fic: and the pressure is low (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
With five minutes to the end of Porn Sunday, I've decided to finally post this, both in celebration of the porn and in celebration of the fact that I am, indeed, alive. I'll make a post later about the crazyness of my weekend. :D Suffice to say, this was originally written for spn_rimmathon, but since the mods never told me whether or not my prompt request was accepted, this is being posted as its own entity. It was also edited en route to Maryland this weekend, with me blushing furiously and trying to keep my elbow between the screen and the oblivious teenager sitting next to me. e_e;
and the pressure is low
Sam/Dean - NC-17
2500 words
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and all characters depicted within are copyright The CW. No offense or copyright infringement is intended.
The power went out hours ago, in a spectacular flickering of lights that made Dean grab for his gun and Sam dive for the holy water. Just a normal power outage, though, no ghosts or demons involved, although now Dean is wishing it had been something more exciting. Three hours of no TV, and, worse, no lights - he can't even clean his guns or read the obituaries - and Dean is ready to climb the fucking walls. Too hot for that, though, because the last of the cold air circulated out of the room ages ago, and it's all Dean can do not to just evaporate into nothing. He doesn't know how long he's laid there, face down on the scratchy floral comforter, too hot to move, but it feels like forever.
"We should go find a bar," he says for the umpteenth time, words muffled by rough polyester.
The flashlight clicks against Sam's teeth as he pulls it from his mouth, and its beam skitters crazily around the room before landing on Dean's face. Dean moans and squints against the light, but it's too much effort to turn his head away. "Have you looked outside?" Sam asks, his tone exasperated. "It's like a fucking hurricane out there, and the lady at the front desk said there was a county-wide tornado warning. We're not going anywhere."
"I hate you," Dean says, which he doesn't, but he does hate the fact that Sam's right. He wishes he could just go to sleep, but his sleep cycle is fucked, and he just slept on the drive into town. He breathes out a sigh and flops an arm over the edge of the bed. "Fuck."
He's a little surprised when the flashlight clicks off, and he has to blink against the sudden, absolute darkness, red and blue and yellow spots dancing across his vision. By the time he can see again, Sammy's looming up right beside him, and then ...
"Oof!"
"You're such a bitch when you pout," Sam says, stretching his body full-length on top of Dean's. His laughter gusts across the nape of Dean's neck, and, fuck, Dean can't breathe.
"I'm not ...nngh ...pouting!" Dean protests, squirming, but Sam's got a good fifteen pounds on him, not to mention freakishly long limbs and a will to, y'know, actually move.
Then Sam licks the back of his neck, and Dean stops squirming and thinks, Oh. He wants to say Jesus, Sam, it's too hot for that shit, but this part is too new and fragile, and he's afraid that the wrong words will break it (them). So he just shifts a little, Okay, yeah, and Sam puts his weight on his elbows, but Dean still can't breathe.
Dean's shirt is sticking to his back, and Sam's legs are sweaty-scratchy against his, and it's almost too easy when they're both wearing nothing but boxers and T-shirts. Dean can feel Sam's cock, half-hard and nestled against his ass, a few layers of damp cloth the only thing separating them. The thought (layered with varying shades of little brother and Sammy and Jesus, God, fuck) is so perfectly obscene that he buries his face in the comforter and groans. He wasn't thinking about sex or Sam or anything remotely related to this five minutes ago, but now it seems like he can't think about anything else.
Sam slides a hand down, long fingers curving over Dean's hipbone like it was made for him, and he rubs his nose against the nape of Dean's neck. He's asking permission, doesn't need words because they've never needed words, not for this, not for anything. His fingertips slip beneath the hem of Dean's shirt to rub circles into sweat-slick skin, asking, begging, wanting, but not pushing. If Dean says no, he'll back off, go back to his books and research, back to stifling silence and heat and distance.
But Dean's never said no to Sam, and he's not about to start now. His spine curves, slow and sinuous, and he rocks his hips back against Sam's, feels Sam huff a half-groan against his throat. It's yes and please and SammyGodloveyousomuch. He says with his body what he can't - won't - say with his mouth.
When Sam sits back and hooks his thumbs into Dean's boxers, drags them down over his ass and past his knees, Dean just lifts his hips to help. He hooks his toes in the damp material and tugs it the rest of the way off, careful not to kick Sam in the process, and then props himself on his elbows and tries to roll over. Sam stops him with both hands clamped on his hips, and, okay, that's different, they've never done it like this before, but Dean prides himself in being able to roll with the punches. He goes still, waits until Sam's hands pet down the outsides of his thighs, yeah, just like that. They've both still got their T-shirts on, and Sam's still wearing his boxers, but the fabric shifts and slides, and when Sam drapes himself over Dean's back, bare skin sticks to bare skin.
Sam's fingers creep up Dean's ribs, pushing up the damp fabric of his shirt until it's bunched under his armpits. Dean can feel the air that tries to steal between their bodies, cool against the flushed skin of his back; he can feel Sam's hip digging sharp into the back of his leg, Sam's cock pressing into the crease between his ass and thigh. Sam's tongue touches down between Dean's shoulder-blades, hot and wet, and Dean shudders and pushes his face into the mattress and tries to breathe.
It shouldn't be possible to want something as much as he wants Sam. It feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest with the want, the need, the desire for this thing that is so perfectly, irrefutably wrong. He thinks there must being something broken inside him, that somewhere in his brain the wires got crossed - but if he's broken, then so is Sam, and maybe being broken together is almost like being fixed.
Sam tongues his way down Dean's spine, lapping at the sweat that has pooled there and scraping his teeth over the bony knobs. Dean arches beneath him, twists away and then back into Sam, and Sam lets him, just brackets Dean's torso with his forearms and moves with him. He keeps following Dean's spine downward, down and down, like it's an arrow that points to the prize. There's a pause when he reaches the base, that little space where Dean's back dips and then flares, and he takes a moment to taste the skin more thoroughly, the way the texture changes between tanned back and smooth, white ass. Then he moves lower still, shifts his weight farther down the bed and ducks his head, and slips his tongue along the crease of Dean's ass.
"Sam!" Dean hisses, breath hitching. This is new, they've never done this, and it's ...it's gross, is what it is. Sam is nudging Dean's legs apart with his shoulders, and, well, Dean doesn't have much choice but to go with it, but ...yeah, gross. Sam's apparently freakier than Dean ever gave him credit. "Sam," Dean says again, louder this time, a warning rumble.
"Shh," Sam hums, and Dean can feel the vibration of it against his skin. It travels right up his spine like an electric shock and makes the roots of his hair tingle.
He opens his mouth to form another protest, but Sam's name gets lost on the garbled noise he makes when Sam sticks his tongue in Dean's ass. All of the air rushes out of Dean's lungs in one quick huff, and it’s followed by a faint wheezing noise as he tries to remember how to breathe. Sam's tongue is in Dean's ass, and it's ...it feels ...
"Jesus Christ," Dean whispers, eyes closed and hips bucking helplessly against the mattress.
He can feel Sam's lips curl against his skin, has half a second to think that Sam deserves to be knocked down a notch or two, the cocky bastard, and then it's just wet heat stroking inside of him. It feels kind of like fingers, but not - the touch is softer, more silken, and it's got a liquid flexibility that means it can touch places in ways that Sam's fingers have never managed. Dean is vaguely aware that he's making an embarrassing range of noises, but when Sam slides two fingers in alongside his tongue and twists them up to touch that spot, he can't bring himself to care.
It's far too soon when he feels his balls start to draw up against his body, and he scrabbles at the covers, gasping, "Sam. Sam, stop, I'm gonna ..."
Sam pulls away slowly, drawing his fingers out in one smooth tug, and leaving his tongue a fraction of a second longer. Dean grunts at the loss, his body vibrating with tension and hips rutting in unconscious jerks against the bed, but Sam grips Dean's thighs with firm hands and forces him into stillness.
Sam sounds just a tiny bit smug when he says, "Thought you'd like that."
"Fuck you," Dean groans, fingers clenching in the comforter. He squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to give Sam the pleasure of glaring over his shoulder. "Just fucking do it already."
Sam sits up, and there's a rush of cool air that makes Dean's skin erupt in goosebumps. "Don't move," Sam says, slapping his ass lightly, and Dean’s whole body jerks.
"Control freak," Dean mutters, but he obeys the order and doesn’t so much as shift into a more comfortable position. He listens as Sam climbs off the bed and starts rummaging through their bags. Sam doesn't turn the flashlight on, which means he must be searching by feel, and Dean really fucking hopes he grabs the little tube of lube, and not the one of superglue.
It seems like forever and no time at all when Sam kneels on the bed behind him again. Dean holds his breath, listening to the faint crinkle of the condom packet being ripped open, the squelch of the lube squeezing out of its tube, and the slap of skin on skin as Sam slicks up his cock. Sam leans over him again, resting one elbow on the bed beside Dean's shoulder, and his free hand reaches down to circle Dean's hole, pushing his thumb in to test the looseness.
"Ready?" Sam murmurs, leaning forward to mouth a kiss on the back of Dean's neck. His hair is shedding droplets of sweat, cold by the time they hit Dean's skin, and Dean shivers, reaches back to run a hand down Sam's flank.
"Yeah," Dean says.
Sam replaces his thumb with the blunt press of his cock, and then he's pushing forward, slow and easy, giving Dean time to adjust. Dean squirms beneath him, shifting to find the right angle, spreading his legs and tilting his hips back to open himself, welcoming the invasion. They're both holding their breath for those first few moments, both listening for any sign of wrong or no from the other.
Then Sam is in, and Dean sucks in a breath and releases it, feels himself relax around Sam's cock, and yeah. He doesn't need air conditioning or lights or television or a bar - just this. Just Sam.
Dean arches his back into Sam, getting his forearms beneath his body for leverage, and that's Sam's signal to move. Sam wraps the fingers of his free hand around Dean's hip, slip-sliding on sweaty skin, and uses the grip to guide his thrust when he pulls back and slams back in. Dean barely catches himself before face-planting on the mattress, it's faster and harder than he was expecting, but then he braces himself, and he's ready when the next one comes. Sam tilts his hips, changes the angle, and the third stroke rubs right across Dean's prostate, making Dean shudder and moan, and then the thrusts are coming fast and hard.
It doesn't last long enough - Dean is too wound up, and it's been a while since they've done this. He comes too soon, without ever touching his cock, which hasn’t happened to him since he was fourteen and first discovering the wonders of his own body. Sam will tease him about it later, make references to first-times and teenaged stamina, but Dean comes hard enough to see stars, so he figures it's worth it. He goes boneless, sliding a hand between himself and the now-soaked comforter to avoid chafing his over-sensitized dick, and just lets Sam ride him. Every thrust sends aftershocks of pleasure skittering along his nerves, and it's almost too much, sensory overload, but he doesn't mind, doesn't care about anything except Sam, in him and around him and so fucking good.
Sam gasps his name when he comes, whispers, "Dean," like it's a benediction, and rides out his orgasm with both hands clutching Dean's hips. He slumps down after, half on Dean and half on the bed, his nose buried in the bunched-up material of Dean's shirt beneath Dean's arm. His lips move in butterfly kisses along Dean's ribs, wherever he can reach without moving, and they come down like that together, breathing falling in sync, skin sticking to skin.
Dean squeezes his ass experimentally around Sam's softening cock just to feel him shudder and moan. After a few moments, he groans, "I'm all sticky and gross. And hot."
Sam huffs a laugh against his side, and then reaches down to hold the condom as he pulls out. He rolls off Dean completely, ties the condom in a knot, and tosses it somewhere in the vicinity of the trashcan. "Pussy," he says, rolling back to plaster his naked, sweaty body all over Dean's.
Dean pulls a face, but lifts his arm obligingly and slides his fingers into Sam's sweaty hair. "Bitch.”
For a moment they lay in companionable silence, staring into the darkness and listening to the steady hum of rain drumming on the roof, mingled with the sound of their own breathing, their own heartbeats. Dean feels almost peaceful, or at least restful, which doesn’t come often these days.
“You still want to go find a bar?” Sam asks after a minute.
Dean huffs out a quiet laugh and tightens his arm around the back of Sam’s neck. “Nah. I was kind of thinkin’ we should stay in tonight. We could eat Cheetos, play some cards, maybe even braid each other’s hair.”
Sam’s body shakes with silent laughter, and he buries his face in Dean’s shoulder. “Yeah, Dean,” he murmurs, grin pressed against Dean’s skin, “that sounds great.”
end.
a/n: Title from Billy Joel's "Stormfront."
and the pressure is low
Sam/Dean - NC-17
2500 words
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and all characters depicted within are copyright The CW. No offense or copyright infringement is intended.
The power went out hours ago, in a spectacular flickering of lights that made Dean grab for his gun and Sam dive for the holy water. Just a normal power outage, though, no ghosts or demons involved, although now Dean is wishing it had been something more exciting. Three hours of no TV, and, worse, no lights - he can't even clean his guns or read the obituaries - and Dean is ready to climb the fucking walls. Too hot for that, though, because the last of the cold air circulated out of the room ages ago, and it's all Dean can do not to just evaporate into nothing. He doesn't know how long he's laid there, face down on the scratchy floral comforter, too hot to move, but it feels like forever.
"We should go find a bar," he says for the umpteenth time, words muffled by rough polyester.
The flashlight clicks against Sam's teeth as he pulls it from his mouth, and its beam skitters crazily around the room before landing on Dean's face. Dean moans and squints against the light, but it's too much effort to turn his head away. "Have you looked outside?" Sam asks, his tone exasperated. "It's like a fucking hurricane out there, and the lady at the front desk said there was a county-wide tornado warning. We're not going anywhere."
"I hate you," Dean says, which he doesn't, but he does hate the fact that Sam's right. He wishes he could just go to sleep, but his sleep cycle is fucked, and he just slept on the drive into town. He breathes out a sigh and flops an arm over the edge of the bed. "Fuck."
He's a little surprised when the flashlight clicks off, and he has to blink against the sudden, absolute darkness, red and blue and yellow spots dancing across his vision. By the time he can see again, Sammy's looming up right beside him, and then ...
"Oof!"
"You're such a bitch when you pout," Sam says, stretching his body full-length on top of Dean's. His laughter gusts across the nape of Dean's neck, and, fuck, Dean can't breathe.
"I'm not ...nngh ...pouting!" Dean protests, squirming, but Sam's got a good fifteen pounds on him, not to mention freakishly long limbs and a will to, y'know, actually move.
Then Sam licks the back of his neck, and Dean stops squirming and thinks, Oh. He wants to say Jesus, Sam, it's too hot for that shit, but this part is too new and fragile, and he's afraid that the wrong words will break it (them). So he just shifts a little, Okay, yeah, and Sam puts his weight on his elbows, but Dean still can't breathe.
Dean's shirt is sticking to his back, and Sam's legs are sweaty-scratchy against his, and it's almost too easy when they're both wearing nothing but boxers and T-shirts. Dean can feel Sam's cock, half-hard and nestled against his ass, a few layers of damp cloth the only thing separating them. The thought (layered with varying shades of little brother and Sammy and Jesus, God, fuck) is so perfectly obscene that he buries his face in the comforter and groans. He wasn't thinking about sex or Sam or anything remotely related to this five minutes ago, but now it seems like he can't think about anything else.
Sam slides a hand down, long fingers curving over Dean's hipbone like it was made for him, and he rubs his nose against the nape of Dean's neck. He's asking permission, doesn't need words because they've never needed words, not for this, not for anything. His fingertips slip beneath the hem of Dean's shirt to rub circles into sweat-slick skin, asking, begging, wanting, but not pushing. If Dean says no, he'll back off, go back to his books and research, back to stifling silence and heat and distance.
But Dean's never said no to Sam, and he's not about to start now. His spine curves, slow and sinuous, and he rocks his hips back against Sam's, feels Sam huff a half-groan against his throat. It's yes and please and SammyGodloveyousomuch. He says with his body what he can't - won't - say with his mouth.
When Sam sits back and hooks his thumbs into Dean's boxers, drags them down over his ass and past his knees, Dean just lifts his hips to help. He hooks his toes in the damp material and tugs it the rest of the way off, careful not to kick Sam in the process, and then props himself on his elbows and tries to roll over. Sam stops him with both hands clamped on his hips, and, okay, that's different, they've never done it like this before, but Dean prides himself in being able to roll with the punches. He goes still, waits until Sam's hands pet down the outsides of his thighs, yeah, just like that. They've both still got their T-shirts on, and Sam's still wearing his boxers, but the fabric shifts and slides, and when Sam drapes himself over Dean's back, bare skin sticks to bare skin.
Sam's fingers creep up Dean's ribs, pushing up the damp fabric of his shirt until it's bunched under his armpits. Dean can feel the air that tries to steal between their bodies, cool against the flushed skin of his back; he can feel Sam's hip digging sharp into the back of his leg, Sam's cock pressing into the crease between his ass and thigh. Sam's tongue touches down between Dean's shoulder-blades, hot and wet, and Dean shudders and pushes his face into the mattress and tries to breathe.
It shouldn't be possible to want something as much as he wants Sam. It feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest with the want, the need, the desire for this thing that is so perfectly, irrefutably wrong. He thinks there must being something broken inside him, that somewhere in his brain the wires got crossed - but if he's broken, then so is Sam, and maybe being broken together is almost like being fixed.
Sam tongues his way down Dean's spine, lapping at the sweat that has pooled there and scraping his teeth over the bony knobs. Dean arches beneath him, twists away and then back into Sam, and Sam lets him, just brackets Dean's torso with his forearms and moves with him. He keeps following Dean's spine downward, down and down, like it's an arrow that points to the prize. There's a pause when he reaches the base, that little space where Dean's back dips and then flares, and he takes a moment to taste the skin more thoroughly, the way the texture changes between tanned back and smooth, white ass. Then he moves lower still, shifts his weight farther down the bed and ducks his head, and slips his tongue along the crease of Dean's ass.
"Sam!" Dean hisses, breath hitching. This is new, they've never done this, and it's ...it's gross, is what it is. Sam is nudging Dean's legs apart with his shoulders, and, well, Dean doesn't have much choice but to go with it, but ...yeah, gross. Sam's apparently freakier than Dean ever gave him credit. "Sam," Dean says again, louder this time, a warning rumble.
"Shh," Sam hums, and Dean can feel the vibration of it against his skin. It travels right up his spine like an electric shock and makes the roots of his hair tingle.
He opens his mouth to form another protest, but Sam's name gets lost on the garbled noise he makes when Sam sticks his tongue in Dean's ass. All of the air rushes out of Dean's lungs in one quick huff, and it’s followed by a faint wheezing noise as he tries to remember how to breathe. Sam's tongue is in Dean's ass, and it's ...it feels ...
"Jesus Christ," Dean whispers, eyes closed and hips bucking helplessly against the mattress.
He can feel Sam's lips curl against his skin, has half a second to think that Sam deserves to be knocked down a notch or two, the cocky bastard, and then it's just wet heat stroking inside of him. It feels kind of like fingers, but not - the touch is softer, more silken, and it's got a liquid flexibility that means it can touch places in ways that Sam's fingers have never managed. Dean is vaguely aware that he's making an embarrassing range of noises, but when Sam slides two fingers in alongside his tongue and twists them up to touch that spot, he can't bring himself to care.
It's far too soon when he feels his balls start to draw up against his body, and he scrabbles at the covers, gasping, "Sam. Sam, stop, I'm gonna ..."
Sam pulls away slowly, drawing his fingers out in one smooth tug, and leaving his tongue a fraction of a second longer. Dean grunts at the loss, his body vibrating with tension and hips rutting in unconscious jerks against the bed, but Sam grips Dean's thighs with firm hands and forces him into stillness.
Sam sounds just a tiny bit smug when he says, "Thought you'd like that."
"Fuck you," Dean groans, fingers clenching in the comforter. He squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to give Sam the pleasure of glaring over his shoulder. "Just fucking do it already."
Sam sits up, and there's a rush of cool air that makes Dean's skin erupt in goosebumps. "Don't move," Sam says, slapping his ass lightly, and Dean’s whole body jerks.
"Control freak," Dean mutters, but he obeys the order and doesn’t so much as shift into a more comfortable position. He listens as Sam climbs off the bed and starts rummaging through their bags. Sam doesn't turn the flashlight on, which means he must be searching by feel, and Dean really fucking hopes he grabs the little tube of lube, and not the one of superglue.
It seems like forever and no time at all when Sam kneels on the bed behind him again. Dean holds his breath, listening to the faint crinkle of the condom packet being ripped open, the squelch of the lube squeezing out of its tube, and the slap of skin on skin as Sam slicks up his cock. Sam leans over him again, resting one elbow on the bed beside Dean's shoulder, and his free hand reaches down to circle Dean's hole, pushing his thumb in to test the looseness.
"Ready?" Sam murmurs, leaning forward to mouth a kiss on the back of Dean's neck. His hair is shedding droplets of sweat, cold by the time they hit Dean's skin, and Dean shivers, reaches back to run a hand down Sam's flank.
"Yeah," Dean says.
Sam replaces his thumb with the blunt press of his cock, and then he's pushing forward, slow and easy, giving Dean time to adjust. Dean squirms beneath him, shifting to find the right angle, spreading his legs and tilting his hips back to open himself, welcoming the invasion. They're both holding their breath for those first few moments, both listening for any sign of wrong or no from the other.
Then Sam is in, and Dean sucks in a breath and releases it, feels himself relax around Sam's cock, and yeah. He doesn't need air conditioning or lights or television or a bar - just this. Just Sam.
Dean arches his back into Sam, getting his forearms beneath his body for leverage, and that's Sam's signal to move. Sam wraps the fingers of his free hand around Dean's hip, slip-sliding on sweaty skin, and uses the grip to guide his thrust when he pulls back and slams back in. Dean barely catches himself before face-planting on the mattress, it's faster and harder than he was expecting, but then he braces himself, and he's ready when the next one comes. Sam tilts his hips, changes the angle, and the third stroke rubs right across Dean's prostate, making Dean shudder and moan, and then the thrusts are coming fast and hard.
It doesn't last long enough - Dean is too wound up, and it's been a while since they've done this. He comes too soon, without ever touching his cock, which hasn’t happened to him since he was fourteen and first discovering the wonders of his own body. Sam will tease him about it later, make references to first-times and teenaged stamina, but Dean comes hard enough to see stars, so he figures it's worth it. He goes boneless, sliding a hand between himself and the now-soaked comforter to avoid chafing his over-sensitized dick, and just lets Sam ride him. Every thrust sends aftershocks of pleasure skittering along his nerves, and it's almost too much, sensory overload, but he doesn't mind, doesn't care about anything except Sam, in him and around him and so fucking good.
Sam gasps his name when he comes, whispers, "Dean," like it's a benediction, and rides out his orgasm with both hands clutching Dean's hips. He slumps down after, half on Dean and half on the bed, his nose buried in the bunched-up material of Dean's shirt beneath Dean's arm. His lips move in butterfly kisses along Dean's ribs, wherever he can reach without moving, and they come down like that together, breathing falling in sync, skin sticking to skin.
Dean squeezes his ass experimentally around Sam's softening cock just to feel him shudder and moan. After a few moments, he groans, "I'm all sticky and gross. And hot."
Sam huffs a laugh against his side, and then reaches down to hold the condom as he pulls out. He rolls off Dean completely, ties the condom in a knot, and tosses it somewhere in the vicinity of the trashcan. "Pussy," he says, rolling back to plaster his naked, sweaty body all over Dean's.
Dean pulls a face, but lifts his arm obligingly and slides his fingers into Sam's sweaty hair. "Bitch.”
For a moment they lay in companionable silence, staring into the darkness and listening to the steady hum of rain drumming on the roof, mingled with the sound of their own breathing, their own heartbeats. Dean feels almost peaceful, or at least restful, which doesn’t come often these days.
“You still want to go find a bar?” Sam asks after a minute.
Dean huffs out a quiet laugh and tightens his arm around the back of Sam’s neck. “Nah. I was kind of thinkin’ we should stay in tonight. We could eat Cheetos, play some cards, maybe even braid each other’s hair.”
Sam’s body shakes with silent laughter, and he buries his face in Dean’s shoulder. “Yeah, Dean,” he murmurs, grin pressed against Dean’s skin, “that sounds great.”
end.
a/n: Title from Billy Joel's "Stormfront."