Boys in a Junkyard (preseries Wincest smut PWP)
This has been a WIP for not too long - the premise of the story has always stayed with me - but it certainly would not be posted here already if not for whereupon, who has found the most useful means of getting me to write and finish things ever (i.e., bribing me with her own words). She is especially to be credited here for not only motivating me to revise and finish it (and raise the quality along the way), but betaing it, and finally helping me find a respectable title that better indicates the quality of the fic.
Title: Boys in a Junkyard
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word count: 1,003
Spoilers: none; preseries
Summary: So, the title for this was very nearly "Blowjobs in Bobby's Junkyard." And if it had been, the summary would have just been "What it says on the tin." Also, no angst to be found! That really threw me off.
Beta credit: whereupon, who is too gorgeous and talented for words. ♥ All remaining mistakes and weirdness are my own.
Boys in a Junkyard
No moon shone over Bobby's junkyard that night. Only stars broke the black dome, tiny pinpricks of light not nearly enough to illuminate anything going on below.
Yellow light shone out the windows of Bobby's kitchen, where he and John Winchester sat up drinking. Neither one cared that John's sons were out of bed. The Winchesters had arrived that afternoon, bone-tired and nearly stupid from at least three different sorts of shock. Another close call, but closer than usual, since they hadn't learned the monster they were hunting had had a brood since last spotted, and Dean had thrown himself at them, hollering and leading them in a chase to give his father and brother time to pull back to safer ground with a clearer shot. Gotten away by the skin of his neck, John said, and Sam said nothing at all.
Across the junkyard, out of hearing and sight, Sam gripped Dean's hips, holding him immovable with his large hands, stronger than Dean expected. Sam wasn't letting him go, and his eyes were dark, pupils and irises lost together in the night. Times like this - more and more lately, when Sam was angry or during a hunt - he wasn’t the kid Dean had raised, the one he was so used to pushing around. Yeah, he was still Sammy, whom Dean knew better than his palm or the Impala’s engine or anything else in his life; but he was also a force to be reckoned with too, one neither he nor John could easily push aside.
Sam attacked Dean's mouth with a ferocity that Dean didn't usually succumb to, but he didn’t have it in him to match it that night. He let Sam do this, take this, prove whatever he needed to. Dean still had body weight and leverage on his side, and he eased forward with a murmur in his throat (I’m here, you got me, not going anywhere), pushing Sam back against the car behind him, legs splayed open on either side of Sam's, knees trapping him and groins pressed together.
But Sam wasn't satisfied. One hand shoved space between them to tug open Dean's buckle and fly, and then with a last bite at Dean's lips, Sam was sliding down to his knees, graceful in the way he'd suddenly become in the last six months, in at least some things. Like going to his knees for his brother.
Dean braced his arms on the hood of a twenty-year-old Buick, breathing loud to his own ears as Sam knelt in front of him, in his shadow, working to take Dean's whole length into his mouth. No preamble or teasing. Sam's mouth was determined, relentless; he gripped the backs of Dean's thighs, holding him there as he bobbed, pulling in a little more each time. Dean's night vision was good enough for this, to see his brother's head swallowing his dick.
He groaned and swore between his teeth, reaching with one hand to palm the back of Sam's head, locking his hair between his fingers and following the motion. Yeah, baby boy, you got me now -
Sam moaned in turn, the vibration going through Dean's dick, making him jerk and clench harder on Sam's head. Sam whimpered, his pace slowing even as his tongue kept rubbing the underside of his cock, and Dean understood. He drew his thumb down the side of Sam's cheek, under his jaw, whispering, "God, Sammy, fucking amazing," and started to rock forward in slow thrusts, into his brother’s mouth.
Groaning in appreciation, Sam squeezed Dean's thighs, and Dean let go a little more, trusting his body to know what Sam could take, not to hurt him, to react the moment Sam’s body signaled it was too much.
Sam never did, though. He was braced, steady, iron will and lust for every inch, God his little brother, and Dean shuddered and came hard, deep, shooting down Sam's throat with his hand still clenched on the back of his head. Sam groaned again, unspoken yes, swallowing continuously around Dean's head, making him jerk harder and longer. Dean expelled his breath, leaning his forehead against his arm on the Buick until he felt drained and still, and pulled out slowly from Sam's mouth.
Sam was panting louder than Dean, gasping for breath, but he sagged against the inside of Dean's thigh, messy hair nearly brushing Dean's moist, softening dick. He was younger then, more of the kid Dean spent nearly every waking moment of his life with, and Dean closed his eyes as he stroked his fingers through Sam’s soft hair. After a moment, Sam gave a quick lick over his head and shaft that made Dean’s whole body twitch, and Sam laughed softly.
“Bitch,” Dean muttered, twisting his hand in Sam's hair and pulling him to his feet. Sam’s height still surprised him, but Dean could make it work, especially when he had Sam’s mouth right there to kiss, and now he could be the one aggressive and claiming. Sam was lax against him, like he’d gotten what he wanted, but his dick was firm and jutting up, ready to meet his hand, when Dean got his jeans open. Dean kept him pinned, biting at his throat and whispering dirty phrases in Sam’s ear, the better to hear him pant and hiss curses back, until he came hot and messy in Dean’s hand.
Dean licked his palm clean, then into Sam’s mouth again, until they both tasted the same. This was good; this was him and Sam, just the two of them in the night, the way it should be. He had Sam loose and easy now against him, hands roaming his back and breath gusting hot over his face, and Dean knew that whatever the bitches of fate threw at them, nothing could change this.
Title: Boys in a Junkyard
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word count: 1,003
Spoilers: none; preseries
Summary: So, the title for this was very nearly "Blowjobs in Bobby's Junkyard." And if it had been, the summary would have just been "What it says on the tin." Also, no angst to be found! That really threw me off.
Beta credit: whereupon, who is too gorgeous and talented for words. ♥ All remaining mistakes and weirdness are my own.
Boys in a Junkyard
No moon shone over Bobby's junkyard that night. Only stars broke the black dome, tiny pinpricks of light not nearly enough to illuminate anything going on below.
Yellow light shone out the windows of Bobby's kitchen, where he and John Winchester sat up drinking. Neither one cared that John's sons were out of bed. The Winchesters had arrived that afternoon, bone-tired and nearly stupid from at least three different sorts of shock. Another close call, but closer than usual, since they hadn't learned the monster they were hunting had had a brood since last spotted, and Dean had thrown himself at them, hollering and leading them in a chase to give his father and brother time to pull back to safer ground with a clearer shot. Gotten away by the skin of his neck, John said, and Sam said nothing at all.
Across the junkyard, out of hearing and sight, Sam gripped Dean's hips, holding him immovable with his large hands, stronger than Dean expected. Sam wasn't letting him go, and his eyes were dark, pupils and irises lost together in the night. Times like this - more and more lately, when Sam was angry or during a hunt - he wasn’t the kid Dean had raised, the one he was so used to pushing around. Yeah, he was still Sammy, whom Dean knew better than his palm or the Impala’s engine or anything else in his life; but he was also a force to be reckoned with too, one neither he nor John could easily push aside.
Sam attacked Dean's mouth with a ferocity that Dean didn't usually succumb to, but he didn’t have it in him to match it that night. He let Sam do this, take this, prove whatever he needed to. Dean still had body weight and leverage on his side, and he eased forward with a murmur in his throat (I’m here, you got me, not going anywhere), pushing Sam back against the car behind him, legs splayed open on either side of Sam's, knees trapping him and groins pressed together.
But Sam wasn't satisfied. One hand shoved space between them to tug open Dean's buckle and fly, and then with a last bite at Dean's lips, Sam was sliding down to his knees, graceful in the way he'd suddenly become in the last six months, in at least some things. Like going to his knees for his brother.
Dean braced his arms on the hood of a twenty-year-old Buick, breathing loud to his own ears as Sam knelt in front of him, in his shadow, working to take Dean's whole length into his mouth. No preamble or teasing. Sam's mouth was determined, relentless; he gripped the backs of Dean's thighs, holding him there as he bobbed, pulling in a little more each time. Dean's night vision was good enough for this, to see his brother's head swallowing his dick.
He groaned and swore between his teeth, reaching with one hand to palm the back of Sam's head, locking his hair between his fingers and following the motion. Yeah, baby boy, you got me now -
Sam moaned in turn, the vibration going through Dean's dick, making him jerk and clench harder on Sam's head. Sam whimpered, his pace slowing even as his tongue kept rubbing the underside of his cock, and Dean understood. He drew his thumb down the side of Sam's cheek, under his jaw, whispering, "God, Sammy, fucking amazing," and started to rock forward in slow thrusts, into his brother’s mouth.
Groaning in appreciation, Sam squeezed Dean's thighs, and Dean let go a little more, trusting his body to know what Sam could take, not to hurt him, to react the moment Sam’s body signaled it was too much.
Sam never did, though. He was braced, steady, iron will and lust for every inch, God his little brother, and Dean shuddered and came hard, deep, shooting down Sam's throat with his hand still clenched on the back of his head. Sam groaned again, unspoken yes, swallowing continuously around Dean's head, making him jerk harder and longer. Dean expelled his breath, leaning his forehead against his arm on the Buick until he felt drained and still, and pulled out slowly from Sam's mouth.
Sam was panting louder than Dean, gasping for breath, but he sagged against the inside of Dean's thigh, messy hair nearly brushing Dean's moist, softening dick. He was younger then, more of the kid Dean spent nearly every waking moment of his life with, and Dean closed his eyes as he stroked his fingers through Sam’s soft hair. After a moment, Sam gave a quick lick over his head and shaft that made Dean’s whole body twitch, and Sam laughed softly.
“Bitch,” Dean muttered, twisting his hand in Sam's hair and pulling him to his feet. Sam’s height still surprised him, but Dean could make it work, especially when he had Sam’s mouth right there to kiss, and now he could be the one aggressive and claiming. Sam was lax against him, like he’d gotten what he wanted, but his dick was firm and jutting up, ready to meet his hand, when Dean got his jeans open. Dean kept him pinned, biting at his throat and whispering dirty phrases in Sam’s ear, the better to hear him pant and hiss curses back, until he came hot and messy in Dean’s hand.
Dean licked his palm clean, then into Sam’s mouth again, until they both tasted the same. This was good; this was him and Sam, just the two of them in the night, the way it should be. He had Sam loose and easy now against him, hands roaming his back and breath gusting hot over his face, and Dean knew that whatever the bitches of fate threw at them, nothing could change this.