Some Like It Hot (Dean/Jo)
Title: Some Like It Hot
Author: Brinny
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Jo
Rating: NC-17, I suppose.
Wordcount: 1,388
Notes: So, this is some car!sex for
theladyscribe . Who, eons ago, mind you, asked for, "Dean/Jo. Some like it hot. Some like it cold. Some like it in the... car... nine days old." It turned out pornier than I thought, but fair warning that I write porn, oh, about, never. Heh. It's got some nice fluffy and fun aspects to it though, too.
The air inside the car is thick, stuffy and stale. And underneath it all, is the smell of gasoline and cheap motel soap. They’ve been sitting for over two hours, the AC is busted, and Jo’s leg is beginning to cramp. She shifts around in her seat, squirming and wiggling. Her jeans are damp from the heat and the rubbing of her thighs against the leather produces a low squeak.
Stake-outs kind of suck.
She needs a cool breeze. Just needs to breathe in something other than him. Her fingers dance along the window handle, floating but not landing.
“Drop it.”
Jo looks over at Dean, eyes narrowed. He looks right back and he’s wearing his serious face. She gets the serious face more than Sam.
“Dean, c’mon.” She lets her fingers fall from the handle and shifts again. There’s another low squeak. “It’s hotter than hell in here.”
Dean smirks and tips his head to the side. Jo can see a small pool of sweat collecting above his lip and his tongue slips out of the corner of his mouth, catching the drip before it falls. This time when she shifts and squirms and wiggles, it’s not because of the heat.
“I’ve been to hell, so trust me, sweetheart, it ain’t.”
“Fine,” she says. She crosses her arms over her chest and huffs. “We’ll just die out here. Heat exhaustion. Delirium. That how you want to go out?”
Dean shrugs and moves his hands up to the steering wheel. His fingers tap a slow rhythm and he hums in time to the beat of a song that she doesn’t know, but thinks might be Metallica. Jo’s pretty sure he’s doing it to piss her off. And it’s working.
But, Jo was raised by Ellen Harvelle, so she knows how to fight dirty.
She stretches slowly, arms above her head and back arched. Her shirt is just as damp as her jeans and the thin material pulls tight over her tits. The tapping stops and she can see his eyes flick towards her, his mouth still set in a smirk.
“Not gonna work,” he says.
Jo settles back into her seat, not bothering to fix her shirt. “What’s not gonna work?”
“Oh.” He nods and his tongue slips out of his mouth again as he gives a little laugh. “Okay, you’re doing the innocent thing. I get it. But, that’s only hot if you’re wearing knee socks and pigtails, Jo.”
She grins and slides closer to him, her knees pushing into his thighs. “Is that what you want? Knee socks and pigtails?”
“We did the pigtails once before, remember?” Dean grins back. “Blowjob with handles. Awesome.”
Ass.
“Ass,” she says.
Jo smacks him in the chest and he frowns and pulls away, as if it really hurt. The boy doesn’t know hurt. She could break his arm in three places right now if she wanted. Well, maybe. There are other ways she can bring him pain, though.
“How much longer?” she asks. Her legs are still pressed up against his and she drops her hand to his arm, touch sticky with sweat.
Dean glances at his watch. “Don’t know. Dude was supposed to show up an hour ago.” He watches her hand smooth across his stomach, tugging up his shirt and fingers dropping to the waistband of his jeans. “What are you doing?”
Jo shrugs. “Nothing.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
She rolls her fingers around the button of his fly before she pops it open and Dean shakes his head as her mouth makes a wide ‘O’ in mock-surprise.
“Oops.”
She tugs the zipper down next, pressing her fingers to the base of his cock through his boxers. He’s already hard. But, since Jo’s been hunting with them, he pretty much walks around half-hard all the time. Not that’s she’s noticed or anything.
“Jo, stop.”
“Stop what?”
She pulls his dick out, small hand curving and wrapping around him, thumb flicking over the tip. Dean’s hand reaches out to cover hers, but she bats it away. Keeping her other hand in place, she begins to stroke him, alternating between fast and slow. She ducks her head and parts her lips; small teasing licks with her tongue and kisses along his shaft.
“Seriously, Jo,” he says. “You go-got.” He swallows. “You’ve got to stop.”
It’s kind of hard to believe him when his hips jerk forward and he’s trying to either fuck her hand or her mouth, like he hasn’t quite decided yet. She smiles and takes his swollen cock into her mouth, sealing her lips around tight. He jerks forward again and makes a low moan, fingers threading through her hair. She hollows her cheeks, taking him in deep.
He hisses. “Fuck.”
Jo pulls off of him with a noisy pop. “Yeah, you know what? You’re right. I should stop.”
“What? N-n-no.” He lets go of her head, grinning weakly. “Look, Ma. No hands.”
“Just how adorable do you think you are?” she asks.
“Very.”
She looks up at him, resting her cheek on his thigh, her skin glued to the denim with sweat and her lips reddened. “Do you think you’re screw-this-job-let’s-fuck-in-the-backseat-adorable?”
“Oh, God, yes.”
Dean climbs into the backseat in one clumsy motion, dick half-wet and sticking awkwardly out of his jeans. Stretching across the seat, he tucks his hands behind his head and bobs and waggles his eyebrows.
“You’re kind of a dork,” she notes, amused smile on her face.
“Yeah,” he answers. He waggles his eyebrows again. “And you’re kind of a brat. Never stopped us before.”
Jo laughs and hooks an arm under the seat, grabbing onto a dusty tape that she shoves into the deck. She hoists herself into the back, slightly more graceful than Dean, and her smile turns from amused to a little bit predatory. And okay, yeah, maybe a bit horny.
She pulls off her shirt just as Joan Jett screams something about temperature’s running high and touching.
“Cute,” Dean observes.
Jo shrugs. “I thought so.”
He grips the front of her jeans, knuckles skimming over her bare stomach, and then, as if she weighs nothing, flips her over. She smirks a bit. His hand moves, holding her waist, while his other hand peels her jeans down to her ankles. He leaves her panties on, lightly plucking at the edges. One finger slips in, then out. Two fingers in, then out.
“Tease,” she pants.
“Oh, yeah, well you’re one to talk, sweetheart.”
She tries to grind herself down onto his hand, needing some kind of friction. Dean finally pushes his fingers all the way in and she clamps down on him hard, biting her lip and nails digging into his back.
The hand that’s on her waist snakes up, sweat-soaked fingers outlining each rib, and then sliding beneath her bra. He pinches one hardened nipple between his finger and his thumb and then kisses his way down her neck and over her shoulder.
It’s still too-sticky-hot in the car, everything muggy, and with Dean’s weight on top of her, one hand working between her folds thrusting in and out, and the other squeezing her breast, Jo feels like she just might explode. Which she pretty much does, low and moaning.
Dean grins and withdraws his fingers, smearing them across her thigh. “How’s that for adorable?”
Jo doesn’t answer. Instead she grins back and cups her fingers around the back of his neck, mouthing at his jaw and trailing down to his lips. With her free hand, she pushes her underwear aside and grabs hold of his cock. She strokes him a few times, returns the teasing favor, and then guides him into her slit in a hard and fast motion.
It’s too hot and stifling to breathe, let alone move, but she knows they’ve both set up some strange lazy-rushed rhythm, because she can hear the slow slap of skin and the quick rustle of denim and leather.
Dean comes hard and fast, snapping his hips forward. He stays half on top of her, still inside.
“Screw heat exhaustion. That right there is how I wanna go out.”
Inside the car, the air is still thick and stuffy, and the musky scent of sex now lingers along with gasoline and cheap soap.
Jo smiles. “Yeah, me too.”
Author: Brinny
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Jo
Rating: NC-17, I suppose.
Wordcount: 1,388
Notes: So, this is some car!sex for
theladyscribe . Who, eons ago, mind you, asked for, "Dean/Jo. Some like it hot. Some like it cold. Some like it in the... car... nine days old." It turned out pornier than I thought, but fair warning that I write porn, oh, about, never. Heh. It's got some nice fluffy and fun aspects to it though, too.
The air inside the car is thick, stuffy and stale. And underneath it all, is the smell of gasoline and cheap motel soap. They’ve been sitting for over two hours, the AC is busted, and Jo’s leg is beginning to cramp. She shifts around in her seat, squirming and wiggling. Her jeans are damp from the heat and the rubbing of her thighs against the leather produces a low squeak.
Stake-outs kind of suck.
She needs a cool breeze. Just needs to breathe in something other than him. Her fingers dance along the window handle, floating but not landing.
“Drop it.”
Jo looks over at Dean, eyes narrowed. He looks right back and he’s wearing his serious face. She gets the serious face more than Sam.
“Dean, c’mon.” She lets her fingers fall from the handle and shifts again. There’s another low squeak. “It’s hotter than hell in here.”
Dean smirks and tips his head to the side. Jo can see a small pool of sweat collecting above his lip and his tongue slips out of the corner of his mouth, catching the drip before it falls. This time when she shifts and squirms and wiggles, it’s not because of the heat.
“I’ve been to hell, so trust me, sweetheart, it ain’t.”
“Fine,” she says. She crosses her arms over her chest and huffs. “We’ll just die out here. Heat exhaustion. Delirium. That how you want to go out?”
Dean shrugs and moves his hands up to the steering wheel. His fingers tap a slow rhythm and he hums in time to the beat of a song that she doesn’t know, but thinks might be Metallica. Jo’s pretty sure he’s doing it to piss her off. And it’s working.
But, Jo was raised by Ellen Harvelle, so she knows how to fight dirty.
She stretches slowly, arms above her head and back arched. Her shirt is just as damp as her jeans and the thin material pulls tight over her tits. The tapping stops and she can see his eyes flick towards her, his mouth still set in a smirk.
“Not gonna work,” he says.
Jo settles back into her seat, not bothering to fix her shirt. “What’s not gonna work?”
“Oh.” He nods and his tongue slips out of his mouth again as he gives a little laugh. “Okay, you’re doing the innocent thing. I get it. But, that’s only hot if you’re wearing knee socks and pigtails, Jo.”
She grins and slides closer to him, her knees pushing into his thighs. “Is that what you want? Knee socks and pigtails?”
“We did the pigtails once before, remember?” Dean grins back. “Blowjob with handles. Awesome.”
Ass.
“Ass,” she says.
Jo smacks him in the chest and he frowns and pulls away, as if it really hurt. The boy doesn’t know hurt. She could break his arm in three places right now if she wanted. Well, maybe. There are other ways she can bring him pain, though.
“How much longer?” she asks. Her legs are still pressed up against his and she drops her hand to his arm, touch sticky with sweat.
Dean glances at his watch. “Don’t know. Dude was supposed to show up an hour ago.” He watches her hand smooth across his stomach, tugging up his shirt and fingers dropping to the waistband of his jeans. “What are you doing?”
Jo shrugs. “Nothing.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
She rolls her fingers around the button of his fly before she pops it open and Dean shakes his head as her mouth makes a wide ‘O’ in mock-surprise.
“Oops.”
She tugs the zipper down next, pressing her fingers to the base of his cock through his boxers. He’s already hard. But, since Jo’s been hunting with them, he pretty much walks around half-hard all the time. Not that’s she’s noticed or anything.
“Jo, stop.”
“Stop what?”
She pulls his dick out, small hand curving and wrapping around him, thumb flicking over the tip. Dean’s hand reaches out to cover hers, but she bats it away. Keeping her other hand in place, she begins to stroke him, alternating between fast and slow. She ducks her head and parts her lips; small teasing licks with her tongue and kisses along his shaft.
“Seriously, Jo,” he says. “You go-got.” He swallows. “You’ve got to stop.”
It’s kind of hard to believe him when his hips jerk forward and he’s trying to either fuck her hand or her mouth, like he hasn’t quite decided yet. She smiles and takes his swollen cock into her mouth, sealing her lips around tight. He jerks forward again and makes a low moan, fingers threading through her hair. She hollows her cheeks, taking him in deep.
He hisses. “Fuck.”
Jo pulls off of him with a noisy pop. “Yeah, you know what? You’re right. I should stop.”
“What? N-n-no.” He lets go of her head, grinning weakly. “Look, Ma. No hands.”
“Just how adorable do you think you are?” she asks.
“Very.”
She looks up at him, resting her cheek on his thigh, her skin glued to the denim with sweat and her lips reddened. “Do you think you’re screw-this-job-let’s-fuck-in-the-backseat-adorable?”
“Oh, God, yes.”
Dean climbs into the backseat in one clumsy motion, dick half-wet and sticking awkwardly out of his jeans. Stretching across the seat, he tucks his hands behind his head and bobs and waggles his eyebrows.
“You’re kind of a dork,” she notes, amused smile on her face.
“Yeah,” he answers. He waggles his eyebrows again. “And you’re kind of a brat. Never stopped us before.”
Jo laughs and hooks an arm under the seat, grabbing onto a dusty tape that she shoves into the deck. She hoists herself into the back, slightly more graceful than Dean, and her smile turns from amused to a little bit predatory. And okay, yeah, maybe a bit horny.
She pulls off her shirt just as Joan Jett screams something about temperature’s running high and touching.
“Cute,” Dean observes.
Jo shrugs. “I thought so.”
He grips the front of her jeans, knuckles skimming over her bare stomach, and then, as if she weighs nothing, flips her over. She smirks a bit. His hand moves, holding her waist, while his other hand peels her jeans down to her ankles. He leaves her panties on, lightly plucking at the edges. One finger slips in, then out. Two fingers in, then out.
“Tease,” she pants.
“Oh, yeah, well you’re one to talk, sweetheart.”
She tries to grind herself down onto his hand, needing some kind of friction. Dean finally pushes his fingers all the way in and she clamps down on him hard, biting her lip and nails digging into his back.
The hand that’s on her waist snakes up, sweat-soaked fingers outlining each rib, and then sliding beneath her bra. He pinches one hardened nipple between his finger and his thumb and then kisses his way down her neck and over her shoulder.
It’s still too-sticky-hot in the car, everything muggy, and with Dean’s weight on top of her, one hand working between her folds thrusting in and out, and the other squeezing her breast, Jo feels like she just might explode. Which she pretty much does, low and moaning.
Dean grins and withdraws his fingers, smearing them across her thigh. “How’s that for adorable?”
Jo doesn’t answer. Instead she grins back and cups her fingers around the back of his neck, mouthing at his jaw and trailing down to his lips. With her free hand, she pushes her underwear aside and grabs hold of his cock. She strokes him a few times, returns the teasing favor, and then guides him into her slit in a hard and fast motion.
It’s too hot and stifling to breathe, let alone move, but she knows they’ve both set up some strange lazy-rushed rhythm, because she can hear the slow slap of skin and the quick rustle of denim and leather.
Dean comes hard and fast, snapping his hips forward. He stays half on top of her, still inside.
“Screw heat exhaustion. That right there is how I wanna go out.”
Inside the car, the air is still thick and stuffy, and the musky scent of sex now lingers along with gasoline and cheap soap.
Jo smiles. “Yeah, me too.”