FIC: Euphoria
It's been FAR TOO LONG since I finished something. When I get stuck writing long fics, I post tiny ones to keep my momentum going.
So! Porny ficlet. Involves drug use (MDMA), so avoid if it's not your cuppa.
Title: Euphoria
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,734
Warnings: Post-AHBL spoilerness. Drugs, wincest, filth, brevity, purplish prose
Summary: Dean isn't afraid of anything but the un-lived life, really. Sam is far too coherent and organized for his own good.
Euphoria
The first thing Sam does is buy a calendar.
The first thing Dean does is score about 5 tabs of Ecstasy off of some guy in a back alley.
The next thing Sam does is buy a yearly planner-the kind with blank spaces to write the dates in. Some new pens, sticky notes, reading flags and highlighters.
The next thing Dean does is slip into a corner store. He buys two big bottles of water, some Twinkies, and beef jerky.
Sam walks back to the motel room slowly, planning the next step. Sam likes steps, like rungs on a ladder you take one by one. Parceling out things, ordering them into lines and rows. There's point A followed by point B and point C…
Dean drives back and realizes it's gonna be a leap year. He has an extra day. He only half-smiles at the thought.
Sam gets back after Dean, and discovers him half-naked on the bed, writhing with his hand shoved into his jeans. He honestly thought the moaning was from some porno on the television.
Dean throws him a look and groans, moving his hand in deeper thrusts. It's sensory overload, his skin is touching all these different colors and it's amazing the signals they bring back to his brain. He swears he can feel nerves firing off and messages traveling up his spinal cord. He's a network of feeling. His cock is the most spectacular thing in the world and he thanks God for it. For Sammy too. For Sammy's-
"For my what?" Dean doesn't realize his litany from his inner monologue anymore. He just squirms on the bed, writhes up and down like some invisible force really is pushing into him.
Sam is busy putting the planner and the other stuff he bought away. Then he investigates; underneath his brother's discarded shirt he finds the water and the drugs.
He picks up the bottle and sits next to Dean on the bed. It's weird, Dean's still moving, head thrown back, groaning and talking, alternating with thrusts into his hand. Sam just sits there, static and stiff-backed.
Dean comes and gives a drawn-out groan, which tapers off into a purr towards the end. He finally lies still, flat on his back, hand still holding his flaccid cock. Sam looks at him and holds out the water.
"You should drink something."
Dean smiles, "You should too."
"I'm not the one who-"
"You should be. With me. We should be together." Dean's face is pink in the cheeks, he's wide and glassy-eyed. Wet lips and pink tongue dart out as he finally reaches for the water and Sam's hand, which he puts against his cheek. It's the most amazing texture, and he switches to the back of Sam's hand and compares the two. It's warm and tingling everywhere.
Sam flashes back to his father, bellowing red-faced at him for getting caught smoking pot in the boy's room, sophomore year. Dean smacks him on the side of the head for being dumb enough to do it in school, and for not bringing any home to share.
He sees that guy at a mixer, his first year at Stanford, who fell into a K-hole. His spine twisted in ways he never though a human's could. He reached for the hilt of his knife anyway, just in case it was secretly a Naga.
He holds Jess' hand while she cries because she took too many mushrooms, and she thinks she's going to die. His head is still in loops because he tried it too, but he holds on. His hand turns into an arm around her, stroking her soft hair. She's crying into his jacket, and he's telling her she's not going to die, she's not going to die. She's safe, and she's okay, and this won't last. The next morning they swear off Delta Nu frat parties, and drink lots of white tea in the common room.
***
It's like swimming.
Wait, that's wrong, the water doesn't mute the feelings. There's a push to move, but it's not it. It's like diving in though.
Sam's face is buried in the soft, soft pillow. He can feel Dean's hands running over the expanse of his back.
It's like water. It's like being touched by waves. Dean's hands are in the muscles, the knots and the tension in his back are gone and Dean's there. Rubbing big callused messes over his back. He can actually feel Dean's calluses against his skin, rough like a cat's tongue. Dean kneads and kneads, and moans of his own accord as he inches closer down Sam's torso.
Sam's jelly when Dean finally touches him down there, he can't feel his bones anymore. Dean rubs his cheeks and groans, "Wanna be there," and Sam's tongue is too big for his mouth. So the only affirmation his gives Dean is the slow nod of his head.
Dean is still seeing shine and glimmer against skin. Sam's body is illuminated, all the light and the colors stretch out. He blinks water from his eyes and laughs, reaching for the lube. They're both naked, and everything touching every part of skin is the most wonderful thing.
"You're the most wonderful thing, Sammy."
Little things rattle in Sam's stomach, tighten in his chest, pangs of hurt and happiness. Missing Dean before he has the chance to be gone. Savoring him in the moment he's here. That's what this is all about for Dean. Feeling things as much as he can, magnifying his pleasure.
All he can do is groan in response, and Dean pushes slick fingers into him. Sam feels malleable, like clay. Dean's got the hands of a sculptor. His brain is still a tad jumbled but it's just happiness, all of it. Every neuron firing off endorphins and the chemicals filtering into his blood.
He can feel Dean's lust, his heat inside of him, as he slowly stretches him open. He can feel Dean's anticipation in waves and jitters. It's like art, it's like water. Sam thinks of rivers of paint and canvases of ocean. He laughs and Dean starts talking again.
"God Sam, if you knew how good you feel, how you taste," and that's all the warning Sam gets. Dean's tongue is there now, where his fingers have been. Where he's wet and ready for him, but not expecting. It's a jolt of surprise replaced with desire. It's just so fucking hot, and his cock is straining against the sheets, hard and needing.
"So good," Dean whispers, voice small now. He nips Sam's soft skin one more time before rearing back and plunging his cock into him.
Sam swears that somewhere in between the water and the art there's music. A drumbeat aligned to compliment the rhythm of the human heart. It's a mix of theirs: first Dean's pulse, faster than his own, and the beating of his blood. He plants his hands against the mattress and pushes up, slamming Dean into him, harder. They move with the beat, Dean still more a jumble of dirty words than a song.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, Sammy! So fucking hot. So smooth. Fuck you all night like this. Like bliss and fucking angels. This is what we're gonna do. We're gonna fucking make every second-"
Dean is silenced when Sam squeezes him tight. Comes and makes incoherent sounds. Loud at first but they soften, somewhere between whimpers and whispers and music. Falls on top of Sam and worries his earlobe with his teeth. Runs a wet tongue around the delicate shell.
Sam comes against the sheets, feels himself pour out into the bed. Slight wetness against his stomach, sweat from his hair soaking into the pillow. He might as well be under water. Might as well be swimming in his own fluids. Swimming with Dean.
Dean pulls out of him slowly, resting against Sam's thighs. Sam wiggles and eventually turns over. Looks at Dean through bedroom eyes and reaches long arms to wrap around his neck. Dean's got a dreamy smile plastered on his face. He's still making the sexiest little noises, tiny moans and hums. Sam tugs and pulls him down closer.
Sam runs his hands against Dean's face and Dean leans into the touch. Relishing every stroke of his fingers. He can feel Dean's pores, his stubble, his slight scars and nicks from always shaving too fast. It's not smooth, like some porcelain statue, (though in this moment, Dean only lacks the milky-white skin and a chipped nose to garner himself a place in the Parthenon). It's real and imperfect and so wholly Dean.
"Hands are one of the most sensitive parts of the human body, y'know Dean?"
"Yeah…" Dean trails off, "What're the others?"
Sam smiles, "Well, for one thing," he sits up and licks a stripe of saliva from Dean's collarbone, up his neck, to his chin. He shivers and laughs. "Tiny little tastebuds, can easily tell sugar from salt when the eyes and the fingers fail. It's incredible, really, to think of everything the tongue can do."
"Show me."
Sam tastes Dean again, the salty sweat of his skin, from his shoulders. Works his way up Dean's neck slower this time, kissing and biting and licking, until he gets to Dean's mouth. Dean's already writhing from the sensation of Sam's tongue against his skin, so when Sam licks his lips and then tongues his way past teeth, Dean's moaning and thrusting against him. His cock springing back to life.
"Now, it's not the most sensitive part of the human body, but it's gotta be in the top five." Sam says, taking a hold of Dean and splaying his fingers across the shaft. Ghosting his hands over it now, barely touching, driving Dean mad.
"You," he begins, "Are entirely too well-spoken. Coherent. Unfair."
"I've got a high tolerance."
"This isn't what I wanted, though."
"What are you trying to say?"
"Want you so fucked out you can't talk. Want you to see stars with me."
Sam kisses Dean, squeezes his cock, solid and hard. Resting his forehead against Dean's, he breathes in his bliss. "Show me."
Dean smiles and licks his gorgeous mouth, wet and pink. He's happy to oblige.
***
Sam starts using the calendar a day later than he wanted to, but it's gonna be a leap year. So maybe he's got an extra one to spare.
***
fin
So! Porny ficlet. Involves drug use (MDMA), so avoid if it's not your cuppa.
Title: Euphoria
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,734
Warnings: Post-AHBL spoilerness. Drugs, wincest, filth, brevity, purplish prose
Summary: Dean isn't afraid of anything but the un-lived life, really. Sam is far too coherent and organized for his own good.
Euphoria
The first thing Sam does is buy a calendar.
The first thing Dean does is score about 5 tabs of Ecstasy off of some guy in a back alley.
The next thing Sam does is buy a yearly planner-the kind with blank spaces to write the dates in. Some new pens, sticky notes, reading flags and highlighters.
The next thing Dean does is slip into a corner store. He buys two big bottles of water, some Twinkies, and beef jerky.
Sam walks back to the motel room slowly, planning the next step. Sam likes steps, like rungs on a ladder you take one by one. Parceling out things, ordering them into lines and rows. There's point A followed by point B and point C…
Dean drives back and realizes it's gonna be a leap year. He has an extra day. He only half-smiles at the thought.
Sam gets back after Dean, and discovers him half-naked on the bed, writhing with his hand shoved into his jeans. He honestly thought the moaning was from some porno on the television.
Dean throws him a look and groans, moving his hand in deeper thrusts. It's sensory overload, his skin is touching all these different colors and it's amazing the signals they bring back to his brain. He swears he can feel nerves firing off and messages traveling up his spinal cord. He's a network of feeling. His cock is the most spectacular thing in the world and he thanks God for it. For Sammy too. For Sammy's-
"For my what?" Dean doesn't realize his litany from his inner monologue anymore. He just squirms on the bed, writhes up and down like some invisible force really is pushing into him.
Sam is busy putting the planner and the other stuff he bought away. Then he investigates; underneath his brother's discarded shirt he finds the water and the drugs.
He picks up the bottle and sits next to Dean on the bed. It's weird, Dean's still moving, head thrown back, groaning and talking, alternating with thrusts into his hand. Sam just sits there, static and stiff-backed.
Dean comes and gives a drawn-out groan, which tapers off into a purr towards the end. He finally lies still, flat on his back, hand still holding his flaccid cock. Sam looks at him and holds out the water.
"You should drink something."
Dean smiles, "You should too."
"I'm not the one who-"
"You should be. With me. We should be together." Dean's face is pink in the cheeks, he's wide and glassy-eyed. Wet lips and pink tongue dart out as he finally reaches for the water and Sam's hand, which he puts against his cheek. It's the most amazing texture, and he switches to the back of Sam's hand and compares the two. It's warm and tingling everywhere.
Sam flashes back to his father, bellowing red-faced at him for getting caught smoking pot in the boy's room, sophomore year. Dean smacks him on the side of the head for being dumb enough to do it in school, and for not bringing any home to share.
He sees that guy at a mixer, his first year at Stanford, who fell into a K-hole. His spine twisted in ways he never though a human's could. He reached for the hilt of his knife anyway, just in case it was secretly a Naga.
He holds Jess' hand while she cries because she took too many mushrooms, and she thinks she's going to die. His head is still in loops because he tried it too, but he holds on. His hand turns into an arm around her, stroking her soft hair. She's crying into his jacket, and he's telling her she's not going to die, she's not going to die. She's safe, and she's okay, and this won't last. The next morning they swear off Delta Nu frat parties, and drink lots of white tea in the common room.
***
It's like swimming.
Wait, that's wrong, the water doesn't mute the feelings. There's a push to move, but it's not it. It's like diving in though.
Sam's face is buried in the soft, soft pillow. He can feel Dean's hands running over the expanse of his back.
It's like water. It's like being touched by waves. Dean's hands are in the muscles, the knots and the tension in his back are gone and Dean's there. Rubbing big callused messes over his back. He can actually feel Dean's calluses against his skin, rough like a cat's tongue. Dean kneads and kneads, and moans of his own accord as he inches closer down Sam's torso.
Sam's jelly when Dean finally touches him down there, he can't feel his bones anymore. Dean rubs his cheeks and groans, "Wanna be there," and Sam's tongue is too big for his mouth. So the only affirmation his gives Dean is the slow nod of his head.
Dean is still seeing shine and glimmer against skin. Sam's body is illuminated, all the light and the colors stretch out. He blinks water from his eyes and laughs, reaching for the lube. They're both naked, and everything touching every part of skin is the most wonderful thing.
"You're the most wonderful thing, Sammy."
Little things rattle in Sam's stomach, tighten in his chest, pangs of hurt and happiness. Missing Dean before he has the chance to be gone. Savoring him in the moment he's here. That's what this is all about for Dean. Feeling things as much as he can, magnifying his pleasure.
All he can do is groan in response, and Dean pushes slick fingers into him. Sam feels malleable, like clay. Dean's got the hands of a sculptor. His brain is still a tad jumbled but it's just happiness, all of it. Every neuron firing off endorphins and the chemicals filtering into his blood.
He can feel Dean's lust, his heat inside of him, as he slowly stretches him open. He can feel Dean's anticipation in waves and jitters. It's like art, it's like water. Sam thinks of rivers of paint and canvases of ocean. He laughs and Dean starts talking again.
"God Sam, if you knew how good you feel, how you taste," and that's all the warning Sam gets. Dean's tongue is there now, where his fingers have been. Where he's wet and ready for him, but not expecting. It's a jolt of surprise replaced with desire. It's just so fucking hot, and his cock is straining against the sheets, hard and needing.
"So good," Dean whispers, voice small now. He nips Sam's soft skin one more time before rearing back and plunging his cock into him.
Sam swears that somewhere in between the water and the art there's music. A drumbeat aligned to compliment the rhythm of the human heart. It's a mix of theirs: first Dean's pulse, faster than his own, and the beating of his blood. He plants his hands against the mattress and pushes up, slamming Dean into him, harder. They move with the beat, Dean still more a jumble of dirty words than a song.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, Sammy! So fucking hot. So smooth. Fuck you all night like this. Like bliss and fucking angels. This is what we're gonna do. We're gonna fucking make every second-"
Dean is silenced when Sam squeezes him tight. Comes and makes incoherent sounds. Loud at first but they soften, somewhere between whimpers and whispers and music. Falls on top of Sam and worries his earlobe with his teeth. Runs a wet tongue around the delicate shell.
Sam comes against the sheets, feels himself pour out into the bed. Slight wetness against his stomach, sweat from his hair soaking into the pillow. He might as well be under water. Might as well be swimming in his own fluids. Swimming with Dean.
Dean pulls out of him slowly, resting against Sam's thighs. Sam wiggles and eventually turns over. Looks at Dean through bedroom eyes and reaches long arms to wrap around his neck. Dean's got a dreamy smile plastered on his face. He's still making the sexiest little noises, tiny moans and hums. Sam tugs and pulls him down closer.
Sam runs his hands against Dean's face and Dean leans into the touch. Relishing every stroke of his fingers. He can feel Dean's pores, his stubble, his slight scars and nicks from always shaving too fast. It's not smooth, like some porcelain statue, (though in this moment, Dean only lacks the milky-white skin and a chipped nose to garner himself a place in the Parthenon). It's real and imperfect and so wholly Dean.
"Hands are one of the most sensitive parts of the human body, y'know Dean?"
"Yeah…" Dean trails off, "What're the others?"
Sam smiles, "Well, for one thing," he sits up and licks a stripe of saliva from Dean's collarbone, up his neck, to his chin. He shivers and laughs. "Tiny little tastebuds, can easily tell sugar from salt when the eyes and the fingers fail. It's incredible, really, to think of everything the tongue can do."
"Show me."
Sam tastes Dean again, the salty sweat of his skin, from his shoulders. Works his way up Dean's neck slower this time, kissing and biting and licking, until he gets to Dean's mouth. Dean's already writhing from the sensation of Sam's tongue against his skin, so when Sam licks his lips and then tongues his way past teeth, Dean's moaning and thrusting against him. His cock springing back to life.
"Now, it's not the most sensitive part of the human body, but it's gotta be in the top five." Sam says, taking a hold of Dean and splaying his fingers across the shaft. Ghosting his hands over it now, barely touching, driving Dean mad.
"You," he begins, "Are entirely too well-spoken. Coherent. Unfair."
"I've got a high tolerance."
"This isn't what I wanted, though."
"What are you trying to say?"
"Want you so fucked out you can't talk. Want you to see stars with me."
Sam kisses Dean, squeezes his cock, solid and hard. Resting his forehead against Dean's, he breathes in his bliss. "Show me."
Dean smiles and licks his gorgeous mouth, wet and pink. He's happy to oblige.
***
Sam starts using the calendar a day later than he wanted to, but it's gonna be a leap year. So maybe he's got an extra one to spare.
***
fin