Fic: A Little Filthy
Title: A Little Filthy
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural (Dean/Sam)
Author: casey679
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Hand Jobs, Public Sex
Length: 1.1k words
Community: Saturday Night Specials, BroBoneBang2022
Summary: Sam recognizes the tone in Dean's voice a minute too late. By the time the protests are lodged in his throat - this place is disgusting and there are people not even thirty feet away from us and Sam's favorite, we're on the fucking clock Dean and I'm not going to die on a hunt with my dick in your hand - Dean's got Sam's collar locked in his fist, trapping Sam close enough to smell the whiskey and hamburger on his breath.
"Relax," Dean says, like anyone could do it and Sam's just an idiot or something.
Sam snorts and flips his coat collar up a little higher. Relax - yeah, right.
Relax, like it isn't barely 55 degrees in the alley where they're lurking, waiting to see if the creature they're hunting bothers to show up. Like it isn't 2 a.m. and the only people they've seen are club kids drunk off their asses and a homeless guy who stopped to piss against a dumpster and tried to bum a cigarette off them. Like they didn't eat hours ago and Sam's stomach isn't growling, despite the fact that the alley smells like the grease left in the deep-fryer for far too long at the Jack-in-the-Box around the corner. Grease and ash, his mind corrects, because the business around the other corner is a mortuary and you can never quite escape the faint-but-ubiquitous smell that always surrounds a crematorium.
Trapped between French fries and a funeral - if that isn't a metaphor for Sam's life. But sure, he should just relax.
"What, you think I'm joking?" Dean takes a step closer to Sam and pokes him in the chest. "You're so uptight, you're scaring the monsters away. You look like the world's worst undercover vice cop at a New Jersey hookers' convention."
Sam scowls right back, trying to ignore the hypnotic pull in his chest that makes him want to sway close enough to lose the scent of the alley in his brother's cologne. "The fact that you know what that looks like says more about you than me."
He settles for slouching down instead, trying to look like it's totally his idea and not the result of his brother's instigation. It's not Sam's fault that Dean was apparently born to effortlessly fit in among the dregs of society. That's a good line, he thinks, good enough that he actually says it out loud, just to watch Dean roll his eyes.
Except Dean's eyes don't roll. Instead, they light up with a strange intensity, flitting down to his lips and back up to his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something, but a door further down in the alley opens up, distributing a cloud of drunken twenty-somethings looking for a place to smoke. They're loud and giggly and don't seem to notice them at all. So much for standing out, Sam thinks self-righteously.
Which is when Dean hooks his fingers under Sam's collar and yanks him forward until they're cheek to cheek. His breath puffs out over Sam's cheek for a second, then-
"Ain't nothing wrong with getting a little filthy now and then, brother."
Oh no.
Sam recognizes the tone in Dean's voice a minute too late. By the time the protests are lodged in his throat - this place is disgusting and there are people not even thirty feet away from us and Sam's favorite, we're on the fucking clock Dean and I'm not going to die on a hunt with my dick in your hand - Dean's got Sam's collar locked in his fist, trapping Sam close enough to smell the whiskey and hamburger on his breath.
"Dean-"
Sam could pull away, sure, if he wanted to rip his shirt, but - ironically - this is Dean's Led Zeppelin shirt, threadbare and soft and comfy, and Sam only steals it because he likes wearing it so much. So instead he crowds in closer to Dean, angling his body and praying that the club-goers won't be able to see anything more than shapes in the darkness.
And meanwhile Dean that asshole is scrabbling at Sam's belt. The leather sags, buckle clinking as it swings this way and that, jolting into Dean's similarly dangling one. It would be a little disturbing, how expert Dean is at the art of unzipping two pairs of pants simultaneously with one hand if Sam wasn't the only one who knew about it. As it is, he can admit - to himself, anyway - that it's also kinda hot.
"Kiss me," Dean demands, pulling Sam down to mash their lips together. The kiss is relentless, Dean's tongue demanding entrance between Sam's lips the same way his left hand is reaching into Sam's jeans. Then somehow, miraculously, he's got Sam's cock out and pressed up against his own. Dean shoulda been a magician, Sam thinks, and then - oh-
The minute Dean's got both their dicks firmly in his hand, he drops his hold on Sam's collar and twines his fingers through his hair again. The kiss never stops, just intensifies. Sam's hands hit the wall on each side of Dean's head, like a perp waiting for the cops to frisk him, except all the frisking is happening right in front of him.
Dean breaks off the kiss, stubble sliding against stubble as he whispers, "That's better," in Sam's ear. "Now you look like you fit in with the rest of us filth." He twists his hand each time it slides up to the tip, collecting the fluids that have begun to gather there to ease the skin-on-skin-on-skin of each stroke. He yanks Sam's hair, forcibly tilting his head to one side, and sinks his teeth firmly into Sam's neck - not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to leave a mark. Hard enough to make Sam moan.
Sam's aware, vaguely, of the drunken conversation choking off, and a flurry of girls giggling. He should be embarrassed by this, but instead he's turned on, more than he's ever been before.
"That's right," Dean says, "no point in stopping now that everyone already knows." He licks his tongue across the indentations he's left in Sam's neck, fist flying faster as he jacks them off. "Go on," he croons, "give 'em a show." His breath is hot against Sam's neck, each word seared into his flesh as Dean continues. There's not quite enough liquid to keep the friction from adding the hint of an ache. They can't keep this up, or they'll both be rubbed raw.
Sam doesn't want to keep it up much longer, anyway.
"C'mon," Dean says, hand tightening in Sam's hair until he can't move his upper body, until he's trapped in Dean's relentless grip, the alley dropping away, onlookers forgotten, and-
"Make me filthy," he says, lips crashing back on Sam's to swallow the noises he makes.
And Sam does.
* * *
By the time the ghoul shows up, the clubs are closed, the drunks are gone, and Sam's gotten himself as un-filthy as a couple of wet-naps can make him.
It doesn't stop the ghoul from inhaling deeply and then leering at him. "I can smell y-"
Sam decapitates it in a single strike. "I don't care."
He looks back at Dean and clocks the look in his eyes. "No," he says sternly, like Dean is a misbehaving animal, because, yes, he is. "Not in this alley again, not next to a dead body, just - no."
"Next to a dead body," Dean says sunnily. "Kinky, Sam. I like it."
Sam ignores him and begins to prep the body for disposal.
His resolve lasts as far as the Impala.
~fin~
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural (Dean/Sam)
Author: casey679
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Hand Jobs, Public Sex
Length: 1.1k words
Community: Saturday Night Specials, BroBoneBang2022
Summary: Sam recognizes the tone in Dean's voice a minute too late. By the time the protests are lodged in his throat - this place is disgusting and there are people not even thirty feet away from us and Sam's favorite, we're on the fucking clock Dean and I'm not going to die on a hunt with my dick in your hand - Dean's got Sam's collar locked in his fist, trapping Sam close enough to smell the whiskey and hamburger on his breath.
"Relax," Dean says, like anyone could do it and Sam's just an idiot or something.
Sam snorts and flips his coat collar up a little higher. Relax - yeah, right.
Relax, like it isn't barely 55 degrees in the alley where they're lurking, waiting to see if the creature they're hunting bothers to show up. Like it isn't 2 a.m. and the only people they've seen are club kids drunk off their asses and a homeless guy who stopped to piss against a dumpster and tried to bum a cigarette off them. Like they didn't eat hours ago and Sam's stomach isn't growling, despite the fact that the alley smells like the grease left in the deep-fryer for far too long at the Jack-in-the-Box around the corner. Grease and ash, his mind corrects, because the business around the other corner is a mortuary and you can never quite escape the faint-but-ubiquitous smell that always surrounds a crematorium.
Trapped between French fries and a funeral - if that isn't a metaphor for Sam's life. But sure, he should just relax.
"What, you think I'm joking?" Dean takes a step closer to Sam and pokes him in the chest. "You're so uptight, you're scaring the monsters away. You look like the world's worst undercover vice cop at a New Jersey hookers' convention."
Sam scowls right back, trying to ignore the hypnotic pull in his chest that makes him want to sway close enough to lose the scent of the alley in his brother's cologne. "The fact that you know what that looks like says more about you than me."
He settles for slouching down instead, trying to look like it's totally his idea and not the result of his brother's instigation. It's not Sam's fault that Dean was apparently born to effortlessly fit in among the dregs of society. That's a good line, he thinks, good enough that he actually says it out loud, just to watch Dean roll his eyes.
Except Dean's eyes don't roll. Instead, they light up with a strange intensity, flitting down to his lips and back up to his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something, but a door further down in the alley opens up, distributing a cloud of drunken twenty-somethings looking for a place to smoke. They're loud and giggly and don't seem to notice them at all. So much for standing out, Sam thinks self-righteously.
Which is when Dean hooks his fingers under Sam's collar and yanks him forward until they're cheek to cheek. His breath puffs out over Sam's cheek for a second, then-
"Ain't nothing wrong with getting a little filthy now and then, brother."
Oh no.
Sam recognizes the tone in Dean's voice a minute too late. By the time the protests are lodged in his throat - this place is disgusting and there are people not even thirty feet away from us and Sam's favorite, we're on the fucking clock Dean and I'm not going to die on a hunt with my dick in your hand - Dean's got Sam's collar locked in his fist, trapping Sam close enough to smell the whiskey and hamburger on his breath.
"Dean-"
Sam could pull away, sure, if he wanted to rip his shirt, but - ironically - this is Dean's Led Zeppelin shirt, threadbare and soft and comfy, and Sam only steals it because he likes wearing it so much. So instead he crowds in closer to Dean, angling his body and praying that the club-goers won't be able to see anything more than shapes in the darkness.
And meanwhile Dean that asshole is scrabbling at Sam's belt. The leather sags, buckle clinking as it swings this way and that, jolting into Dean's similarly dangling one. It would be a little disturbing, how expert Dean is at the art of unzipping two pairs of pants simultaneously with one hand if Sam wasn't the only one who knew about it. As it is, he can admit - to himself, anyway - that it's also kinda hot.
"Kiss me," Dean demands, pulling Sam down to mash their lips together. The kiss is relentless, Dean's tongue demanding entrance between Sam's lips the same way his left hand is reaching into Sam's jeans. Then somehow, miraculously, he's got Sam's cock out and pressed up against his own. Dean shoulda been a magician, Sam thinks, and then - oh-
The minute Dean's got both their dicks firmly in his hand, he drops his hold on Sam's collar and twines his fingers through his hair again. The kiss never stops, just intensifies. Sam's hands hit the wall on each side of Dean's head, like a perp waiting for the cops to frisk him, except all the frisking is happening right in front of him.
Dean breaks off the kiss, stubble sliding against stubble as he whispers, "That's better," in Sam's ear. "Now you look like you fit in with the rest of us filth." He twists his hand each time it slides up to the tip, collecting the fluids that have begun to gather there to ease the skin-on-skin-on-skin of each stroke. He yanks Sam's hair, forcibly tilting his head to one side, and sinks his teeth firmly into Sam's neck - not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to leave a mark. Hard enough to make Sam moan.
Sam's aware, vaguely, of the drunken conversation choking off, and a flurry of girls giggling. He should be embarrassed by this, but instead he's turned on, more than he's ever been before.
"That's right," Dean says, "no point in stopping now that everyone already knows." He licks his tongue across the indentations he's left in Sam's neck, fist flying faster as he jacks them off. "Go on," he croons, "give 'em a show." His breath is hot against Sam's neck, each word seared into his flesh as Dean continues. There's not quite enough liquid to keep the friction from adding the hint of an ache. They can't keep this up, or they'll both be rubbed raw.
Sam doesn't want to keep it up much longer, anyway.
"C'mon," Dean says, hand tightening in Sam's hair until he can't move his upper body, until he's trapped in Dean's relentless grip, the alley dropping away, onlookers forgotten, and-
"Make me filthy," he says, lips crashing back on Sam's to swallow the noises he makes.
And Sam does.
* * *
By the time the ghoul shows up, the clubs are closed, the drunks are gone, and Sam's gotten himself as un-filthy as a couple of wet-naps can make him.
It doesn't stop the ghoul from inhaling deeply and then leering at him. "I can smell y-"
Sam decapitates it in a single strike. "I don't care."
He looks back at Dean and clocks the look in his eyes. "No," he says sternly, like Dean is a misbehaving animal, because, yes, he is. "Not in this alley again, not next to a dead body, just - no."
"Next to a dead body," Dean says sunnily. "Kinky, Sam. I like it."
Sam ignores him and begins to prep the body for disposal.
His resolve lasts as far as the Impala.
~fin~