Supernatural fic: Cleaning the Rifle
So... I always said I wouldn't write Supernatural fanfic 'cause there was no way I could do it justice. And then the deadly plot bunnies struck, shaking their filthy little tails, and planting this lovely little image of Dean in my head. Six images of Dean actually.
Title: Cleaning the Rifle
Fandom: Supernatural
Author:
rospberry
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Sam, Dean/OFC, Dean/Dean's dick *grin*
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Five times Dean had his dick in his hand… and one time he didn't.
Warnings: Het, Wincest
Author's Notes: This is SLASH. Do not read if it offends you, or you don't know what it is. Seriously, don't.
Big thanks to my superb beta
mayalaen and to Jan for some more...er...practical observations.
1.
Dean Winchester would be the first to admit that ducking into a crypt to take a leak when on a hunt for a homicidal spirit wasn't the brightest thing he'd ever done in his life.
And there shouldn’t have been a problem: not when Sam was patrolling the cemetery outside supposedly keeping an eye out for Casper.
Two minutes.
Two minutes to duck into shadowed room, trying not to brush against the moss-covered wall as he propped the shotgun against it and unzipped his pants. His dick protested the damp chill of the air, shrinking back in his hand, but he just held it firm and aimed for the corner.
A steady stream of piss splattered onto the stone floor, and - agreeing with his dick's assessment - Dean's body shivered in the cool air. Half-humming snippets of Metallica under his breath, he mentally urged his bladder to empty so he could get the job over with. He just wanted to head to the nearest bar and get laid, or drunk. He had to admit at that point, either would suit him just fine
The stream turned to a trickle, then a drip, and Dean tightened his hold, ready to shake and tuck when a slam of frigid air sent him staggering forward, his free hand flying up in time to stop a face-first collision with the tomb wall.
"Son of a bitch," he swore, dropping to his knees, trying simultaneously to reach for the shotgun and shove his dick back in his pants. It was a mistake. The few seconds he wasted gave the spirit a chance to turn back for another try. Only this time it didn't just push, it pulled and lifted, throwing him backwards over a sarcophagus to land heavily against the back wall with a resounding crack.
Something was broken. Maybe more than one something because all Dean could feel was white hot pain and a wave of nausea-inducing dizziness when he tried to push himself to him feet. Liquid dripped down his face, and he was vaguely aware he must have hit his head, but the thought was fleeting, insignificant.
In fact, all he was able to focus on before the blackness hit was the sight of his limp dick, still cradled in his hand.
2.
He hated hospitals.
First there was the smell, not warm and comforting like leather, but antiseptic and unnatural. It meant someone was hurt: someone like Sam or Dad, and in Dean's world, you couldn't get any more wrong than that.
Then there was the noise. Machines - that didn't have engines or gears - that pulsed and blipped and freaked the hell out of him.
And the food. Dean suspected that hell existed in the kitchens of hospitals and the food they produced there was designed in some way to suck souls from the living. As he prodded a bowl of green-colored Jell-O with his spoon - and what was with them giving him that, he hadn't been shot in the stomach for God's sake - he could almost feel a piece of himself being sucked away.
The only reason he was still lying there, and not eating proper food and watching reruns of MacGyver on TV, was Sam. Sam had begged, pleading with those puppy dog eyes and using every piece of emotional blackmail in his arsenal. Dean let out a long sigh.
It was a waste of time. He'd survived worse than a few fractured ribs and a broken collarbone before. Concussion was nothing to get worked up about either: a couple of pills and someone to make sure he woke up every couple of hours and he'd be fine. Hell, the sasquatch could play nurse - Sam owed him for not watching his back - and taking every opportunity to ridicule your brother for the unfortunate state his body was in when you found him, definitely did not put Sam on Dean's list of favorite people at that moment.
God, he was bored.
He pushed the bowl of Jell-O away with an irritated huff and lay back against the pillows. They were topping him up with pain-killers and sedatives through a needle attached to his left hand, so although he ached, it was ignorable - and even that struck him as unfair. He couldn't even focus on the pain to give himself something to do.
The steady beep-beep of the heart monitor in the corner was wearing at his nerves, and if there had been anything handy to throw, the precariously balanced monitor would have been no more than a pile of smashed circuits and glass on the floor.
There was a niggling tickle at the top of his leg, and he slipped his right hand under the blanket, finding the spot with his fingers and scratching. A small sound of contented pleasure escaped his lips, and his dick twitched in response. His fingers paused, and Dean contemplated the situation; he was stuck in a hospital room with no television, no magazines, and no Sam.
His dick twitched again, more insistently this time.
Aw, hell. It was just a natural thing after all, like healing. In fact, Dean was willing to bet that a little dose of endorphins would do his body more good than any drug they pumped into him. So he slid his hand underneath the hospital gown and wrapped fingers around flesh.
A couple of quick strokes and the blankets tented. A couple more and Dean let out a soft groan - part pleasure, part pain - as the movement pulled and burned across his shoulder blades and chest.
Another few hesitant pulls and he realized that it wasn't going to work. Every movement sparked spasms of pain that were far too distracting. Not that pain didn't occasionally have its attractions, but at the right time, in the right place, and most definitely with the right person. A quick jerk-off in an empty hospital room didn’t even come close.
Frustrated, he was just about to let go when the door to the room opened.
A nurse walked in, a vision of beauty in a starched white uniform, blonde curls, tits that bounced perkily as she walked across the room, and a cute button nose that wrinkled in amusement as she realized what he was up to.
"You're supposed to be resting," she admonished, checking that his IV drip hadn't been pulled free.
Giving her the full benefit of the Dean Winchester grin, he would have followed through with a nonchalant shrug, but partway into the movement his shoulders violently complained, and so he settled for a waggle of the eyebrows. "I had an itch," he said. "But I'm having a bit of a problem scratching it."
A glint of teeth as she smiled and reached to pull back the blanket. "Well, I suppose you aren't supposed to put any unnecessary strain on your injuries..."
Dean's grin widened and he lay back against the pillows, happily relinquishing his hold on his dick.
3.
Stacey. The nurse's name was Stacey, and she lived in a one-bedroom apartment a couple of blocks from the hospital.
It was a bit frilly for Dean's taste, lots of pink and lacy cushions, but he wasn't planning on hanging around long enough to really care. A few more days and he and Sam would be heading to Fresno where there had been official reports of missing kids, and some not-so-official rumors about a two-headed monster. It sounded just like their kind of gig, and Dean really needed to get back into the game before he went nuts.
Speaking of nuts, his were currently being fondled by Nurse Stacey. He stretched back into her perfumed pillows, lying in her bed, bandages white and tight around his chest and across his shoulders. He felt like a mummified corpse, and from the enthusiasm she was showing towards her current job in hand, it was obvious she was feeling equally uninspired.
She took hold of his dick and started to stroke, but her grip was too tight, her skin was too dry, and the rings on her fingers pinched at his sensitive flesh.
He bit his lip, trying to concentrate on the fact that a hot woman was voluntarily giving him a hand job, and he hadn't even had to ask for it. But even the legendary Dean Winchester sex drive had its limits, and he could feel his dick start to droop, failing under the amateur fondling.
With a growl of frustration, he pushed her hand out of the way, taking a good hold with his sweat-moistened hand and flicking his wrist up and down with the sureness of years of dedicated practice.
Moments later he was coming, head pushing back into the pillows, and a name falling from his lips.
And it wasn't "Stacey".
4.
Godammit. It hurt.
The door slammed resolutely shut behind him, but he ignored it, far too busy holding a hand protectively over his dick and balls, his face screwed up in pain.
Once his vision had resolved back into Technicolor, he gingerly bent down to retrieve his shoe, the one that had caused such significant agony when it had been thrown directly at his balls.
He could imagine what Sam's reaction would be when he heard the edited version of events. His shaggy haired little brother would try not to laugh, it would flicker around his mouth and eyes as his habitual politeness prevailed, and then he would remember who he was talking to and he'd tip his head back and let rip, eyes sparkling with amusement at the thought of his older brother's misfortune.
And Dean would pretend to be offended.
5.
He'd been right about Sam's reaction. Irritatingly right, to the point where he'd threatened to waste his little brother's precious laptop if he didn't shut the hell up.
Lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, he could hear soft snores coming from the other bed, and he turned his head to look at his sleeping sibling, visible in the glow of the outside lights shining through the threadbare motel-room curtains.
Sam had wrestled his way out of the blankets, far too many gangling limbs even for a decent-sized double bed. He lay on his back; one long leg dangling over the edge, t-shirt rucked up to his chest, and shorts barely concealing his not-insignificant assets.
Dean guiltily dragged his eyes away, looking instead at Sam's face which seemed flushed and damp, eyes moving restlessly under closed lids as his brow furrowed.
One arm was flung back above his head, the hand holding onto the edge of the pillow, his fist clenching and unclenching as he reacted to his dreams.
And the dream must have been good. The shorts were growing significantly tighter, and even in sleep, the younger Winchester's other hand headed straight for the straining material.
In his own bed, Dean squeezed his eyes closed, and felt slightly sick with the wrongness of it all as he felt his own body reacting. It was Sam. His brother. Sam.
He tried to think of something - laundry, Cheerios, Oprah, Bobby - anything to stop his mind from focusing on the vision of Sam, sweating and hot, jerking off only feet away from his bed.
There were soft sleepy groans and pants, and Dean's hand found his dick of its own accord, moving in time to Sam's rhythmic breaths.
Fast and hard, Dean came, splattering the sheets with sticky fluid and unable to bite back the exhalation of his brother's name as the final spurt shot onto the bed.
He collapsed back, exhausted, and only then realized that the room was deathly quiet.
With a growing sense of dread, he blinked his eyes open and looked over to Sam's bed.
Sam was staring at him, eyes wide but unreadable, his face half-hidden in shadow.
6.
Dean's dick was reveling in its current confinement, caught in a warm, calloused hand that slid up and down with sure movements, touching with the right amount of pressure, and tightening at just the right spots.
Dean would have wholeheartedly agreed with his dick's assessment if he'd been in any kind of state to think. His hands were twisted in the sheets above his head, held in place by an enormous hand encircling his wrists, pushing them against the mattress as its partner continued its work down below.
Eyes tightly closed, caught in the grip of excruciating pleasure, Dean cursed and gasped and begged, desperate for release. He wanted to come, he wanted to touch, he wanted to…
The hand stilled, and he almost cried with the cruelty of it, a soft, "Please," escaping his lips.
"Look at me, Dean," the owner of the hand ordered, and after a few moments Dean reluctantly opened his eyes and stared at up Sam. His brother. Sam.
He started to tug half-heartedly at Sam's hold, his dick wilting in Sam's grip as his eyes grew wide, and panicked. "Sam, this... This is..."
Sam frowned and shifted his body closer, letting him feel his warmth, and the hardness of his own dick pressing against his thigh.
"It's okay," Sam said. "This is okay." He leaned closer and whispered, "This is what I want."
And suddenly Dean was rock hard and straining, filling Sam's hand; and Sam stroked once, twice, and grinned like a kid at Christmas as his brother came, screaming his name.
He released Dean's wrists and propped his head on his hand, looking down at his satiated brother and idly tracing a finger though the hot dampness on Dean's belly. He paused, thinking, and then trailed the fingers back down to tap lightly on the tip of his brother's sensitive flesh.
"Mine," he said. "This is off limits to anyone else."
Dean's eyebrows lifted, looking up at his brother through half-closed eyes. "But what about...?" He jiggled his own hand. "Y'know..."
Sam shrugged. "I think there are better things you could be doing with that," he said, looking pointedly down at his own body.
Dean grinned, eyes opening in anticipation. "Ah... Right." He paused. "Now?"
Sam rolled his eyes.
Dean didn't need any further encouragement. He had years of practice after all, an image to maintain, and a hand that was now lacking ready access to a dick.
And it sure as hells beat cleaning guns.
Title: Cleaning the Rifle
Fandom: Supernatural
Author:
rospberry
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Sam, Dean/OFC, Dean/Dean's dick *grin*
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Five times Dean had his dick in his hand… and one time he didn't.
Warnings: Het, Wincest
Author's Notes: This is SLASH. Do not read if it offends you, or you don't know what it is. Seriously, don't.
Big thanks to my superb beta
mayalaen and to Jan for some more...er...practical observations.
1.
Dean Winchester would be the first to admit that ducking into a crypt to take a leak when on a hunt for a homicidal spirit wasn't the brightest thing he'd ever done in his life.
And there shouldn’t have been a problem: not when Sam was patrolling the cemetery outside supposedly keeping an eye out for Casper.
Two minutes.
Two minutes to duck into shadowed room, trying not to brush against the moss-covered wall as he propped the shotgun against it and unzipped his pants. His dick protested the damp chill of the air, shrinking back in his hand, but he just held it firm and aimed for the corner.
A steady stream of piss splattered onto the stone floor, and - agreeing with his dick's assessment - Dean's body shivered in the cool air. Half-humming snippets of Metallica under his breath, he mentally urged his bladder to empty so he could get the job over with. He just wanted to head to the nearest bar and get laid, or drunk. He had to admit at that point, either would suit him just fine
The stream turned to a trickle, then a drip, and Dean tightened his hold, ready to shake and tuck when a slam of frigid air sent him staggering forward, his free hand flying up in time to stop a face-first collision with the tomb wall.
"Son of a bitch," he swore, dropping to his knees, trying simultaneously to reach for the shotgun and shove his dick back in his pants. It was a mistake. The few seconds he wasted gave the spirit a chance to turn back for another try. Only this time it didn't just push, it pulled and lifted, throwing him backwards over a sarcophagus to land heavily against the back wall with a resounding crack.
Something was broken. Maybe more than one something because all Dean could feel was white hot pain and a wave of nausea-inducing dizziness when he tried to push himself to him feet. Liquid dripped down his face, and he was vaguely aware he must have hit his head, but the thought was fleeting, insignificant.
In fact, all he was able to focus on before the blackness hit was the sight of his limp dick, still cradled in his hand.
2.
He hated hospitals.
First there was the smell, not warm and comforting like leather, but antiseptic and unnatural. It meant someone was hurt: someone like Sam or Dad, and in Dean's world, you couldn't get any more wrong than that.
Then there was the noise. Machines - that didn't have engines or gears - that pulsed and blipped and freaked the hell out of him.
And the food. Dean suspected that hell existed in the kitchens of hospitals and the food they produced there was designed in some way to suck souls from the living. As he prodded a bowl of green-colored Jell-O with his spoon - and what was with them giving him that, he hadn't been shot in the stomach for God's sake - he could almost feel a piece of himself being sucked away.
The only reason he was still lying there, and not eating proper food and watching reruns of MacGyver on TV, was Sam. Sam had begged, pleading with those puppy dog eyes and using every piece of emotional blackmail in his arsenal. Dean let out a long sigh.
It was a waste of time. He'd survived worse than a few fractured ribs and a broken collarbone before. Concussion was nothing to get worked up about either: a couple of pills and someone to make sure he woke up every couple of hours and he'd be fine. Hell, the sasquatch could play nurse - Sam owed him for not watching his back - and taking every opportunity to ridicule your brother for the unfortunate state his body was in when you found him, definitely did not put Sam on Dean's list of favorite people at that moment.
God, he was bored.
He pushed the bowl of Jell-O away with an irritated huff and lay back against the pillows. They were topping him up with pain-killers and sedatives through a needle attached to his left hand, so although he ached, it was ignorable - and even that struck him as unfair. He couldn't even focus on the pain to give himself something to do.
The steady beep-beep of the heart monitor in the corner was wearing at his nerves, and if there had been anything handy to throw, the precariously balanced monitor would have been no more than a pile of smashed circuits and glass on the floor.
There was a niggling tickle at the top of his leg, and he slipped his right hand under the blanket, finding the spot with his fingers and scratching. A small sound of contented pleasure escaped his lips, and his dick twitched in response. His fingers paused, and Dean contemplated the situation; he was stuck in a hospital room with no television, no magazines, and no Sam.
His dick twitched again, more insistently this time.
Aw, hell. It was just a natural thing after all, like healing. In fact, Dean was willing to bet that a little dose of endorphins would do his body more good than any drug they pumped into him. So he slid his hand underneath the hospital gown and wrapped fingers around flesh.
A couple of quick strokes and the blankets tented. A couple more and Dean let out a soft groan - part pleasure, part pain - as the movement pulled and burned across his shoulder blades and chest.
Another few hesitant pulls and he realized that it wasn't going to work. Every movement sparked spasms of pain that were far too distracting. Not that pain didn't occasionally have its attractions, but at the right time, in the right place, and most definitely with the right person. A quick jerk-off in an empty hospital room didn’t even come close.
Frustrated, he was just about to let go when the door to the room opened.
A nurse walked in, a vision of beauty in a starched white uniform, blonde curls, tits that bounced perkily as she walked across the room, and a cute button nose that wrinkled in amusement as she realized what he was up to.
"You're supposed to be resting," she admonished, checking that his IV drip hadn't been pulled free.
Giving her the full benefit of the Dean Winchester grin, he would have followed through with a nonchalant shrug, but partway into the movement his shoulders violently complained, and so he settled for a waggle of the eyebrows. "I had an itch," he said. "But I'm having a bit of a problem scratching it."
A glint of teeth as she smiled and reached to pull back the blanket. "Well, I suppose you aren't supposed to put any unnecessary strain on your injuries..."
Dean's grin widened and he lay back against the pillows, happily relinquishing his hold on his dick.
3.
Stacey. The nurse's name was Stacey, and she lived in a one-bedroom apartment a couple of blocks from the hospital.
It was a bit frilly for Dean's taste, lots of pink and lacy cushions, but he wasn't planning on hanging around long enough to really care. A few more days and he and Sam would be heading to Fresno where there had been official reports of missing kids, and some not-so-official rumors about a two-headed monster. It sounded just like their kind of gig, and Dean really needed to get back into the game before he went nuts.
Speaking of nuts, his were currently being fondled by Nurse Stacey. He stretched back into her perfumed pillows, lying in her bed, bandages white and tight around his chest and across his shoulders. He felt like a mummified corpse, and from the enthusiasm she was showing towards her current job in hand, it was obvious she was feeling equally uninspired.
She took hold of his dick and started to stroke, but her grip was too tight, her skin was too dry, and the rings on her fingers pinched at his sensitive flesh.
He bit his lip, trying to concentrate on the fact that a hot woman was voluntarily giving him a hand job, and he hadn't even had to ask for it. But even the legendary Dean Winchester sex drive had its limits, and he could feel his dick start to droop, failing under the amateur fondling.
With a growl of frustration, he pushed her hand out of the way, taking a good hold with his sweat-moistened hand and flicking his wrist up and down with the sureness of years of dedicated practice.
Moments later he was coming, head pushing back into the pillows, and a name falling from his lips.
And it wasn't "Stacey".
4.
Godammit. It hurt.
The door slammed resolutely shut behind him, but he ignored it, far too busy holding a hand protectively over his dick and balls, his face screwed up in pain.
Once his vision had resolved back into Technicolor, he gingerly bent down to retrieve his shoe, the one that had caused such significant agony when it had been thrown directly at his balls.
He could imagine what Sam's reaction would be when he heard the edited version of events. His shaggy haired little brother would try not to laugh, it would flicker around his mouth and eyes as his habitual politeness prevailed, and then he would remember who he was talking to and he'd tip his head back and let rip, eyes sparkling with amusement at the thought of his older brother's misfortune.
And Dean would pretend to be offended.
5.
He'd been right about Sam's reaction. Irritatingly right, to the point where he'd threatened to waste his little brother's precious laptop if he didn't shut the hell up.
Lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, he could hear soft snores coming from the other bed, and he turned his head to look at his sleeping sibling, visible in the glow of the outside lights shining through the threadbare motel-room curtains.
Sam had wrestled his way out of the blankets, far too many gangling limbs even for a decent-sized double bed. He lay on his back; one long leg dangling over the edge, t-shirt rucked up to his chest, and shorts barely concealing his not-insignificant assets.
Dean guiltily dragged his eyes away, looking instead at Sam's face which seemed flushed and damp, eyes moving restlessly under closed lids as his brow furrowed.
One arm was flung back above his head, the hand holding onto the edge of the pillow, his fist clenching and unclenching as he reacted to his dreams.
And the dream must have been good. The shorts were growing significantly tighter, and even in sleep, the younger Winchester's other hand headed straight for the straining material.
In his own bed, Dean squeezed his eyes closed, and felt slightly sick with the wrongness of it all as he felt his own body reacting. It was Sam. His brother. Sam.
He tried to think of something - laundry, Cheerios, Oprah, Bobby - anything to stop his mind from focusing on the vision of Sam, sweating and hot, jerking off only feet away from his bed.
There were soft sleepy groans and pants, and Dean's hand found his dick of its own accord, moving in time to Sam's rhythmic breaths.
Fast and hard, Dean came, splattering the sheets with sticky fluid and unable to bite back the exhalation of his brother's name as the final spurt shot onto the bed.
He collapsed back, exhausted, and only then realized that the room was deathly quiet.
With a growing sense of dread, he blinked his eyes open and looked over to Sam's bed.
Sam was staring at him, eyes wide but unreadable, his face half-hidden in shadow.
6.
Dean's dick was reveling in its current confinement, caught in a warm, calloused hand that slid up and down with sure movements, touching with the right amount of pressure, and tightening at just the right spots.
Dean would have wholeheartedly agreed with his dick's assessment if he'd been in any kind of state to think. His hands were twisted in the sheets above his head, held in place by an enormous hand encircling his wrists, pushing them against the mattress as its partner continued its work down below.
Eyes tightly closed, caught in the grip of excruciating pleasure, Dean cursed and gasped and begged, desperate for release. He wanted to come, he wanted to touch, he wanted to…
The hand stilled, and he almost cried with the cruelty of it, a soft, "Please," escaping his lips.
"Look at me, Dean," the owner of the hand ordered, and after a few moments Dean reluctantly opened his eyes and stared at up Sam. His brother. Sam.
He started to tug half-heartedly at Sam's hold, his dick wilting in Sam's grip as his eyes grew wide, and panicked. "Sam, this... This is..."
Sam frowned and shifted his body closer, letting him feel his warmth, and the hardness of his own dick pressing against his thigh.
"It's okay," Sam said. "This is okay." He leaned closer and whispered, "This is what I want."
And suddenly Dean was rock hard and straining, filling Sam's hand; and Sam stroked once, twice, and grinned like a kid at Christmas as his brother came, screaming his name.
He released Dean's wrists and propped his head on his hand, looking down at his satiated brother and idly tracing a finger though the hot dampness on Dean's belly. He paused, thinking, and then trailed the fingers back down to tap lightly on the tip of his brother's sensitive flesh.
"Mine," he said. "This is off limits to anyone else."
Dean's eyebrows lifted, looking up at his brother through half-closed eyes. "But what about...?" He jiggled his own hand. "Y'know..."
Sam shrugged. "I think there are better things you could be doing with that," he said, looking pointedly down at his own body.
Dean grinned, eyes opening in anticipation. "Ah... Right." He paused. "Now?"
Sam rolled his eyes.
Dean didn't need any further encouragement. He had years of practice after all, an image to maintain, and a hand that was now lacking ready access to a dick.
And it sure as hells beat cleaning guns.