Fic: magic fingers (SPN, Wincest, Sam POV, NC-17)
Fic: magic fingers
Author: Regala Electra
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: S2, Reference made to Houses of the Holy
Summary: There’s just a king sized bed in here, no need for two doubles or queens this time.
Warning: Sexual situations (Wincest), Language
Word Count: 720
Author’s Notes: A bit of delicious wincesty porn for the lovely ignited. Feedback appreciated.
*
Dean's a cheat and a liar, trained to be a conman, but he doesn't cheat Sam of orgasms.
That much is true when they've stopped off at a dusty summer-dead town, it’s not by the waterfront and anyone with the means has taken off for more comfortable places not choked full of dust. Dean drops a credit card at a cheap motel, one that pays by the hour and doesn’t have any pretenses about its purposes. Dean books a whole night just so he can drag Sam off to the bed promising hours because he’s so goddamn stubborn, convinced that he can still do this. Here Dean is, twenty-eight years old and acting like he’s still a horny teenager and all Sam can do is follow him, careful not to brush up against him while Dean futzes with the key. It sticks when he tries to open the door and they have to pick the lock to get in, already thieves to somebody else’s life.
There’s just a king sized bed in here, no need for two doubles or queens this time. Doesn’t matter that the sheets are questionable and really kind of skeevy because Dean’s tongue in Sam’s mouth. There’s a question of too many things, like a jumbled sentence that’s so Dean-like, grunts and noises and flashes of brilliance and Sam could do this forever but he needs more. Tilts Dean’s head back to force Dean’s hand, to get him to do something.
"Fuck, Sammy," Dean says and that's exactly what he wants.
Dean pushes Sam back, strips like he's in a race and it's a Greek sport, so nudity's the thing. Pops a shitload of quarters into the little coin operator, turns it on and before Sam can say, "God, are you serious?" it starts like vibrating all over, noisier than that other bed, months ago. Dean's got the lube tossed on the bed, leaving it at Sam’s eye level, saving it for later. Cups Sam’s face, directing him, asking without saying that Sam has to watch him: Dean licks a stripe up Sam’s neck, ending with a bite on his jaw, tugging off all of Sam’s clothes and it's fast, too damn fast, only it isn't.
Slow smacking slide of lips and skin against skin is rough, quick burn of stubble against Sam's body, Dean’s mouth on his cock for not long enough. Wet lips pursing just for a moment when Dean breaks away, cloud of amusement in his eyes, Sam must’ve begged out loud, Dean never lets that stuff go, bringing it up whenever he’s got a hankering for busting Sam’s chops.
“Now?” Sometimes it’s a demand, but most times it’s question. Sam should be surprised by this, that Dean isn’t completely selfish when it comes to sex, but still, it’s something different, the whisper breathed against Sam’s stomach, quick tongue-flick to his bellybutton and Dean asks again, “Now?”
Turned around, Sam's dick is pressed into the mattress, stupid vibrating bed is thrumming all around him, the sensation too fucking good, oh god, and Dean's got him, stilling him at first.
Doesn’t matter that he’s easy words, could be soothing noises for all it matters, and then he's pushing in, all the way and Sam can barely breathe, move, and Dean's the one rocking, thrusts even and slow, sliding words out of his mouth as smoothly as his movements. Saves the hard thrusts for when Sam can’t hold on anymore. Dean’s hand manages to get between Sam and the mattress, jerking him off all uncoordinated and hurried, a slice of too much, an edge of black and pain that Dean’s figured out that Sam likes far too much.
Orgasm seeps like an ink stain, bleeding through Sam everywhere, anywhere, a twist of ugliness that makes it even better.
Dean doesn’t let Sam get too close when they’re stumbling together in a post-sex haze, looking to get comfortable on the bed. Mercifully the vibrations have ended, Sam’s nerves need a freaking rest before there’s anymore of that. Dean pushes Sam off to the side, taking up far too much damn space on the wide bed.
"And you thought the magic fingers were sick, man," Dean says to him after, when their brains remember how to form words.
Sam half-heartedly whaps Dean with a pillow, muffling his brother’s chuckle.
end
Author: Regala Electra
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: S2, Reference made to Houses of the Holy
Summary: There’s just a king sized bed in here, no need for two doubles or queens this time.
Warning: Sexual situations (Wincest), Language
Word Count: 720
Author’s Notes: A bit of delicious wincesty porn for the lovely ignited. Feedback appreciated.
*
Dean's a cheat and a liar, trained to be a conman, but he doesn't cheat Sam of orgasms.
That much is true when they've stopped off at a dusty summer-dead town, it’s not by the waterfront and anyone with the means has taken off for more comfortable places not choked full of dust. Dean drops a credit card at a cheap motel, one that pays by the hour and doesn’t have any pretenses about its purposes. Dean books a whole night just so he can drag Sam off to the bed promising hours because he’s so goddamn stubborn, convinced that he can still do this. Here Dean is, twenty-eight years old and acting like he’s still a horny teenager and all Sam can do is follow him, careful not to brush up against him while Dean futzes with the key. It sticks when he tries to open the door and they have to pick the lock to get in, already thieves to somebody else’s life.
There’s just a king sized bed in here, no need for two doubles or queens this time. Doesn’t matter that the sheets are questionable and really kind of skeevy because Dean’s tongue in Sam’s mouth. There’s a question of too many things, like a jumbled sentence that’s so Dean-like, grunts and noises and flashes of brilliance and Sam could do this forever but he needs more. Tilts Dean’s head back to force Dean’s hand, to get him to do something.
"Fuck, Sammy," Dean says and that's exactly what he wants.
Dean pushes Sam back, strips like he's in a race and it's a Greek sport, so nudity's the thing. Pops a shitload of quarters into the little coin operator, turns it on and before Sam can say, "God, are you serious?" it starts like vibrating all over, noisier than that other bed, months ago. Dean's got the lube tossed on the bed, leaving it at Sam’s eye level, saving it for later. Cups Sam’s face, directing him, asking without saying that Sam has to watch him: Dean licks a stripe up Sam’s neck, ending with a bite on his jaw, tugging off all of Sam’s clothes and it's fast, too damn fast, only it isn't.
Slow smacking slide of lips and skin against skin is rough, quick burn of stubble against Sam's body, Dean’s mouth on his cock for not long enough. Wet lips pursing just for a moment when Dean breaks away, cloud of amusement in his eyes, Sam must’ve begged out loud, Dean never lets that stuff go, bringing it up whenever he’s got a hankering for busting Sam’s chops.
“Now?” Sometimes it’s a demand, but most times it’s question. Sam should be surprised by this, that Dean isn’t completely selfish when it comes to sex, but still, it’s something different, the whisper breathed against Sam’s stomach, quick tongue-flick to his bellybutton and Dean asks again, “Now?”
Turned around, Sam's dick is pressed into the mattress, stupid vibrating bed is thrumming all around him, the sensation too fucking good, oh god, and Dean's got him, stilling him at first.
Doesn’t matter that he’s easy words, could be soothing noises for all it matters, and then he's pushing in, all the way and Sam can barely breathe, move, and Dean's the one rocking, thrusts even and slow, sliding words out of his mouth as smoothly as his movements. Saves the hard thrusts for when Sam can’t hold on anymore. Dean’s hand manages to get between Sam and the mattress, jerking him off all uncoordinated and hurried, a slice of too much, an edge of black and pain that Dean’s figured out that Sam likes far too much.
Orgasm seeps like an ink stain, bleeding through Sam everywhere, anywhere, a twist of ugliness that makes it even better.
Dean doesn’t let Sam get too close when they’re stumbling together in a post-sex haze, looking to get comfortable on the bed. Mercifully the vibrations have ended, Sam’s nerves need a freaking rest before there’s anymore of that. Dean pushes Sam off to the side, taking up far too much damn space on the wide bed.
"And you thought the magic fingers were sick, man," Dean says to him after, when their brains remember how to form words.
Sam half-heartedly whaps Dean with a pillow, muffling his brother’s chuckle.
end