Fic: "Here and Now" (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
Title: Here and Now
Pairing/Rating: Sam/Dean (Wincest alert!), NC-17 (PWP)
Word Count: 1,300
Warnings/Spoilers: Say through the end of Season 2, to be safe.
Read-through by: insomnia_geek; any errors remaining are my own.
Summary/Notes: Written for xxshow_girlxx in thanks for a beta job, and posted now to celebrate crazyjoyfulgirl's return. I smish both of you! This story is about sex on the Impala after two weeks of doing without, and… yeah, that's pretty much it. Enjoy!
Hot night, fucking hot night, no air-conditioning, no fans, ninety degrees at midnight and not a breath of wind from the west to the east. Sweat beading on his forehead, his upper lip, under his arms, in his crotch. No way he can sleep when he's this hot. Can't breathe, can't rest, can't think, don't want to move. Can't strip down all the way, not in Bobby's house, that'd just be too weird, yeah?
Means, too, that while he and Sam are licking their wounds under Bobby's watchful eye, he can't do what he really wants to wind down enough to fall asleep. Two weeks, man, 's been two weeks and he's gonna explode, swear to God. Bobby doesn't know -- couldn't possibly -- but that doesn't make him any less wary around Sam and Dean because that's what smart men do when they're within arm's reach of a Winchester.
Fourteen days of watching Sam, piercing his palms with his nails until he bit them all down to the quick, not letting himself look too hard at tight ass, million-mile-long legs, bear-paw-size hands; not letting himself think about pushing his way one hard shove at a time in that ass until it was stretched wide, swollen, obscene around his dick; not letting himself think about those legs bracketing his own from behind, Sam's weight pinning him down; or thinking about Sam's hand jacking him off rough/fast/dirty, trash-talking, filthybadwrong vows and oh, God, he's gotta jerk off or die.
His dick's eager and ready, twitching impatiently in his hand, but goddammit if he can't stop wishing it was Sam's fingers on him, thumbing underneath, squeezing until the slit went "o"-shaped, licking inside, and fuuuuuck. Turning back the rush at its highest peak, that hurts like a son of a bitch, but know what? He's done with this.
Up and at 'em, no shoes on his bare feet, no shirt on his bare chest, just a pair of boxers rescued from the floor, stained and sticky with the engine grease he wiped off his hands earlier, oil smudgy-dark on his thighs like bruises. Sneaking out, careful of the floorboards that creak, making it past Bobby's bedroom door no sweat; damn, he'd have tried this long ago if he'd thought he had a chance of getting away with it. They could have had two weeks' worth of fun --
Tap, tap, tap on the door to the room where Bobby keeps his best books. Sam's camped out there since they arrived, sleeping on a mess of cushions and blankets since there's no bed long enough or wide enough here to fit him. Sam doesn't answer, so after enough waiting to get impatient Dean cracks the door open on his own and takes a careful scan of the darkness inside. Empty darkness.
Fuck. Dean checks it all out, still quiet, still careful, less horny than wary, slightly disturbingly turned on to think of this as hunting. He finds half of a torn envelope under Sam's pillow, his name scribbled on the address side and on the back, meet me outside.
"Sammy, Sammy, you're makin' me proud," Dean murmurs, stuffing the envelope back where he found it and back in the game, enjoying himself still more even if it does look like Sam's a couple moves ahead already.
Creeps outside, sees nothing at first, gets worried. "Sam?" he hisses, peering about. "Sam, you out here?"
No answer, and he's starting to freak out now. "Sam!"
"Shhh," comes a whisper of sound from his left and to an angle; Dean pinpoints and turns, ready to fight.
Stops. Stares. Mouth dry, tongue swelling, dick painful in its heaviness. Grabs it and squeezes hard at the base, 'cause he's not coming now, no way.
He sees: Sam, fucking sexy as sin, bare-ass naked, on the hood of the Impala. Long, bare brown legs sprawled over her glossy black metal, feet dangling over the sides. His back draped up and over the windshield, his head tipped back to rest on the top of the car. No clothes on him, none at all.
Hand fisted around the thick length of his dick, dragging up and down nice and slow, breathing in ragged jerks in time with his tugs; his eyes are closed, his jaw clenched.
Dean's skin is too tight for him. He's gonna pop. Too hot. He'll split open and disappear right here in the junkyard, no coming back.
"Sammy," he breathes, too stunned to move. At first.
Sam smiles, thin and forced, not slowing down, not once, spine arching, throat curving, hips rising. "Get over here," he grits out, "before you're too late. Thought you'd never --"
But Dean's already there, dangers of sprinting barefoot through the scrap yard be damned, second nature to sense anything he should avoid, going straight for the biggest one of all, following his first nature to go where Sam is. "Fuck," he's babbling, over and over again, running together, climbing on the hood between Sam's legs, knocking Sam's hand off, replacing it with his own, pumping with no mercy.
Sam bites him when Dean forces his tongue between Sam's tension-tight lips; he backs away with copper sharp on his palate and jerks down his boxers. Kicks them off behind him and trades bite for bite, passing blood and lust from mouth to mouth, trading off hands and sucking their fingers, sticky-wet from rough squeezes of each other's dicks, Sam's tongue feathering between the digits until he shudders to a halt. "Stop, fuck, Sam, stop."
"No." Sam surges up, carrying Dean with him; Dean's straddling his lap now, Sam kneading his ass bruise-ruthless. "No stopping. Here."
He moves again, tipping Dean on his back, head down, blood rushing to his brain. Laughs at Dean's growl of displeasure, tumbles them around careful, fast, way too effortless, and now Dean's still on his back but not fighting gravity, and Sam's the one straddling him. His hand's on Dean's cock, working it filthy-slow, his eyelids heavy and dark with nasty thoughts.
"Here," Sam says again, catching Dean by the wrist when Dean reaches for him, manhandling him as he likes, pushing Dean's hand between his legs and directing him on a no-detours path, where he finds:
Slickness. Puffy flesh, already abused. Slipperiness long since warmed to body heat. Two fingers in, no resistance at all, three and a stretch, crook them just right and Sam strangles on his moan, choking it thickly down.
"God, you sick bastard," Dean breathes, everything too much, too awesome, high, insane, out of his mind, turned on like fuck. "Let me."
"About time," Sam shoots back, curt. He lifts up, knocks Dean's hand aside now, angling the way he likes it. Sinks down, swallowing Dean, greedy, hissing, chest heaving.
Frozen for a beat of time, not enough air in his lungs, too much hot pressure on his dick, heart pounding loud in his ears.
Sam moves, Dean gasps, grits his teeth, moves with him. No mercy, no gentleness. Thrust up meets thrust down, balls slapping ass, hushed curses spit out, bitten fingernails still scraping furrows down skin. Forcing Sam down, dragging him, eating at his mouth, pushing his tongue in and cleaning out the traces of spunk taste from earlier.
Biting his lip to keep from yelling when he white-knuckle-grips Sam's hips, slams up, comes hard. Gets splattered, sticky, hot, Sam's grip on his arm going to leave dark marks; he doesn't care.
Thick air too hot and dense to breathe, the smell of sex ripe in his nose, the Impala's hood sticking to his bare skin. Fingering Sam's hole still stretched around his dick, smearing his own come around as it leaks out, licking it off his fingers. Sam on his tongue. Sam on top of him, not letting him go anywhere, any way.
Hot night in South Dakota, fourteen days and change and no one knows; he wouldn't trade it for the world.
Pairing/Rating: Sam/Dean (Wincest alert!), NC-17 (PWP)
Word Count: 1,300
Warnings/Spoilers: Say through the end of Season 2, to be safe.
Read-through by: insomnia_geek; any errors remaining are my own.
Summary/Notes: Written for xxshow_girlxx in thanks for a beta job, and posted now to celebrate crazyjoyfulgirl's return. I smish both of you! This story is about sex on the Impala after two weeks of doing without, and… yeah, that's pretty much it. Enjoy!
Hot night, fucking hot night, no air-conditioning, no fans, ninety degrees at midnight and not a breath of wind from the west to the east. Sweat beading on his forehead, his upper lip, under his arms, in his crotch. No way he can sleep when he's this hot. Can't breathe, can't rest, can't think, don't want to move. Can't strip down all the way, not in Bobby's house, that'd just be too weird, yeah?
Means, too, that while he and Sam are licking their wounds under Bobby's watchful eye, he can't do what he really wants to wind down enough to fall asleep. Two weeks, man, 's been two weeks and he's gonna explode, swear to God. Bobby doesn't know -- couldn't possibly -- but that doesn't make him any less wary around Sam and Dean because that's what smart men do when they're within arm's reach of a Winchester.
Fourteen days of watching Sam, piercing his palms with his nails until he bit them all down to the quick, not letting himself look too hard at tight ass, million-mile-long legs, bear-paw-size hands; not letting himself think about pushing his way one hard shove at a time in that ass until it was stretched wide, swollen, obscene around his dick; not letting himself think about those legs bracketing his own from behind, Sam's weight pinning him down; or thinking about Sam's hand jacking him off rough/fast/dirty, trash-talking, filthybadwrong vows and oh, God, he's gotta jerk off or die.
His dick's eager and ready, twitching impatiently in his hand, but goddammit if he can't stop wishing it was Sam's fingers on him, thumbing underneath, squeezing until the slit went "o"-shaped, licking inside, and fuuuuuck. Turning back the rush at its highest peak, that hurts like a son of a bitch, but know what? He's done with this.
Up and at 'em, no shoes on his bare feet, no shirt on his bare chest, just a pair of boxers rescued from the floor, stained and sticky with the engine grease he wiped off his hands earlier, oil smudgy-dark on his thighs like bruises. Sneaking out, careful of the floorboards that creak, making it past Bobby's bedroom door no sweat; damn, he'd have tried this long ago if he'd thought he had a chance of getting away with it. They could have had two weeks' worth of fun --
Tap, tap, tap on the door to the room where Bobby keeps his best books. Sam's camped out there since they arrived, sleeping on a mess of cushions and blankets since there's no bed long enough or wide enough here to fit him. Sam doesn't answer, so after enough waiting to get impatient Dean cracks the door open on his own and takes a careful scan of the darkness inside. Empty darkness.
Fuck. Dean checks it all out, still quiet, still careful, less horny than wary, slightly disturbingly turned on to think of this as hunting. He finds half of a torn envelope under Sam's pillow, his name scribbled on the address side and on the back, meet me outside.
"Sammy, Sammy, you're makin' me proud," Dean murmurs, stuffing the envelope back where he found it and back in the game, enjoying himself still more even if it does look like Sam's a couple moves ahead already.
Creeps outside, sees nothing at first, gets worried. "Sam?" he hisses, peering about. "Sam, you out here?"
No answer, and he's starting to freak out now. "Sam!"
"Shhh," comes a whisper of sound from his left and to an angle; Dean pinpoints and turns, ready to fight.
Stops. Stares. Mouth dry, tongue swelling, dick painful in its heaviness. Grabs it and squeezes hard at the base, 'cause he's not coming now, no way.
He sees: Sam, fucking sexy as sin, bare-ass naked, on the hood of the Impala. Long, bare brown legs sprawled over her glossy black metal, feet dangling over the sides. His back draped up and over the windshield, his head tipped back to rest on the top of the car. No clothes on him, none at all.
Hand fisted around the thick length of his dick, dragging up and down nice and slow, breathing in ragged jerks in time with his tugs; his eyes are closed, his jaw clenched.
Dean's skin is too tight for him. He's gonna pop. Too hot. He'll split open and disappear right here in the junkyard, no coming back.
"Sammy," he breathes, too stunned to move. At first.
Sam smiles, thin and forced, not slowing down, not once, spine arching, throat curving, hips rising. "Get over here," he grits out, "before you're too late. Thought you'd never --"
But Dean's already there, dangers of sprinting barefoot through the scrap yard be damned, second nature to sense anything he should avoid, going straight for the biggest one of all, following his first nature to go where Sam is. "Fuck," he's babbling, over and over again, running together, climbing on the hood between Sam's legs, knocking Sam's hand off, replacing it with his own, pumping with no mercy.
Sam bites him when Dean forces his tongue between Sam's tension-tight lips; he backs away with copper sharp on his palate and jerks down his boxers. Kicks them off behind him and trades bite for bite, passing blood and lust from mouth to mouth, trading off hands and sucking their fingers, sticky-wet from rough squeezes of each other's dicks, Sam's tongue feathering between the digits until he shudders to a halt. "Stop, fuck, Sam, stop."
"No." Sam surges up, carrying Dean with him; Dean's straddling his lap now, Sam kneading his ass bruise-ruthless. "No stopping. Here."
He moves again, tipping Dean on his back, head down, blood rushing to his brain. Laughs at Dean's growl of displeasure, tumbles them around careful, fast, way too effortless, and now Dean's still on his back but not fighting gravity, and Sam's the one straddling him. His hand's on Dean's cock, working it filthy-slow, his eyelids heavy and dark with nasty thoughts.
"Here," Sam says again, catching Dean by the wrist when Dean reaches for him, manhandling him as he likes, pushing Dean's hand between his legs and directing him on a no-detours path, where he finds:
Slickness. Puffy flesh, already abused. Slipperiness long since warmed to body heat. Two fingers in, no resistance at all, three and a stretch, crook them just right and Sam strangles on his moan, choking it thickly down.
"God, you sick bastard," Dean breathes, everything too much, too awesome, high, insane, out of his mind, turned on like fuck. "Let me."
"About time," Sam shoots back, curt. He lifts up, knocks Dean's hand aside now, angling the way he likes it. Sinks down, swallowing Dean, greedy, hissing, chest heaving.
Frozen for a beat of time, not enough air in his lungs, too much hot pressure on his dick, heart pounding loud in his ears.
Sam moves, Dean gasps, grits his teeth, moves with him. No mercy, no gentleness. Thrust up meets thrust down, balls slapping ass, hushed curses spit out, bitten fingernails still scraping furrows down skin. Forcing Sam down, dragging him, eating at his mouth, pushing his tongue in and cleaning out the traces of spunk taste from earlier.
Biting his lip to keep from yelling when he white-knuckle-grips Sam's hips, slams up, comes hard. Gets splattered, sticky, hot, Sam's grip on his arm going to leave dark marks; he doesn't care.
Thick air too hot and dense to breathe, the smell of sex ripe in his nose, the Impala's hood sticking to his bare skin. Fingering Sam's hole still stretched around his dick, smearing his own come around as it leaks out, licking it off his fingers. Sam on his tongue. Sam on top of him, not letting him go anywhere, any way.
Hot night in South Dakota, fourteen days and change and no one knows; he wouldn't trade it for the world.