Crossover, Supernatural/Cry_Wolf: Transference
Title: Transference
Fandom: Supernatural/Cry_Wolf
Rating: Adult
Words: 239
Characters: Dean Winchester/Tom
Summary: Written for amara_m's December Comment Porn; prompt SPN/Cry_Wolf crossover, Dean/Tom; in Tom Dean can get something he never could with Sam
Disclaimer: Nobody here is mine. Dammit.
Tom is new money, spoiled and steeped in privilege and if he were a girl (if he didn't look like that) Dean wouldn't have had anything to do with him. Wouldn't have bought him drinks, or pressed up against his side at the bar, laughed in his ear or smiled that patented, Dean Winchester panty-dropping smile. He wouldn't be closing his teeth around the jut of Tom's shoulder now, or his fingers around Tom's hardening cock.
Tom is just enough like his brother to make Dean want him; just enough unlike Sam to convince Dean he can have him, that it's okay, that it's just sex.
"Oh... fuck yeah, right there." Tom's hips hitch upwards, closer, stuttering, and he fumbles at Dean's fly with long fingers. He reeks of whiskey, fucking single malt, and they haven't made it more than two feet past the door of the room. Dean can't decide if he wishes Tom sounded more like Sam, or less.
It stops mattering when Tom starts jacking him off, clumsy but enthusiastic and it's not perfect but it's enough to get Dean where he's going.
'To hell,' he thinks, and then stops thinking entirely. He mouths at Tom's throat, lips thrumming when Tom moans, and shoves away every memory of furtive, muffled noises in darkened hotel rooms. He hopes maybe if he fucks the man in front of him, he can forget the one who left him behind.
Fandom: Supernatural/Cry_Wolf
Rating: Adult
Words: 239
Characters: Dean Winchester/Tom
Summary: Written for amara_m's December Comment Porn; prompt SPN/Cry_Wolf crossover, Dean/Tom; in Tom Dean can get something he never could with Sam
Disclaimer: Nobody here is mine. Dammit.
Tom is new money, spoiled and steeped in privilege and if he were a girl (if he didn't look like that) Dean wouldn't have had anything to do with him. Wouldn't have bought him drinks, or pressed up against his side at the bar, laughed in his ear or smiled that patented, Dean Winchester panty-dropping smile. He wouldn't be closing his teeth around the jut of Tom's shoulder now, or his fingers around Tom's hardening cock.
Tom is just enough like his brother to make Dean want him; just enough unlike Sam to convince Dean he can have him, that it's okay, that it's just sex.
"Oh... fuck yeah, right there." Tom's hips hitch upwards, closer, stuttering, and he fumbles at Dean's fly with long fingers. He reeks of whiskey, fucking single malt, and they haven't made it more than two feet past the door of the room. Dean can't decide if he wishes Tom sounded more like Sam, or less.
It stops mattering when Tom starts jacking him off, clumsy but enthusiastic and it's not perfect but it's enough to get Dean where he's going.
'To hell,' he thinks, and then stops thinking entirely. He mouths at Tom's throat, lips thrumming when Tom moans, and shoves away every memory of furtive, muffled noises in darkened hotel rooms. He hopes maybe if he fucks the man in front of him, he can forget the one who left him behind.