fic: Slippery When Wet
Title: Slippery When Wet
Genre: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 2050
Rating: NC-17
Notes: oh god the title. written for the smpc. one of these days i'm gonna get my act together on time. this is not that day.
Summary: The boys get cleaned up after a hunt, and end up getting more filthy.
It’s like deadly pins and needles combined with the nastiest case of sunburn Sam’s ever known. His flesh is hot and cold all at once and Sam’s teeth are chattering with it. His hands shake and he douses them with bourbon from the bottle under the seat and he can’t tell if that makes it better or worse.
"You good?" Dean says, quick glances in Sam's direction, hands so tight around the steering wheel Sam thinks he might be leaving a dent. He's got the gas pedal sunk all the way to the floorboard and the engine is screaming.
"Jury's out," Sam says around his gritted teeth.
"I think some got in my mouth." The car swerves as he leans out the window and spits, gravel and grit pinging on the undercarriage as he hits the shoulder. Tires squeal and the suspension groans when he steers them back between the lines. Dean snatches the bottle from Sam's hand and takes a shot, swishes and spits again,
He speeds up into a blind turn, takes it like he's on rails, and Sam would usually be inclined to give him shit for it, remind him that stunts like that are reserved for action movie heroes, but right now his skin's on fire and his shirt feels like it's made out of sandpaper and he's wondering if the stuff can make it into their bloodstream. What kinda mayhem that might cause.
"If this crap eats through the seats, I swear to god," Dean says, and despite his better judgment, despite everything, Sam snorts. Good to know that his brother has his priorities in check.
"What are you gonna do? It's already dead," Sam shoots back. And he's still not sure what it was. Some sorta fucked up wraith mutation with blood the color of congealed pea soup, thick and stinking and possessing the apparent propensity to soak through a few layers of clothing to efficiently wreak havoc on human skin. Hell of a parting gift.
The distant neon hotel sign swims into view, the last two letters flickering out. H-O-T flashes over and over again and Sam thinks that they have that much right at least, screw the free HBO and continental breakfast. Dean rocks them to a stop in front of their room and Sam spills out of the car. He can't get the key into the lock and his shirt off fast enough and Dean's no help, jammed up against his back and squirming the way he is, flannel yanked off and t-shirt pulled over his head before they're even inside the room.
Dean drops to his knees in front of his brother and at any other time that might be something that would make Sam's night, but he's only fumbling with Sam's bootlaces, frowning like he's trying to figure out nineteen down on the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle. There's a gob of green gunk on his jaw below his ear, a spot they missed in their balls to the wall dash to the car and Sam uses his sleeve to wipe it off, surprised when the skin beneath is smooth, unmarred.
Dean's mumbling about having to do everything around here, gives up and pulls out his penknife and now Sam's gonna need a new set of laces but that's okay, because a second later he's yanking Sam's pants off and pushing him toward the bathroom, kicking his own pants off as he goes.
The pain fades to a dull itch the instant Sam gets into the shower. Dean crowds in beside him and makes a noise, half sigh and half moan while the water washes the worst of the blood away and then he turns into all sharp angles, elbows Sam in the ribs and shoulders him out of the way to get to the soap.
Water runs in small streams down Dean's face, courses along his chest. Sam pushes his hair out of his eyes, blinks into the spray and gives Dean a once over. There should be blisters, raised welts and third degree burns if what he'd been feeling is anything to go by. Instead he finds only the normal bumps and bruises, the familiar roadmap of scars and badly healed breaks that come part and parcel with life as they know it.
After another minor skirmish, Sam makes it under the water again, closes his eyes and rests his head against the tile. His hands are still shaking and his knees seem like they may give out at any moment and so might his heart, beating all shocky and fitful in his chest.
Dean's hands land on his shoulders, move south along his back and skate across his ribs, slippery with soap. It calms Sam down, grounds him. He can sense Dean's eyes on him, inspecting, familiar like the smell of the Impala, the weight of his gun in his hand. Dean's scrutiny is a constant in Sam's life, as reliable as the sunrise and the road and every single diner menu all across America. Sam doesn't mind it. Never really has.
He takes a washcloth to Sam's neck, scrubs behind his ears like when Sam was a little kid and kept forgetting to do it himself. The washcloth is rough and the cheap hotel soap smells sickly sweet like rotting fruit and Sam doesn't mind that either, likes the way Dean's hips slot up against his ass, the soft scrape of Dean's jaw against his upper arm.
"Wanted to rip my skin off back there," Dean says. The mid-west in his voice is coming through loud and clear tonight, always does when Dean's tired or drunk or very badly threatened. "This was all your fault."
Sam chuckles. "You're the one that found us the hunt."
"I'm also the one who wanted to bring a fucking bazooka," Dean points out.
"Yeah, and a surface to air missile woulda gone over real well in the basement of that rinky-dink town hall," Sam counters, but his heart isn't really in it. Dean's made his way to Sam's stomach now, wide palms slick on his skin. Sam watches as Dean moves up, scrapes his fingernail across one of Sam's nipples and does it again when Sam hisses, arches a little against his brother. His pulse had only started to go back to normal, the rush of blood in his ears just beginning to quiet down and now it's ramping up all over again. A gradual curl of heat is building low in his gut. It spirals outward, spreads up to his chest and down into his dick. Dean sets his mouth on the crook of his neck, noses behind his ear and it doubles.
"I'm glad we didn't die today, Sammy," Dean says, and Sam could laugh it off, remind him that sometimes they're not so fortunate, that some days it's all a matter of haphazard timing or pure dumb luck, but he keeps his mouth shut. He gets it, knows that some cuts still bleed. Some cuts never stop bleeding.
Dean starts to move behind him, slowly rocking back and forth, his chest slippery on Sam's wet back and his mouth travelling along Sam's shoulder, up the back of his neck. There's nothing rushed about it, like it is sometimes after a hunt, when the adrenaline dashing through their systems has nowhere to go except into each other, when all of their fear and excess energy morphs into want and they end up crashing into any available surface, ripping each other apart because it's safe to rip each other apart. They know exactly how much they can take.
This is unhurried, almost languid, how Dean's grinding into Sam, his cock getting harder by the second and nudging between the cheeks of Sam's ass. He teases Sam's nipples between his fingers until they're stiff and sensitive, tiny electric shocks with every soft scrape, nips at his neck and makes Sam shiver, draw in huge gasps of steamy air.
God bless industrial water heaters, and decent water pressure while you're at it, Sam could do this for hours, days, lulled and lazy from the heat and the slip of Dean's wet body against his back, the dig of Dean's strong fingers into his hips and the feel of Dean's hot tongue as he laps at the water that drips down his back.
Dean reaches forward, follows the cut of Sam's hip and cups his balls, rolls them between his fingers and tests the weight of them while he slips his other hand between their bodies, knuckles bumping against Sam's ass. He takes his cock in his fist and rubs it along the cleft of Sam's ass, up and down until Sam sets his feet wider, props his forearm on the tile and drops his head to it. He grabs Dean by the wrist and urges his hand up, makes it curl around his cock at the base. Dean's happy to oblige, rubs his thumb over the head of Sam's cock and twists a little on the upstroke, exactly how Sam likes it.
"Spoiled little brother," Dean mutters and there's an indulgent smile in his tone. Content in a way that Dean rarely allows himself. They're alive, made it through another one mostly in tact and Sam has an idea that right now he could get away with anything. Take the last beer, eat the last piece of pizza, maybe put a dent in the Impala but that might be pushing it. Get away with murder and that wouldn't be pushing it at all, not with this freak show life of theirs.
Sam can't talk, signals from his mind not completing the connection to his mouth, so he shows Dean what he wants, tips his ass up and rubs it along Dean's cock, breathes out small, high-pitched whines each time it drags against his rim. Later, once they've slept twelve hours and Dean's had a heart attack on a plate for breakfast, Dean might give him crap about it, call Sam needy, call him a girl. Sam's okay with that, completely one-hundred percent on board with all of it because Dean's presses forward, pushes inside, small stabs of his hips as he works himself inside, inch by slow inch.
Sam sets his teeth into his bottom lip and eases backward against his brother, wills his body to relax, take Dean in all the way, take as much as he can get. At the age of sixteen Sam had grown taller than his big brother, and by eighteen he'd outweighed him by a good clip, but Dean never lost the ability to surround Sam, engulf him completely. Sam will never say it out loud, but he loves this, absolutely lives for it, to have Dean's arms looped sure and steady around him, his hand planted possessively in the center of his chest, his hips notched up against Sam's ass.
"I'm good, Dean. So fucking good," Sam moans. Water drips into his eyes and sprays from his mouth as he speaks and he breathes a little in when Dean pulls out and fucks back in again, only to stay like that, stuffed in all the way to the base, hard and so, so hot. He stays that way until he's made a mess of Sam, until Sam's panting and squirming, stuck between the perfect fullness in his ass and the devastating way Dean jacks his cock, slow and steady and pulling his orgasm out of him.
Sam clenches around his brothers dick and Dean's arms tighten around his ribs, fetch him up and pull him snug against Dean's chest. His feet slip and there's nothing for him to hold onto, but Dean balances for the both of them, thrusts up and in. Their skin slams together with dirty, wet slaps. Dean feels huge in Sam's ass now, thicker than before and straining as he shoots, mouthing at Sam's neck.
"Let's never do that again," Dean says, all breathless and slurred. He's still buried deep inside of Sam's ass, hips moving in mindless little shocks.
Sam hums. He's thinking about a day off tomorrow, all the ways he's gonna make good use of his brother and both those queen size beds in the other room. "Dunno. I liked it. Really fucking liked it, in fact."
"Not that. Never that. I'm talking about the other thing."
-fin
Genre: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 2050
Rating: NC-17
Notes: oh god the title. written for the smpc. one of these days i'm gonna get my act together on time. this is not that day.
Summary: The boys get cleaned up after a hunt, and end up getting more filthy.
It’s like deadly pins and needles combined with the nastiest case of sunburn Sam’s ever known. His flesh is hot and cold all at once and Sam’s teeth are chattering with it. His hands shake and he douses them with bourbon from the bottle under the seat and he can’t tell if that makes it better or worse.
"You good?" Dean says, quick glances in Sam's direction, hands so tight around the steering wheel Sam thinks he might be leaving a dent. He's got the gas pedal sunk all the way to the floorboard and the engine is screaming.
"Jury's out," Sam says around his gritted teeth.
"I think some got in my mouth." The car swerves as he leans out the window and spits, gravel and grit pinging on the undercarriage as he hits the shoulder. Tires squeal and the suspension groans when he steers them back between the lines. Dean snatches the bottle from Sam's hand and takes a shot, swishes and spits again,
He speeds up into a blind turn, takes it like he's on rails, and Sam would usually be inclined to give him shit for it, remind him that stunts like that are reserved for action movie heroes, but right now his skin's on fire and his shirt feels like it's made out of sandpaper and he's wondering if the stuff can make it into their bloodstream. What kinda mayhem that might cause.
"If this crap eats through the seats, I swear to god," Dean says, and despite his better judgment, despite everything, Sam snorts. Good to know that his brother has his priorities in check.
"What are you gonna do? It's already dead," Sam shoots back. And he's still not sure what it was. Some sorta fucked up wraith mutation with blood the color of congealed pea soup, thick and stinking and possessing the apparent propensity to soak through a few layers of clothing to efficiently wreak havoc on human skin. Hell of a parting gift.
The distant neon hotel sign swims into view, the last two letters flickering out. H-O-T flashes over and over again and Sam thinks that they have that much right at least, screw the free HBO and continental breakfast. Dean rocks them to a stop in front of their room and Sam spills out of the car. He can't get the key into the lock and his shirt off fast enough and Dean's no help, jammed up against his back and squirming the way he is, flannel yanked off and t-shirt pulled over his head before they're even inside the room.
Dean drops to his knees in front of his brother and at any other time that might be something that would make Sam's night, but he's only fumbling with Sam's bootlaces, frowning like he's trying to figure out nineteen down on the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle. There's a gob of green gunk on his jaw below his ear, a spot they missed in their balls to the wall dash to the car and Sam uses his sleeve to wipe it off, surprised when the skin beneath is smooth, unmarred.
Dean's mumbling about having to do everything around here, gives up and pulls out his penknife and now Sam's gonna need a new set of laces but that's okay, because a second later he's yanking Sam's pants off and pushing him toward the bathroom, kicking his own pants off as he goes.
The pain fades to a dull itch the instant Sam gets into the shower. Dean crowds in beside him and makes a noise, half sigh and half moan while the water washes the worst of the blood away and then he turns into all sharp angles, elbows Sam in the ribs and shoulders him out of the way to get to the soap.
Water runs in small streams down Dean's face, courses along his chest. Sam pushes his hair out of his eyes, blinks into the spray and gives Dean a once over. There should be blisters, raised welts and third degree burns if what he'd been feeling is anything to go by. Instead he finds only the normal bumps and bruises, the familiar roadmap of scars and badly healed breaks that come part and parcel with life as they know it.
After another minor skirmish, Sam makes it under the water again, closes his eyes and rests his head against the tile. His hands are still shaking and his knees seem like they may give out at any moment and so might his heart, beating all shocky and fitful in his chest.
Dean's hands land on his shoulders, move south along his back and skate across his ribs, slippery with soap. It calms Sam down, grounds him. He can sense Dean's eyes on him, inspecting, familiar like the smell of the Impala, the weight of his gun in his hand. Dean's scrutiny is a constant in Sam's life, as reliable as the sunrise and the road and every single diner menu all across America. Sam doesn't mind it. Never really has.
He takes a washcloth to Sam's neck, scrubs behind his ears like when Sam was a little kid and kept forgetting to do it himself. The washcloth is rough and the cheap hotel soap smells sickly sweet like rotting fruit and Sam doesn't mind that either, likes the way Dean's hips slot up against his ass, the soft scrape of Dean's jaw against his upper arm.
"Wanted to rip my skin off back there," Dean says. The mid-west in his voice is coming through loud and clear tonight, always does when Dean's tired or drunk or very badly threatened. "This was all your fault."
Sam chuckles. "You're the one that found us the hunt."
"I'm also the one who wanted to bring a fucking bazooka," Dean points out.
"Yeah, and a surface to air missile woulda gone over real well in the basement of that rinky-dink town hall," Sam counters, but his heart isn't really in it. Dean's made his way to Sam's stomach now, wide palms slick on his skin. Sam watches as Dean moves up, scrapes his fingernail across one of Sam's nipples and does it again when Sam hisses, arches a little against his brother. His pulse had only started to go back to normal, the rush of blood in his ears just beginning to quiet down and now it's ramping up all over again. A gradual curl of heat is building low in his gut. It spirals outward, spreads up to his chest and down into his dick. Dean sets his mouth on the crook of his neck, noses behind his ear and it doubles.
"I'm glad we didn't die today, Sammy," Dean says, and Sam could laugh it off, remind him that sometimes they're not so fortunate, that some days it's all a matter of haphazard timing or pure dumb luck, but he keeps his mouth shut. He gets it, knows that some cuts still bleed. Some cuts never stop bleeding.
Dean starts to move behind him, slowly rocking back and forth, his chest slippery on Sam's wet back and his mouth travelling along Sam's shoulder, up the back of his neck. There's nothing rushed about it, like it is sometimes after a hunt, when the adrenaline dashing through their systems has nowhere to go except into each other, when all of their fear and excess energy morphs into want and they end up crashing into any available surface, ripping each other apart because it's safe to rip each other apart. They know exactly how much they can take.
This is unhurried, almost languid, how Dean's grinding into Sam, his cock getting harder by the second and nudging between the cheeks of Sam's ass. He teases Sam's nipples between his fingers until they're stiff and sensitive, tiny electric shocks with every soft scrape, nips at his neck and makes Sam shiver, draw in huge gasps of steamy air.
God bless industrial water heaters, and decent water pressure while you're at it, Sam could do this for hours, days, lulled and lazy from the heat and the slip of Dean's wet body against his back, the dig of Dean's strong fingers into his hips and the feel of Dean's hot tongue as he laps at the water that drips down his back.
Dean reaches forward, follows the cut of Sam's hip and cups his balls, rolls them between his fingers and tests the weight of them while he slips his other hand between their bodies, knuckles bumping against Sam's ass. He takes his cock in his fist and rubs it along the cleft of Sam's ass, up and down until Sam sets his feet wider, props his forearm on the tile and drops his head to it. He grabs Dean by the wrist and urges his hand up, makes it curl around his cock at the base. Dean's happy to oblige, rubs his thumb over the head of Sam's cock and twists a little on the upstroke, exactly how Sam likes it.
"Spoiled little brother," Dean mutters and there's an indulgent smile in his tone. Content in a way that Dean rarely allows himself. They're alive, made it through another one mostly in tact and Sam has an idea that right now he could get away with anything. Take the last beer, eat the last piece of pizza, maybe put a dent in the Impala but that might be pushing it. Get away with murder and that wouldn't be pushing it at all, not with this freak show life of theirs.
Sam can't talk, signals from his mind not completing the connection to his mouth, so he shows Dean what he wants, tips his ass up and rubs it along Dean's cock, breathes out small, high-pitched whines each time it drags against his rim. Later, once they've slept twelve hours and Dean's had a heart attack on a plate for breakfast, Dean might give him crap about it, call Sam needy, call him a girl. Sam's okay with that, completely one-hundred percent on board with all of it because Dean's presses forward, pushes inside, small stabs of his hips as he works himself inside, inch by slow inch.
Sam sets his teeth into his bottom lip and eases backward against his brother, wills his body to relax, take Dean in all the way, take as much as he can get. At the age of sixteen Sam had grown taller than his big brother, and by eighteen he'd outweighed him by a good clip, but Dean never lost the ability to surround Sam, engulf him completely. Sam will never say it out loud, but he loves this, absolutely lives for it, to have Dean's arms looped sure and steady around him, his hand planted possessively in the center of his chest, his hips notched up against Sam's ass.
"I'm good, Dean. So fucking good," Sam moans. Water drips into his eyes and sprays from his mouth as he speaks and he breathes a little in when Dean pulls out and fucks back in again, only to stay like that, stuffed in all the way to the base, hard and so, so hot. He stays that way until he's made a mess of Sam, until Sam's panting and squirming, stuck between the perfect fullness in his ass and the devastating way Dean jacks his cock, slow and steady and pulling his orgasm out of him.
Sam clenches around his brothers dick and Dean's arms tighten around his ribs, fetch him up and pull him snug against Dean's chest. His feet slip and there's nothing for him to hold onto, but Dean balances for the both of them, thrusts up and in. Their skin slams together with dirty, wet slaps. Dean feels huge in Sam's ass now, thicker than before and straining as he shoots, mouthing at Sam's neck.
"Let's never do that again," Dean says, all breathless and slurred. He's still buried deep inside of Sam's ass, hips moving in mindless little shocks.
Sam hums. He's thinking about a day off tomorrow, all the ways he's gonna make good use of his brother and both those queen size beds in the other room. "Dunno. I liked it. Really fucking liked it, in fact."
"Not that. Never that. I'm talking about the other thing."
-fin