[Nym] Riding in the Midnight Blue (NC-17)
Title: Riding in the Midnight Blue
Author: nymeria
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Wincest
Word Count: 2,126
Betas: keepaofthecheez and txtequilanights, awesome and beautiful as they be. ♥
Notes: For poisontaster, as part of a fangirl conspiracy (see notes at the bottom)
"I hate this," Dean says, for the third time.
"I know," Sam replies distantly, engrossed in his book. Dean squirms, flicks the overhead light on and off. The TV screen in front of him flickers and he changes the channels a couple of times; news network, Disney film, eighties action flick, cheerleader movie. He settles on this, although he doesn't bother with the headphones, trying to concentrate on the small skirts. Besides him Sam turns a page. He's got the tip of his tongue poking out from between his lips, and Dean knows he's not even aware he's doing it.
"I hate this," he says again, because he thinks Sam ought to know.
"It's a forty-five minute flight, Dean," Sam points out. "It could be worse."
"Not really," Dean protests, sounding somewhat helpless and hating it. Sam sighs, looks up at the ceiling, and reaches out for the in-flight magazine, sticking it between the pages of his book as a kind of rudimentary bookmark. He puts it on the folded tray, next to the cheap plastic cup of coke.
"Dean," he says, gentling his voice like he's talking to a kid. Dean slouches in his seat. The cheerleaders on screen are doing some sort of pyramid formation, and he hopes they throw the blonde one with the green eye shadow up in the air, and also that they're thoughtful enough to provide a panty shot. Sam sighs, again, like Dean's some sort of chore and reaches out, placing his hand on Dean's thigh, slow and careful like Dean's made of glass, and wow, Dean doesn't need to be thinking about glass shattering from a great height right now. He really, really hates flying.
"I don't see why we couldn't've caught the train back," he grouses. "It got us out there in first place. And what the hell kind of ghost haunts a train, anyway?"
"Jonathan Parker, apparently," Sam replies, and risks a smile. Dean flicks his eyes sideward towards him, although he doesn't turn his head any. His baby brother has that look how charming I am, don't you want to do everything I say? smile on, and there's no way Dean's falling for it.
"Oh no. You're not gonna distract me, Sammy."
"No?" Sam asks, lifting his eyebrows, and grins, unbuckling his belt. He swipes his book off the tray and downs his cup, putting the empty container on Dean's, before folding the tray up. "Are you sure?"
"I've joined the mile-high club already, Sammy. How do you think I know I'm scared of flying?" He's aiming for bored, but he thinks he comes off terse instead, which? Sucks.
"I don't care," Sam purrs, and holy fuck, that was right in Dean's ear, all wet and low-pitched and breathy. Dean swallows.
"Lot harder to fit two guys in one of those bathrooms," he hisses, and Sam chuckles, actually chuckles.
Dean has enough time to realise that's not a good sign before Sam's stripping off his jacket, lying it over Dean's lap, and oh fuck. "Who said anything about bathrooms?" his brother asks innocently, hand dipping underneath the jacket to spider towards Dean's belt. His fingers are individual points of pressure on Dean's body, light and surprisingly sensual. Dean grits his teeth and dips his head, cock stirring despite himself.
"Sam," he says, voice thick in his throat, gritty with need. "Sam."
"I got you," Sam murmurs, and then the bastard pulls his book out of the pocket in front of him, splays it open with one hand and turns back to it even as his other thumbs Dean's belt buckle open. Dean gasps, then growls. His hands tighten on the armrest, knuckles whitening with tension.
"You're a prick," he says, "And I hate you."
"Mmm," Sam agrees, thumb stroking along a line of text, the fore-finger of his other hand sliding down slowly across the seam of Dean's jeans, tracing the heated swell of his dick. "I'm trying to think of a joke about pricks, but it's just not coming." He scrapes his nails back up, takes hold of Dean's zipper and tugs. Dean hisses sharply, hitting the back of his head against his seat in surprise. Sam grins, turns a page. His lips are moving; Dean leans over slightly to hear what he’s saying. "'Mr Shadwell's accent was unplaceable. It careered around Britain like a milk race,'" Sam says, and Dean fixes him a sceptical glare.
"Dude, what the fuck?" he hisses, and Sam glances up, fixes him with a beatific smile even as he carefully undoes the button of Dean's jeans.
"Good Omens," he says, as though that's supposed to clear things up. Dean's pretty sure it wouldn't even if his thoughts weren't currently somewhat downward-located. "'s a good book. You might like it."
"I hate you," Dean growls, and Sam gives one of those huge I'm so fantastically awesome grins that make Dean weak in the knees at the best of times, let alone now when Sam's this close to jacking him the fuck off.
"It's about this angel and this demon, right," Sam says, and finally gets the button undone. Dean stretches, flexes his hips. His brother makes no move to pull his jeans down, just looks back at his book. "And they have to prevent the apocalypse -"
"Forget the fucking book," Dean snarls and Sam laughs, finally - finally! - closing it.
"Okay," he says, and then, in a voice much lower and darker, "Lift your hips up."
"Gnrk," Dean manages, which mean 'fuck,' or 'okay,' or maybe even 'oh hell fucking yes'. Sam seems to understand regardless, sticking the book back in the pocket and turning sideways, leaning into Dean, close enough to touch the tip of his nose to the spot just under his ear, where his jawline starts. Dean swallows, tense, and tries not to gasp when Sam's other hand slips beneath the jacket, when Sam curls his fingers into the waistband of Dean's boxers. He moves with his brother when Sam pulls them down; grunts as his cock is freed from the confines of his jeans, pressing against the scratchy fabric of Sam's jacket.
"Mmm," Sam says, and licks the skin of Dean's throat. Just a little. More a lap than lick, really, but whatever it is, it's ridiculously hot, and Dean hisses, writhes. His balls ache and he really wishes Sam would just fucking touch him already, the douche.
"Sam," he growls, low and urgent. His brother licks him again, and then rests one hand over Dean's lower belly. His hand feels startlingly cold but not entirely uncomfortable - more familiar where it lies, thumb stroking back and forth over Dean's pubic bone, through the coarse hairs there.
"I wish I could blow you," Sam says, wistfully. "I guess that'll have to wait until we land."
"Hssgk," Dean replies. He doesn't know what that means. Sam exhales slowly and Dean risks another glance at his brother; Sam's eyes are narrowed, but he can tell that the pupils are blown, can see the familiar flush colouring Sam's cheeks. It helps him regain some of his control. "Huh," he says.
In response, Sam lowers his hand, fingers dusting over Dean's skin until he curls them around Dean's cock. His hand feels huge and welcome and so, so good; Dean squeezes his eyes closed, clutching at the arm rest, breathing in through his nose. Sam shifts, bumps his chin against Dean's cheek, kisses the spot between his eyebrows. Dean slits open an eye, glances down at his lap.
The jacket isn't doing a very good job of hiding anything, and that shouldn't be as hot as it is. Sam rubs his thumb back and forth, over the little nub just beneath the head; Dean turns, scraping his nose uncomfortably against Sam's face, trying to see his brother better. Sam backs off, somehow understanding without Dean saying a word; he looks like he's getting off on it, and that makes Dean's mouth curve up into a wicked slant of a grin, one that Sam responds to in kind.
"C'mon," Dean says, low and urgent. "Move. Sammy. C'mon."
Sam growls under his breath and slides his other hand under the jacket, groping his way across Dean's thighs. He releases Dean's shaft and skates his palm over the leaking head, smearing the fluids there down the length again. It's not the first handjob Sam's given, or even the hundredth. Sam curls his fingers slowly around the length of Dean's dick, the tip of his thumb rubbing along the vein on the underside, and Dean risks a glance to see Sam's face screwed up in his researching, don't interrupt look. He wishes he could mock Sam for it, but at the moment he's not entirely sure he can trust anything that comes out of his mouth; each pump, each tug, each slow glide of Sam's hand makes him want to melt into his baby brother, moan and gasp the way he deserves. One of the flight attendants walks straight past them, however, and he bites on his lip, clutches even harder at the arm rests. Sam leans in, laps at the line of his jaw again, licks his way along and up into Dean's mouth and bites down gently on his lower lip even as he carefully slides his free hand along, cupping Dean's balls in his palm.
Dean turns his head, manages to hiss "Sam," into his brother's ear. Sam hums under his breath, some nameless tune Dean thinks he ought to recognise, would recognise - save for the hand on his freaking cock, the fingers sliding up behind his balls. They rub against the sweet spot just - there, and he spreads his legs a little further apart, wriggles awkwardly in his seat; swallows and licks his lips. Sam strokes a forefinger along the base, palms his balls, scrapes the flat of a nail just over the little knot of nerves under the head; Dean whimpers and writhes.
It isn't until Sam shifts, too, and he looks sidewards and sees the uncomfortable-looking bulge in his brother's jeans that Dean begins to lose it; isn't until Sam nips at his earlobe and worries it, isn't until Sam pants the word "please," on a long note that he can't help himself. He can't hold out on the pleasure surging through him anymore; he screws his eyes shut and ducks his head, bites into his lip with the effort of not making a noise, and mentally screams his brother's name when he comes, hard, all over Sam's hands and his own jeans and the jacket.
Sam removes his hands while Dean's still coming down, wiping them clean almost absently on the jacket. He has a sharp, predatory look in his eyes. Above them, the 'fasten seatbelt' icon lights up, and the speaker crackles in preparation of an announcement. Dean just closes his eyes and breathes, in and out, rhythmically. He faintly hears the click of Sam's seatbelt fastening and the announcement that they're coming in to land, but he feels it when Sam cups his cheek in one hand, turns his head and kisses him right there in aisle 35, seat B.
"When we land," Sam whispers, letting Dean go, reaching for his jacket. The movement of his arm reveals his own erection, sealed within his jeans. "When we land, Dean, the first thing -"
"I know, I know," Dean says thickly, tucking himself into his boxers and zipping up before his cover is removed. "We'll find a bathroom."
"First thing," Sam hisses, and Dean grins, lopsided and wolfish.
"Yeah," he agrees, eyes sliding down to Sam's groin. "First thing. I promise."
"You'd better." Sam flashes him a quick but uncomfortable smile and leans back in his seat, shoulders tensed, hands clutching the arm rests. Dean flicks absently through the TV channels, wondering how long ago the cheerleader movie ended. His jeans are kind of damn and uncomfortable. The plane clonks as the wheels come out and he swallows, moves a little away from the window. He's too bone-sated for more, however; recalls the hysterics he would've had - did have - the last time he flew. This seems much better, by comparison. One of Sam's hands folds over his on the arm rest, and Sam gives him a tiny little smile.
"Okay?" his brother mouths. Dean bites his lip, then nods, flicking Sam's hand off.
"Always," he says, and then, "Don't expect me to return the favour if we ever visit a circus, though. You never know when a midget or whatever might be watching."
"Go fuck yourself," Sam says, but he's smiling, and Dean can't not smile back.
All in all, it's not as bad as it could be.
-fini
A/N: So, poisontaster is having a bad time IRL, which sucks because she is awesome. While talking with mona1347 one day, I kind of had... an idea.
nymeria: hmm
nymeria: i was thinking doing an arced fic, like, seven parts of around 500 words each? and posting a part a day? just because, well, you've spoken to her recently, and she sent me an email this morning that wasn't precisely cheerful
mona1347: Yeah, I know.
mona1347: I think that's a lovely idea
nymeria: alternativly we could rope together seven writers and do a 'week of porn' for her, with a fic a day or something
mona1347: *nodnodnodnod*
mona1347: Omg, man, that would be AWESOME
And thus, the emails were sent. Mona and I arranged a posting schedule, with she and I bracketing the thing, and found the five other writers - but who are they? Well... it's a secret. Wait and see!
Anyway. Erin, baby, I hope you like it. ♥
Author: nymeria
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Wincest
Word Count: 2,126
Betas: keepaofthecheez and txtequilanights, awesome and beautiful as they be. ♥
Notes: For poisontaster, as part of a fangirl conspiracy (see notes at the bottom)
"I hate this," Dean says, for the third time.
"I know," Sam replies distantly, engrossed in his book. Dean squirms, flicks the overhead light on and off. The TV screen in front of him flickers and he changes the channels a couple of times; news network, Disney film, eighties action flick, cheerleader movie. He settles on this, although he doesn't bother with the headphones, trying to concentrate on the small skirts. Besides him Sam turns a page. He's got the tip of his tongue poking out from between his lips, and Dean knows he's not even aware he's doing it.
"I hate this," he says again, because he thinks Sam ought to know.
"It's a forty-five minute flight, Dean," Sam points out. "It could be worse."
"Not really," Dean protests, sounding somewhat helpless and hating it. Sam sighs, looks up at the ceiling, and reaches out for the in-flight magazine, sticking it between the pages of his book as a kind of rudimentary bookmark. He puts it on the folded tray, next to the cheap plastic cup of coke.
"Dean," he says, gentling his voice like he's talking to a kid. Dean slouches in his seat. The cheerleaders on screen are doing some sort of pyramid formation, and he hopes they throw the blonde one with the green eye shadow up in the air, and also that they're thoughtful enough to provide a panty shot. Sam sighs, again, like Dean's some sort of chore and reaches out, placing his hand on Dean's thigh, slow and careful like Dean's made of glass, and wow, Dean doesn't need to be thinking about glass shattering from a great height right now. He really, really hates flying.
"I don't see why we couldn't've caught the train back," he grouses. "It got us out there in first place. And what the hell kind of ghost haunts a train, anyway?"
"Jonathan Parker, apparently," Sam replies, and risks a smile. Dean flicks his eyes sideward towards him, although he doesn't turn his head any. His baby brother has that look how charming I am, don't you want to do everything I say? smile on, and there's no way Dean's falling for it.
"Oh no. You're not gonna distract me, Sammy."
"No?" Sam asks, lifting his eyebrows, and grins, unbuckling his belt. He swipes his book off the tray and downs his cup, putting the empty container on Dean's, before folding the tray up. "Are you sure?"
"I've joined the mile-high club already, Sammy. How do you think I know I'm scared of flying?" He's aiming for bored, but he thinks he comes off terse instead, which? Sucks.
"I don't care," Sam purrs, and holy fuck, that was right in Dean's ear, all wet and low-pitched and breathy. Dean swallows.
"Lot harder to fit two guys in one of those bathrooms," he hisses, and Sam chuckles, actually chuckles.
Dean has enough time to realise that's not a good sign before Sam's stripping off his jacket, lying it over Dean's lap, and oh fuck. "Who said anything about bathrooms?" his brother asks innocently, hand dipping underneath the jacket to spider towards Dean's belt. His fingers are individual points of pressure on Dean's body, light and surprisingly sensual. Dean grits his teeth and dips his head, cock stirring despite himself.
"Sam," he says, voice thick in his throat, gritty with need. "Sam."
"I got you," Sam murmurs, and then the bastard pulls his book out of the pocket in front of him, splays it open with one hand and turns back to it even as his other thumbs Dean's belt buckle open. Dean gasps, then growls. His hands tighten on the armrest, knuckles whitening with tension.
"You're a prick," he says, "And I hate you."
"Mmm," Sam agrees, thumb stroking along a line of text, the fore-finger of his other hand sliding down slowly across the seam of Dean's jeans, tracing the heated swell of his dick. "I'm trying to think of a joke about pricks, but it's just not coming." He scrapes his nails back up, takes hold of Dean's zipper and tugs. Dean hisses sharply, hitting the back of his head against his seat in surprise. Sam grins, turns a page. His lips are moving; Dean leans over slightly to hear what he’s saying. "'Mr Shadwell's accent was unplaceable. It careered around Britain like a milk race,'" Sam says, and Dean fixes him a sceptical glare.
"Dude, what the fuck?" he hisses, and Sam glances up, fixes him with a beatific smile even as he carefully undoes the button of Dean's jeans.
"Good Omens," he says, as though that's supposed to clear things up. Dean's pretty sure it wouldn't even if his thoughts weren't currently somewhat downward-located. "'s a good book. You might like it."
"I hate you," Dean growls, and Sam gives one of those huge I'm so fantastically awesome grins that make Dean weak in the knees at the best of times, let alone now when Sam's this close to jacking him the fuck off.
"It's about this angel and this demon, right," Sam says, and finally gets the button undone. Dean stretches, flexes his hips. His brother makes no move to pull his jeans down, just looks back at his book. "And they have to prevent the apocalypse -"
"Forget the fucking book," Dean snarls and Sam laughs, finally - finally! - closing it.
"Okay," he says, and then, in a voice much lower and darker, "Lift your hips up."
"Gnrk," Dean manages, which mean 'fuck,' or 'okay,' or maybe even 'oh hell fucking yes'. Sam seems to understand regardless, sticking the book back in the pocket and turning sideways, leaning into Dean, close enough to touch the tip of his nose to the spot just under his ear, where his jawline starts. Dean swallows, tense, and tries not to gasp when Sam's other hand slips beneath the jacket, when Sam curls his fingers into the waistband of Dean's boxers. He moves with his brother when Sam pulls them down; grunts as his cock is freed from the confines of his jeans, pressing against the scratchy fabric of Sam's jacket.
"Mmm," Sam says, and licks the skin of Dean's throat. Just a little. More a lap than lick, really, but whatever it is, it's ridiculously hot, and Dean hisses, writhes. His balls ache and he really wishes Sam would just fucking touch him already, the douche.
"Sam," he growls, low and urgent. His brother licks him again, and then rests one hand over Dean's lower belly. His hand feels startlingly cold but not entirely uncomfortable - more familiar where it lies, thumb stroking back and forth over Dean's pubic bone, through the coarse hairs there.
"I wish I could blow you," Sam says, wistfully. "I guess that'll have to wait until we land."
"Hssgk," Dean replies. He doesn't know what that means. Sam exhales slowly and Dean risks another glance at his brother; Sam's eyes are narrowed, but he can tell that the pupils are blown, can see the familiar flush colouring Sam's cheeks. It helps him regain some of his control. "Huh," he says.
In response, Sam lowers his hand, fingers dusting over Dean's skin until he curls them around Dean's cock. His hand feels huge and welcome and so, so good; Dean squeezes his eyes closed, clutching at the arm rest, breathing in through his nose. Sam shifts, bumps his chin against Dean's cheek, kisses the spot between his eyebrows. Dean slits open an eye, glances down at his lap.
The jacket isn't doing a very good job of hiding anything, and that shouldn't be as hot as it is. Sam rubs his thumb back and forth, over the little nub just beneath the head; Dean turns, scraping his nose uncomfortably against Sam's face, trying to see his brother better. Sam backs off, somehow understanding without Dean saying a word; he looks like he's getting off on it, and that makes Dean's mouth curve up into a wicked slant of a grin, one that Sam responds to in kind.
"C'mon," Dean says, low and urgent. "Move. Sammy. C'mon."
Sam growls under his breath and slides his other hand under the jacket, groping his way across Dean's thighs. He releases Dean's shaft and skates his palm over the leaking head, smearing the fluids there down the length again. It's not the first handjob Sam's given, or even the hundredth. Sam curls his fingers slowly around the length of Dean's dick, the tip of his thumb rubbing along the vein on the underside, and Dean risks a glance to see Sam's face screwed up in his researching, don't interrupt look. He wishes he could mock Sam for it, but at the moment he's not entirely sure he can trust anything that comes out of his mouth; each pump, each tug, each slow glide of Sam's hand makes him want to melt into his baby brother, moan and gasp the way he deserves. One of the flight attendants walks straight past them, however, and he bites on his lip, clutches even harder at the arm rests. Sam leans in, laps at the line of his jaw again, licks his way along and up into Dean's mouth and bites down gently on his lower lip even as he carefully slides his free hand along, cupping Dean's balls in his palm.
Dean turns his head, manages to hiss "Sam," into his brother's ear. Sam hums under his breath, some nameless tune Dean thinks he ought to recognise, would recognise - save for the hand on his freaking cock, the fingers sliding up behind his balls. They rub against the sweet spot just - there, and he spreads his legs a little further apart, wriggles awkwardly in his seat; swallows and licks his lips. Sam strokes a forefinger along the base, palms his balls, scrapes the flat of a nail just over the little knot of nerves under the head; Dean whimpers and writhes.
It isn't until Sam shifts, too, and he looks sidewards and sees the uncomfortable-looking bulge in his brother's jeans that Dean begins to lose it; isn't until Sam nips at his earlobe and worries it, isn't until Sam pants the word "please," on a long note that he can't help himself. He can't hold out on the pleasure surging through him anymore; he screws his eyes shut and ducks his head, bites into his lip with the effort of not making a noise, and mentally screams his brother's name when he comes, hard, all over Sam's hands and his own jeans and the jacket.
Sam removes his hands while Dean's still coming down, wiping them clean almost absently on the jacket. He has a sharp, predatory look in his eyes. Above them, the 'fasten seatbelt' icon lights up, and the speaker crackles in preparation of an announcement. Dean just closes his eyes and breathes, in and out, rhythmically. He faintly hears the click of Sam's seatbelt fastening and the announcement that they're coming in to land, but he feels it when Sam cups his cheek in one hand, turns his head and kisses him right there in aisle 35, seat B.
"When we land," Sam whispers, letting Dean go, reaching for his jacket. The movement of his arm reveals his own erection, sealed within his jeans. "When we land, Dean, the first thing -"
"I know, I know," Dean says thickly, tucking himself into his boxers and zipping up before his cover is removed. "We'll find a bathroom."
"First thing," Sam hisses, and Dean grins, lopsided and wolfish.
"Yeah," he agrees, eyes sliding down to Sam's groin. "First thing. I promise."
"You'd better." Sam flashes him a quick but uncomfortable smile and leans back in his seat, shoulders tensed, hands clutching the arm rests. Dean flicks absently through the TV channels, wondering how long ago the cheerleader movie ended. His jeans are kind of damn and uncomfortable. The plane clonks as the wheels come out and he swallows, moves a little away from the window. He's too bone-sated for more, however; recalls the hysterics he would've had - did have - the last time he flew. This seems much better, by comparison. One of Sam's hands folds over his on the arm rest, and Sam gives him a tiny little smile.
"Okay?" his brother mouths. Dean bites his lip, then nods, flicking Sam's hand off.
"Always," he says, and then, "Don't expect me to return the favour if we ever visit a circus, though. You never know when a midget or whatever might be watching."
"Go fuck yourself," Sam says, but he's smiling, and Dean can't not smile back.
All in all, it's not as bad as it could be.
-fini
A/N: So, poisontaster is having a bad time IRL, which sucks because she is awesome. While talking with mona1347 one day, I kind of had... an idea.
nymeria: hmm
nymeria: i was thinking doing an arced fic, like, seven parts of around 500 words each? and posting a part a day? just because, well, you've spoken to her recently, and she sent me an email this morning that wasn't precisely cheerful
mona1347: Yeah, I know.
mona1347: I think that's a lovely idea
nymeria: alternativly we could rope together seven writers and do a 'week of porn' for her, with a fic a day or something
mona1347: *nodnodnodnod*
mona1347: Omg, man, that would be AWESOME
And thus, the emails were sent. Mona and I arranged a posting schedule, with she and I bracketing the thing, and found the five other writers - but who are they? Well... it's a secret. Wait and see!
Anyway. Erin, baby, I hope you like it. ♥