Behind the closed door I. Sam. R
Title: Behind the closed door I
Author: Vesta
Pairing: Lonesome Sam
Rating: R
Category: PWP. UST
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't own, don't sue.
Feedback: Yes, please, if you would be so kind.
Summary: Sam takes a moment alone while Dean cleans the guns.
Notes: MMoM. This is for now unbetad. Mind your eyes and beware of grammatical horrors. Companion piece to Behind the closed door II
There are those moments, just before he comes, when he can almost feel Dean's hands on him. He has watched Dean so many times, millions of hours, seen him clean the guns, sharpen the knives. There is such delicacy in his movements, such surety. Firm, but still careful. Just as those times he's seen Dean handle women. Heard him.
He grips himself harder, touches his thumb under the head of his cock. He's leaking, all wet, he's been at it for a while now. Dean is just outside, cleaning those damned guns again. He slips two fingers in his mouth, gets them wet, rubs them over his dick to get the wetness from there too. He needs something, anything, even the pain in his ass from fingers pushed in too fast.
Dean doesn't know, but he has watched him. Watched him through the window. Seen him with woman after woman. Dean doesn't know, or care, that the Impala is like an open stage. He takes them in the backseat, makes them ride him, or nails them against the hood.
He knows what Dean does, and he wants it for himself. Sometimes at night, he's watching again. Listening at Dean touching himself. Imagining what it would be like to have those hands on himself. Just as he is now, leaning against the door to the room he shares with Dean.
Dean could come knocking any minute, any second. He pushes his fingers in further, past the second knuckle. The position is awkward and his wrist begins to hurt. But it's worth it, it could be Dean's fingers. Dean's hand on him, stroking fast and sure. He speeds up a little, bends his knees and spreads his legs. The door is getting warm against his cheek, and he thinks that it must be because Dean is behind him, getting him ready. He pulls his fingers out and spits in his hand, spreads it around his hole before shoving his fingers back in.
It still hurts a little, but mostly it's a sweet pressure. He wonders what it would feel like, to be fucked for real. To have a dick, Dean's dick, moving inside him instead of fingers. He tries to keep his voice down but a low moan escapes anyway. His right hand glides faster over his cock, twisting a little at the head, pulls up and squeezes lightly. He rides back on his other hand, aching wrist and all. He wants so bad, wants to be put on his belly, ass in the air. Naked and open. Ready. Anything.
He barely contains the wail slipping from him when he begins to come all over his hand and the door. Phantom hands pulls at him, jerks him through the spasms, phantom fingers fuck deeper into him, spreads him. His ass feels split wide, trying to clench but held open by those fingers. He almost, like a sense memory, feels teeth bite at his neck. Dean would bite him, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to keep him down while he finished.
The ache in his wrist brings him back, that and the doorknob pressing into his stomach. There is a mess on the door, he needs to clean that up. He pulls his fingers from his ass, wincing now when he's done. Oversensitive.
On wobbly legs he walks over the bathroom, grabs a towel and cleans up. The door too. He knows that Dean must have heard him at some point. Dean will laugh at him, and tease him for it when he walks out to sit on the couch again. It doesn't matter. Dean will never know what had him making those sounds.
Author: Vesta
Pairing: Lonesome Sam
Rating: R
Category: PWP. UST
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't own, don't sue.
Feedback: Yes, please, if you would be so kind.
Summary: Sam takes a moment alone while Dean cleans the guns.
Notes: MMoM. This is for now unbetad. Mind your eyes and beware of grammatical horrors. Companion piece to Behind the closed door II
There are those moments, just before he comes, when he can almost feel Dean's hands on him. He has watched Dean so many times, millions of hours, seen him clean the guns, sharpen the knives. There is such delicacy in his movements, such surety. Firm, but still careful. Just as those times he's seen Dean handle women. Heard him.
He grips himself harder, touches his thumb under the head of his cock. He's leaking, all wet, he's been at it for a while now. Dean is just outside, cleaning those damned guns again. He slips two fingers in his mouth, gets them wet, rubs them over his dick to get the wetness from there too. He needs something, anything, even the pain in his ass from fingers pushed in too fast.
Dean doesn't know, but he has watched him. Watched him through the window. Seen him with woman after woman. Dean doesn't know, or care, that the Impala is like an open stage. He takes them in the backseat, makes them ride him, or nails them against the hood.
He knows what Dean does, and he wants it for himself. Sometimes at night, he's watching again. Listening at Dean touching himself. Imagining what it would be like to have those hands on himself. Just as he is now, leaning against the door to the room he shares with Dean.
Dean could come knocking any minute, any second. He pushes his fingers in further, past the second knuckle. The position is awkward and his wrist begins to hurt. But it's worth it, it could be Dean's fingers. Dean's hand on him, stroking fast and sure. He speeds up a little, bends his knees and spreads his legs. The door is getting warm against his cheek, and he thinks that it must be because Dean is behind him, getting him ready. He pulls his fingers out and spits in his hand, spreads it around his hole before shoving his fingers back in.
It still hurts a little, but mostly it's a sweet pressure. He wonders what it would feel like, to be fucked for real. To have a dick, Dean's dick, moving inside him instead of fingers. He tries to keep his voice down but a low moan escapes anyway. His right hand glides faster over his cock, twisting a little at the head, pulls up and squeezes lightly. He rides back on his other hand, aching wrist and all. He wants so bad, wants to be put on his belly, ass in the air. Naked and open. Ready. Anything.
He barely contains the wail slipping from him when he begins to come all over his hand and the door. Phantom hands pulls at him, jerks him through the spasms, phantom fingers fuck deeper into him, spreads him. His ass feels split wide, trying to clench but held open by those fingers. He almost, like a sense memory, feels teeth bite at his neck. Dean would bite him, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to keep him down while he finished.
The ache in his wrist brings him back, that and the doorknob pressing into his stomach. There is a mess on the door, he needs to clean that up. He pulls his fingers from his ass, wincing now when he's done. Oversensitive.
On wobbly legs he walks over the bathroom, grabs a towel and cleans up. The door too. He knows that Dean must have heard him at some point. Dean will laugh at him, and tease him for it when he walks out to sit on the couch again. It doesn't matter. Dean will never know what had him making those sounds.