you're the one planning on doing the shooting here, Sammy?" Sam can feel him chuckle, even if he can't hear him, the tremors of his laughter shivering up Sam's thighs.
Sam ignores the jibe. That's what little brothers do.
"I'll give you one more hour. If you can't fix it, you have to drive us to the nearest truck stop and blow me in the shower. Then we go have a party at Home Depot."
"Hmmm," Dean says, rocking his hips from side to side as he works. "And if I do fix it?"
"If you do fix it, I'll blow you in our shower."
"I don't think so, Samuel," he says precisely. "If I fix it, you'll blow my dirty cock, and then we'll shower."
Sam swallows, a soft gasp giving himself away. He sees Dean glance back over his shoulder with a grin and Sam knows he heard.
"Kinky, bro," Dean teases. "You're so easy."
"Fine," Sam says, ignoring the flush he can feel creeping up his neck, because he's got the (literal) upper hand at this moment. He rocks into Dean, feeling himself get harder by the minute. "Clock started five minutes ago."
"Cheater."
"Whatever." Sam runs his hands up under Dean's shirt. He can't take it off, because Dean's hands are busy in the guts of the heater, but he can lean down and stroke and twist and tweak, and that's what he does. Cheater, schmeater. He's just taking any advantage that's open to him, like they were raised to do.
Apparently he isn't the only one, because Dean lets out a triumphant cry not long after, maybe only fifteen minutes into Sam's challenge period, scooting back and dislodging Sam.
"Move, you giant dork-face."
"There's no way you could have fixed it so fast," Sam accuses, "you had to have already had it almost done." Dean just hums and smiles, refusing to answer as reaches for a blowtorch to mend a rotted section of piping. "You sure you know how to use that thing?" Sam challenges.
"I'll tell you what I'm sure of, Sammy-boy," Dean grins, and fuck, but he's pretty when he's smarmy. Sam's never hated him-or wanted him-more. "I'm not the one who needs to worry about his 'blowing' skills right now."
Dean shoos Sam back, and waits to make sure he's safely looking away, before donning goggles and flicking the torch to life. It's only minutes before he's got clean, good copper pipe sectioned to the heater, and is lighting the pilot. The telltale, tea-kettlish hum of heating water isn't far behind.
The next sound Sam hears is a zipper.
"Time to pay up, baby brother."
Goddamnit, Dean knows how that turns him on, the fucker. Sam is instantly, painfully hard all over again. He can't really be angry, though, because for all that Dean's voice is pure sass, the look on his face is pure adoration for Sam.
"You can't blame me for cheating. Just want your pretty mouth on me Sammy, c'mon…"
Said mouth is watering at the thought, and Sam lays him back right there on the floor next to the tools and the torch and the torn-out parts, tugging Dean's pants and his briefs down enough to leave his ass pressed naked into the concrete. Sam noses around his cock, licking a stripe up the side, and yeah, Dean's sweaty and salty and not a little bit in need of some soap, but he's already moaning like a porn star and it doesn't seem to matter too much to Sam at the moment.
He sinks down, taking Dean deep, sucking on the way down because Dean's a freak and he likes it when thinks are twisted all up in ways they aren't supposed to be. Sam figures that's the only way he's put up with Sam's shit all these years.
He flicks his tongue on the upstroke, repeatedly pushing the tip of it into Dean's slit while he sucks at the velvety head, before sliding back down again and setting a demanding rhythm.
"Christ, Sammy, goddamn…" Dean gasps, hipping up into Sam's mouth again and again. Sam can hear Dean's bare ass smacking against the cool cement floor as he pulls back for the leverage to thrust upward into Sam's throat. Sam gags on him-twice-before Dean stutters and eases, muttering nonsensical endearments and sorry's, but Sam refuses to back off.
Instead he reaches beneath Dean, spreading him with his hands as he swallows him down again and pushes a dry fingertip into his hole.
"Ohhhh, fuuuuck. Fuck. Sam!" and Dean comes, bitter-flooding Sam's throat with rich, hot salt. Sam coughs, swallowing, and leaning back in to lap at what's leftover in the cut of Dean's abs.
Dean's fingers thread through Sam's hair, getting stuck in the dirty tangles as he tries to pet him, serotonin dump making him slur the words he's giving up.
"S-sammy. Pretty boy. Your mouth, oh fuck. Your mouth. Loveyou…god…"
Sam grins, his cheek resting against Dean's belly.
"Me too, old man. Me too."