Commentfic Meme Repost
Repost of a fill I dropped over at obstinatrix's free-for-all porn meme!
And, hey, while I'm talking about it: YOU ALL SHOULD DEFINITELY POP IN THERE IT IS SUPER FUN AND A BIG SEXY PARTY
Dean believes in a lot of things. He’s spent the past sixteen years being dragged across the country chasing werewolves, vengeful spirits, and a severely fucked-up ragtag group of everything else. There’s not a lot that he believes in without seeing. He doesn’t really believe in a god or goddess or whatever it is that the next twiggy twenty-something will try and convince him about when he opens the door at their next motel. He doesn’t believe in angels, or friendly ghosts. He’s never seen a demon, but he believes in them. He’s never seen Hell, but he believes in it.
And right now, squashed into a queen bed with Sammy while his little brother whines in his sleep and rolls his hip against Dean’s thigh, hethoroughly believes in it.
The room is surprisingly quiet, for a run-of-the-mill motel. Their dad’s breathing drifts over them from the other bed, but it’s almost easy to tune it out. Sam’s low, keening, whine? Not quite as easy. Dean keeps his eyes trained on the water-stained ceiling above, not daring to look at his little brother for even a second. He isn’t sure why he hasn’t pushed Sam away yet. He’d like to think that he’s not sure why, slowly but surely, heat started pooling between Dean’s thighs as soon as Sam’s wet dream manifested itself in the form of a hot, hard line pressing into Dean’s leg with every shift of his little brother’s hips.
There’s a low rumble of a car driving by, and it throws the room into a dim lighting. Sam rolls against him, again. He makes a frustrated noise and moves his hand to clutch at Dean’s tee, then pushes his head up under Dean’s chin, nuzzling his nose into Dean’s neck. Sam moans, then, and presses his lips to Dean’s skin, wet and warm and oh, shit, Sammy, the vibration it makes in Dean’s throat knocks loose a shiver that melts down Dean’s body.
Sam tightens the fist in Dean’s shirt and makes a vague, sleepy pleased sound before hooking his leg over Dean’s hip so that the weight of his thigh is pressing against Dean’s dick. Dean is aware that the noise he makes is not something to be proud of-- a broken, wordless moan at best-- and makes an aborted attempt not to rock against his little brother’s leg. Sam hums, fucking humming oh fuck fuck Sam, louder than last time, and presses more insistently against Dean, searching for friction, and Dean snaps.
There’s little room in his brain for anything other than oh god Sam fuck Sammy so good sick fuck your baby brother Sammy, but Dean manages to move the hand that isn’t crammed under Sam’s weight and press his brother’s head more securely into the skin of Dean’s neck. Sam smacks his lips together, and through the haze of Dean’s fevered mind, it feels like a kiss, oh fuck, fuck, if it isn’t the worst thing that he nearly comes, just from the idea that Sam is kissing his neck. He moves his hand down, hovering just above the thin comforter, barely keeping himself from dragging his fingers across the planes of Sam’s body, until it comes to rest on Sam’s ass. Dean grabs him and roughly pulls Sam tighter against him. Sam’s mouth is open now, panting hard, his breath hot and heavy on Dean’s skin, each punch accompanied by a low moan in sync with the perfect, amazing, awful so good so fucking good sick perfect Sam Sam Sammy friction when Sam rocks against him.
Dean keeps up the frantic pace, desperate not to come before Sam, as if that will make him less of a culprit in all of this. Sam stills against him, suddenly, and Dean has to bite his lip before he cries out at the loss of friction; Dean feels a wet, sticky warmth bloom at his hip, and he loses it, his dick shooting come into his boxers (probably seeping into the comforter). Sam has gone completely slack, his breathing evening out as he slips into less provocative dreams, and all of the movement that Dean hadn’t been able to hold back when he came has rolled Sam away from him.
Dean blinks up at the ceiling as he comes down from his high. He releases his bottom lip and tastes blood. He’s too exhausted to freak out now, but he thinks that he probably will in the morning. He swipes his tongue over his swollen lower lip, letting the coppery taste spill inside his mouth, and thinks that maybe that will work as a sort of penance.
(Originally posted here)
And, hey, while I'm talking about it: YOU ALL SHOULD DEFINITELY POP IN THERE IT IS SUPER FUN AND A BIG SEXY PARTY
Dean believes in a lot of things. He’s spent the past sixteen years being dragged across the country chasing werewolves, vengeful spirits, and a severely fucked-up ragtag group of everything else. There’s not a lot that he believes in without seeing. He doesn’t really believe in a god or goddess or whatever it is that the next twiggy twenty-something will try and convince him about when he opens the door at their next motel. He doesn’t believe in angels, or friendly ghosts. He’s never seen a demon, but he believes in them. He’s never seen Hell, but he believes in it.
And right now, squashed into a queen bed with Sammy while his little brother whines in his sleep and rolls his hip against Dean’s thigh, hethoroughly believes in it.
The room is surprisingly quiet, for a run-of-the-mill motel. Their dad’s breathing drifts over them from the other bed, but it’s almost easy to tune it out. Sam’s low, keening, whine? Not quite as easy. Dean keeps his eyes trained on the water-stained ceiling above, not daring to look at his little brother for even a second. He isn’t sure why he hasn’t pushed Sam away yet. He’d like to think that he’s not sure why, slowly but surely, heat started pooling between Dean’s thighs as soon as Sam’s wet dream manifested itself in the form of a hot, hard line pressing into Dean’s leg with every shift of his little brother’s hips.
There’s a low rumble of a car driving by, and it throws the room into a dim lighting. Sam rolls against him, again. He makes a frustrated noise and moves his hand to clutch at Dean’s tee, then pushes his head up under Dean’s chin, nuzzling his nose into Dean’s neck. Sam moans, then, and presses his lips to Dean’s skin, wet and warm and oh, shit, Sammy, the vibration it makes in Dean’s throat knocks loose a shiver that melts down Dean’s body.
Sam tightens the fist in Dean’s shirt and makes a vague, sleepy pleased sound before hooking his leg over Dean’s hip so that the weight of his thigh is pressing against Dean’s dick. Dean is aware that the noise he makes is not something to be proud of-- a broken, wordless moan at best-- and makes an aborted attempt not to rock against his little brother’s leg. Sam hums, fucking humming oh fuck fuck Sam, louder than last time, and presses more insistently against Dean, searching for friction, and Dean snaps.
There’s little room in his brain for anything other than oh god Sam fuck Sammy so good sick fuck your baby brother Sammy, but Dean manages to move the hand that isn’t crammed under Sam’s weight and press his brother’s head more securely into the skin of Dean’s neck. Sam smacks his lips together, and through the haze of Dean’s fevered mind, it feels like a kiss, oh fuck, fuck, if it isn’t the worst thing that he nearly comes, just from the idea that Sam is kissing his neck. He moves his hand down, hovering just above the thin comforter, barely keeping himself from dragging his fingers across the planes of Sam’s body, until it comes to rest on Sam’s ass. Dean grabs him and roughly pulls Sam tighter against him. Sam’s mouth is open now, panting hard, his breath hot and heavy on Dean’s skin, each punch accompanied by a low moan in sync with the perfect, amazing, awful so good so fucking good sick perfect Sam Sam Sammy friction when Sam rocks against him.
Dean keeps up the frantic pace, desperate not to come before Sam, as if that will make him less of a culprit in all of this. Sam stills against him, suddenly, and Dean has to bite his lip before he cries out at the loss of friction; Dean feels a wet, sticky warmth bloom at his hip, and he loses it, his dick shooting come into his boxers (probably seeping into the comforter). Sam has gone completely slack, his breathing evening out as he slips into less provocative dreams, and all of the movement that Dean hadn’t been able to hold back when he came has rolled Sam away from him.
Dean blinks up at the ceiling as he comes down from his high. He releases his bottom lip and tastes blood. He’s too exhausted to freak out now, but he thinks that he probably will in the morning. He swipes his tongue over his swollen lower lip, letting the coppery taste spill inside his mouth, and thinks that maybe that will work as a sort of penance.
(Originally posted here)