Random Sam/Dean ficlets (x2)
Reposting here for the sake of my OCD/archiving fetish. ;) Sorry to spam!
Prompt: Sam is recruited into college-boy gay-for-pay porn productions while at Stanford, and becomes a big star on the internet. Dean starts watching. Originally here.
Rating: R
Words: ~900
The whole thing starts out as an honest mistake. The laptop was purchased, first and foremost, for the purposes of research and easy access to roadmaps when needed, but Dean's a dude, twenty-four, and single, so it doesn't exactly take him long to work out that The Internet is For Porn. And, boy, is there a lot of it. Asian chicks, blonde chicks, gloriously curvy chicks; blowjobs and reverse-cowgirls and scary-looking toys; and, because Dean's a versatile kind of guy, he's clicked on more than a couple intriguing stills of ripped young men, hoping they'll look just as hot in action. None of this is the mistake.
Dean's mistake was stumbling upon Jay Kansas. And he did stumble, too; he's scoured his conscience over and over since it happened, wondering if there was some subconscious motivator in the line of the jaw, the breadth of the palms on that boy, willing him to click, but, guilty as he feels, he doesn't think there was. Jay was just some Youporn sensation, a college boy gay for pay, and the general consensus was that he was some serious hot shit, man. Dean can't be blamed for his curiosity. He doesn't even blame himself for that.
What he blames himself for is not clicking back. Because, sure, this Jay kid looks hot with his mouth stuffed full of cock, drooling around it sloppy and slick as he bobs his shaggy head up and down; and, sure, he looks even better on his hands and knees on the floor, face mashed into his forearm while some jock nails him good from behind. The problem is certainly not that Jay Kansas isn't as hot as they say.
The problem is that Dean hadn't been watching for twenty seconds before he realized he was looking at his brother. His brother, with his pink mouth wide and soft around the girth of some guy's cock, moaning in the back of his throat while he licked and sucked and gave. Dean's brother who, at eighteen, was even more distressingly compelling than he'd been at fifteen, when Dean had first lain awake, breathing tense and turned on while he listened to him get himself off in the dark. This was his brother, whom Dean had been fucked up over for years, fucking and sucking on a laptop screen in glorious fast-streaming definition, and Dean couldn't seem to click away, not for love nor money.
That was weeks ago, and Dean's as good as given up. It's not like he watches single-mindedly to get his rocks off, not at all; not with the bilious twinge of jealousy that seizes him whenever a new guy gets his hands all over Sam, all over what has always, always been Dean's. Not when he thought his genius kid brother had a scholarship to keep him sitting pretty, and yet here he is doing this and that raises two equally troubling possibilities: either he's not fully provided for, or he actually likes doing this. Dean doesn't even know which option he'd rather believe.
He can't decide; keeps picking up the phone and staring at Sam's number the way he's stared at it periodically for years, and then slamming it down again unused, uncalled, because he's such a fucking coward he'd rather watch his brother being fucked in the ass on the internet than give him a fucking call to check he's okay.
He looks okay in the vids, though. Not possessed, not bruised, not underfed or unhappy, but - okay. More than okay, in fact. He makes sounds like he's dying of pleasure and he looks like a golden god, and Dean misses him like blood and he's only fucking flesh and bone. He watches his brother, leaps on each newly posted video as proof of his continued existence, and fuck, it's wrong, but he touches himself as he does it all the same, fingers thrust into the unzipped vee of his jeans as Sam twists and moans under some guy's weight. He's hotter than all the Asian chicks and lipstick lesbians, than the twinks and the cougars and the bears. He comes like he's dying and he shoots to kill and when Dean comes with him, it's almost like they're together again, like some kind of affirmation, and shit, it's good.
Dean knows it's a mistake, really. He does. But Sam's a thousand miles away and Dean's a lonely, thankless drifter, and by the fourth cheap motel of the week he no longer feels like a hero. He knows it's wrong, but Sam is his and Dean misses him and sometimes, when it's four a.m. and his whole body aches too fucking much to sleep, Dean needs to feel close to him, even if it's like this.
He wishes he could stop, he does, but he knows better. Jay Kansas will always have his dedicated attention.
Prompt: Underage Sam/Dean, shotgunning.
Words: ~600
Rating: PG-13
It's not that Dean makes a habit of shit like this. Dean's a good guy; he looks out for his brother. He doesn't smoke, doesn't get too drunk in front of Sammy, makes sure the kid knows about condoms (not that he seems to have made any use of them as yet). It's just that Sam is so fucking wound up about this midterm tomorrow, Dean reckons this is the best thing he can do for his brother right now. Cheap marijuana: the thoughtful gift.
One drag down, and Sam's eyes are shining already, glinting green in the dingy light. He's not quite getting it, though, not pulling enough in, holding the toke awkwardly between his fingers, and Dean can fix that. He tightens his hand on Sam's shoulder as he opens his lungs and sucks; closes his lips to keep the smoke in, sultry sweet, when he's done.
When he thumbs at Sam's lips, Sam opens his mouth, and although Dean's pretty sure he's only done it out of confusion he leans in all the same, sealing his mouth to Sam's. Sam makes a soft sound in the back of his throat that catches at the base of Dean's spine through the haze of weed, and Dean takes the opportunity to press in, one hand curling around Sam's jaw as the smoke slides sweet and slow from his mouth and into Sam's. Sam seems to get it, after a second; grips Dean's forearm and inhales, and it's easier, then, the two of them breathing together.
When Dean pulls back, Sam's panting, mouth pink and wet, and his eyes shine with that new-weed, smoke soft glimmer. He says, "Dean." There's something in his voice Dean can't quite place, or doesn't dare to, and it makes his stomach flip.
He says, "Another?"
He shouldn't. Sam's a lightweight, shit, and he looks like he's had enough. He also looks indisputably hot like this, all long lines and sweat in the hollow of his throat, and Dean shouldn't be touching him. Christ, he shouldn't.
The toke goes back up to his mouth almost of its own accord, another long shot swallowed up in his throat, and Sam's on him almost before he turns, tonguing Dean's mouth far enough open that he can slot against it, sucking at the smoke and then, when it's gone, at Dean's tongue. Shit.
They're both breathing tightly this time, when Dean jerks his head back, and Sam's hand is rubbing at the bolt of Dean's jaw, frenetic, the buzz of it tingling all the way down Dean's spine and sparking in his cock. He knows it's just the weed, but, God, that's probably way too much weed.
He doesn't mean to ask Sam if he wants another. He really doesn't. It's like something else is pulling it out of him, something that's pulsing wrong in the pit of his stomach.
Sam's voice is wild, guttering, when he says, "Okay." There's nothing between them when his mouth finds Dean's this time, no smoke pluming out from Dean's lips.
Still. Sam's had enough anyway.
We just won't discuss the fact that the second little ficlet has totally failed to slake my current desire to write ALL THE SHOTGUNNING.
Prompt: Sam is recruited into college-boy gay-for-pay porn productions while at Stanford, and becomes a big star on the internet. Dean starts watching. Originally here.
Rating: R
Words: ~900
The whole thing starts out as an honest mistake. The laptop was purchased, first and foremost, for the purposes of research and easy access to roadmaps when needed, but Dean's a dude, twenty-four, and single, so it doesn't exactly take him long to work out that The Internet is For Porn. And, boy, is there a lot of it. Asian chicks, blonde chicks, gloriously curvy chicks; blowjobs and reverse-cowgirls and scary-looking toys; and, because Dean's a versatile kind of guy, he's clicked on more than a couple intriguing stills of ripped young men, hoping they'll look just as hot in action. None of this is the mistake.
Dean's mistake was stumbling upon Jay Kansas. And he did stumble, too; he's scoured his conscience over and over since it happened, wondering if there was some subconscious motivator in the line of the jaw, the breadth of the palms on that boy, willing him to click, but, guilty as he feels, he doesn't think there was. Jay was just some Youporn sensation, a college boy gay for pay, and the general consensus was that he was some serious hot shit, man. Dean can't be blamed for his curiosity. He doesn't even blame himself for that.
What he blames himself for is not clicking back. Because, sure, this Jay kid looks hot with his mouth stuffed full of cock, drooling around it sloppy and slick as he bobs his shaggy head up and down; and, sure, he looks even better on his hands and knees on the floor, face mashed into his forearm while some jock nails him good from behind. The problem is certainly not that Jay Kansas isn't as hot as they say.
The problem is that Dean hadn't been watching for twenty seconds before he realized he was looking at his brother. His brother, with his pink mouth wide and soft around the girth of some guy's cock, moaning in the back of his throat while he licked and sucked and gave. Dean's brother who, at eighteen, was even more distressingly compelling than he'd been at fifteen, when Dean had first lain awake, breathing tense and turned on while he listened to him get himself off in the dark. This was his brother, whom Dean had been fucked up over for years, fucking and sucking on a laptop screen in glorious fast-streaming definition, and Dean couldn't seem to click away, not for love nor money.
That was weeks ago, and Dean's as good as given up. It's not like he watches single-mindedly to get his rocks off, not at all; not with the bilious twinge of jealousy that seizes him whenever a new guy gets his hands all over Sam, all over what has always, always been Dean's. Not when he thought his genius kid brother had a scholarship to keep him sitting pretty, and yet here he is doing this and that raises two equally troubling possibilities: either he's not fully provided for, or he actually likes doing this. Dean doesn't even know which option he'd rather believe.
He can't decide; keeps picking up the phone and staring at Sam's number the way he's stared at it periodically for years, and then slamming it down again unused, uncalled, because he's such a fucking coward he'd rather watch his brother being fucked in the ass on the internet than give him a fucking call to check he's okay.
He looks okay in the vids, though. Not possessed, not bruised, not underfed or unhappy, but - okay. More than okay, in fact. He makes sounds like he's dying of pleasure and he looks like a golden god, and Dean misses him like blood and he's only fucking flesh and bone. He watches his brother, leaps on each newly posted video as proof of his continued existence, and fuck, it's wrong, but he touches himself as he does it all the same, fingers thrust into the unzipped vee of his jeans as Sam twists and moans under some guy's weight. He's hotter than all the Asian chicks and lipstick lesbians, than the twinks and the cougars and the bears. He comes like he's dying and he shoots to kill and when Dean comes with him, it's almost like they're together again, like some kind of affirmation, and shit, it's good.
Dean knows it's a mistake, really. He does. But Sam's a thousand miles away and Dean's a lonely, thankless drifter, and by the fourth cheap motel of the week he no longer feels like a hero. He knows it's wrong, but Sam is his and Dean misses him and sometimes, when it's four a.m. and his whole body aches too fucking much to sleep, Dean needs to feel close to him, even if it's like this.
He wishes he could stop, he does, but he knows better. Jay Kansas will always have his dedicated attention.
Prompt: Underage Sam/Dean, shotgunning.
Words: ~600
Rating: PG-13
It's not that Dean makes a habit of shit like this. Dean's a good guy; he looks out for his brother. He doesn't smoke, doesn't get too drunk in front of Sammy, makes sure the kid knows about condoms (not that he seems to have made any use of them as yet). It's just that Sam is so fucking wound up about this midterm tomorrow, Dean reckons this is the best thing he can do for his brother right now. Cheap marijuana: the thoughtful gift.
One drag down, and Sam's eyes are shining already, glinting green in the dingy light. He's not quite getting it, though, not pulling enough in, holding the toke awkwardly between his fingers, and Dean can fix that. He tightens his hand on Sam's shoulder as he opens his lungs and sucks; closes his lips to keep the smoke in, sultry sweet, when he's done.
When he thumbs at Sam's lips, Sam opens his mouth, and although Dean's pretty sure he's only done it out of confusion he leans in all the same, sealing his mouth to Sam's. Sam makes a soft sound in the back of his throat that catches at the base of Dean's spine through the haze of weed, and Dean takes the opportunity to press in, one hand curling around Sam's jaw as the smoke slides sweet and slow from his mouth and into Sam's. Sam seems to get it, after a second; grips Dean's forearm and inhales, and it's easier, then, the two of them breathing together.
When Dean pulls back, Sam's panting, mouth pink and wet, and his eyes shine with that new-weed, smoke soft glimmer. He says, "Dean." There's something in his voice Dean can't quite place, or doesn't dare to, and it makes his stomach flip.
He says, "Another?"
He shouldn't. Sam's a lightweight, shit, and he looks like he's had enough. He also looks indisputably hot like this, all long lines and sweat in the hollow of his throat, and Dean shouldn't be touching him. Christ, he shouldn't.
The toke goes back up to his mouth almost of its own accord, another long shot swallowed up in his throat, and Sam's on him almost before he turns, tonguing Dean's mouth far enough open that he can slot against it, sucking at the smoke and then, when it's gone, at Dean's tongue. Shit.
They're both breathing tightly this time, when Dean jerks his head back, and Sam's hand is rubbing at the bolt of Dean's jaw, frenetic, the buzz of it tingling all the way down Dean's spine and sparking in his cock. He knows it's just the weed, but, God, that's probably way too much weed.
He doesn't mean to ask Sam if he wants another. He really doesn't. It's like something else is pulling it out of him, something that's pulsing wrong in the pit of his stomach.
Sam's voice is wild, guttering, when he says, "Okay." There's nothing between them when his mouth finds Dean's this time, no smoke pluming out from Dean's lips.
Still. Sam's had enough anyway.
We just won't discuss the fact that the second little ficlet has totally failed to slake my current desire to write ALL THE SHOTGUNNING.