Further to my previous post: you advertise for a graphic, and you get several at once. ;) I probably shouldn't post this now, since I have to go to bed imminently, but...porn. So, without further ado, welcome to the
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, he thoroughly believes in it
( ... )
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
( ... )
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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, he thoroughly believes in it ( ... )
Reply
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 ( ... )
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