FIC - Vegas Week (birthday fic for bewaretheides15)
title: Vegas Week
pairing: Sam/Dean
rating:NC-17
summary: What happens in Vegas, yeah, you know the rest.
A/N: for bewaretheides15, because it’s her birthday, and I remember one time she said she might like to see some Vegas Week fic, so here. It’s a teeny little ficlet, and I wish I could give you more but I’m intimidated to write porn for the Olympic Gold Medalist for Wincest Porn, to be honest. Happy birthday and thank you from the bottom of my heart for all of the wonderful stories you’ve shared here.
They found themselves there again, that time of year, the Impala eating up miles of highway on her journey to take the brothers to their intended destination.
West.
Go west, this and more we’ll do
No no no, Sam had to keep his giggle under control, he couldn’t help it, those ridiculous Village People lyrics popping into his head. Dean would have knocked out a couple of his teeth if he’d let on. He wouldn’t even give Sam a chance to make a joke about which one of them should be the biker dude, Sam was certain of that, there would just be teeth, out of his mouth, where they did not belong. So he shut up.
They didn’t talk about it. Ever. Hell, the first time they did Vegas week, years ago, nothing had even happened, nothing like that. Well, almost, the thought was there but neither of them had acted on it beyond a few too-intense glances and too-lingering touches.
It was enough, though, that they’d decided to make a yearly tradition of it. That second trip was different. Yeah, they’d both gotten wasted almost beyond the ability to stand upright for longer than thirty seconds at a time, but they’d done it on purpose. Dean and Sam both knew, the desire was there, lurking just under the surface, and figured what the hell, if we’re both completely fucking hammered, we can just blow it off the next day and returned to Status Quo.
(Status Quo; defined as “yeah, I want to fuck you and you want to fuck me but we’re brothers and that’s kinda fucked up, even for us, so we’re going to ignore it.)
They stumbled back to their room, Dean hyped up on his winnings at the roulette wheel, Sam glassy-eyed from staring at slot machines for hours. Just drunk enough that they could let things happen, not too drunk to make things happen. It’s not like they hadn’t both suffered the effects of whiskey-dick in the past, with other partners, so they knew better.
Clumsy kissing and awkward touches ensued. Stumbling onto one of the beds in their room, neither of them were entirely sure how to proceed so they just started peeling off their own clothes until they were lying down, skin on skin, heat like a fucking (no, not like a house on fire, shut up about a house on fire, Sam) something else that wasn’t a fire, but still incredibly hot. No sex, though, not that first time, well, second, really, first time they went to bed but second time they went to Vegas. Jerking each other off, Dean rutting against Sam when they woke in the middle of the night, both of them coming again just from the friction.
So yeah, that time, no sex. Also, no discussion. The week ended, they went back to saving people, hunting things, being brothers.
Fall came around again, and without any girly shit or sharing of feelings, Dean pointed the car back in a westerly direction, and Vegas Week Number Three was underway.
This time, there was sex. Tender sex, rough sex, Dean riding Sam’s cock on the floor of the hotel room, Sam bent and shaking and scrambling to hold on to the wall as Dean fucked into him from behind, whispering words like ‘whore’ and ‘bitch’ and ‘slut’ into his ear the whole time.
They drank and gambled, too.
And they didn’t talk about it.
They never did.
They just kept going back every year. Taking what they wanted, then returning to status quo (see definition above).
And planning next year’s trip to Vegas.
I love you, I know you love me; I want you happy and carefree.
So that's why I have no protest when you say you want to go west.
pairing: Sam/Dean
rating:NC-17
summary: What happens in Vegas, yeah, you know the rest.
A/N: for bewaretheides15, because it’s her birthday, and I remember one time she said she might like to see some Vegas Week fic, so here. It’s a teeny little ficlet, and I wish I could give you more but I’m intimidated to write porn for the Olympic Gold Medalist for Wincest Porn, to be honest. Happy birthday and thank you from the bottom of my heart for all of the wonderful stories you’ve shared here.
They found themselves there again, that time of year, the Impala eating up miles of highway on her journey to take the brothers to their intended destination.
West.
Go west, this and more we’ll do
No no no, Sam had to keep his giggle under control, he couldn’t help it, those ridiculous Village People lyrics popping into his head. Dean would have knocked out a couple of his teeth if he’d let on. He wouldn’t even give Sam a chance to make a joke about which one of them should be the biker dude, Sam was certain of that, there would just be teeth, out of his mouth, where they did not belong. So he shut up.
They didn’t talk about it. Ever. Hell, the first time they did Vegas week, years ago, nothing had even happened, nothing like that. Well, almost, the thought was there but neither of them had acted on it beyond a few too-intense glances and too-lingering touches.
It was enough, though, that they’d decided to make a yearly tradition of it. That second trip was different. Yeah, they’d both gotten wasted almost beyond the ability to stand upright for longer than thirty seconds at a time, but they’d done it on purpose. Dean and Sam both knew, the desire was there, lurking just under the surface, and figured what the hell, if we’re both completely fucking hammered, we can just blow it off the next day and returned to Status Quo.
(Status Quo; defined as “yeah, I want to fuck you and you want to fuck me but we’re brothers and that’s kinda fucked up, even for us, so we’re going to ignore it.)
They stumbled back to their room, Dean hyped up on his winnings at the roulette wheel, Sam glassy-eyed from staring at slot machines for hours. Just drunk enough that they could let things happen, not too drunk to make things happen. It’s not like they hadn’t both suffered the effects of whiskey-dick in the past, with other partners, so they knew better.
Clumsy kissing and awkward touches ensued. Stumbling onto one of the beds in their room, neither of them were entirely sure how to proceed so they just started peeling off their own clothes until they were lying down, skin on skin, heat like a fucking (no, not like a house on fire, shut up about a house on fire, Sam) something else that wasn’t a fire, but still incredibly hot. No sex, though, not that first time, well, second, really, first time they went to bed but second time they went to Vegas. Jerking each other off, Dean rutting against Sam when they woke in the middle of the night, both of them coming again just from the friction.
So yeah, that time, no sex. Also, no discussion. The week ended, they went back to saving people, hunting things, being brothers.
Fall came around again, and without any girly shit or sharing of feelings, Dean pointed the car back in a westerly direction, and Vegas Week Number Three was underway.
This time, there was sex. Tender sex, rough sex, Dean riding Sam’s cock on the floor of the hotel room, Sam bent and shaking and scrambling to hold on to the wall as Dean fucked into him from behind, whispering words like ‘whore’ and ‘bitch’ and ‘slut’ into his ear the whole time.
They drank and gambled, too.
And they didn’t talk about it.
They never did.
They just kept going back every year. Taking what they wanted, then returning to status quo (see definition above).
And planning next year’s trip to Vegas.
I love you, I know you love me; I want you happy and carefree.
So that's why I have no protest when you say you want to go west.