SPN fic: Heart-Shaped Beds, Room-Service Vibrators, and Other Tacky Accoutrements
Title: Heart-Shaped Beds, Room-Service Vibrators, and Other Tacky Accoutrements
Summary: ...are entirely unnecessary. (Sam and Dean check into yet another over-the-top motel. Sam is pissy. Dean is horny. Whatever, they’ve seen it all before.)
Author: ciaan
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke and The CW, and I doubt you’ll ever see this in an episode.
Spoilers: up through Provenance
Pairing: none (Dean, Sam, masturbation, porn-watching)
Rating: non-work-safe
Words: 3,400
Thanks: To buffyspazz, sinisterf, and beckaandzac for betaing. Muchly thanks.
The bed is shaped like a heart. A giant, red heart with ruffles around it, and a huge mirror on the ceiling. Sam twitches when they open the door, and Dean laughs. This is even crazier than the motel last week in New York.
They’d pulled into town to discover that, on Sunday morning, everyone was at church, which meant they couldn’t interview anyone or explore the graveyard. All the stores were closed. The one motel in town had burned down the week before, the other was full of dentists, and the next town over was sixty miles away. Too far to commute for this job, Dean had thought. They kept driving around a bit and then they saw this place.
Somewhere that charged by the hour wasn’t their usual type. Dean had had to listen to Sam muttering about how it “contradicts the small-town religious values clearly espoused by this community” and “can’t possibly be economically feasible in this locale” until Dean punched him in the arm and just booked them a room anyway.
The pretty woman at the check-in counter had given him quite a leer when he told her they wanted to stay until the next day, but she’d seemed to ignore his flirting after Sam came in with the bags. Dean grumbled about that, and Sam gave him this Look as they walked down the hallway and, well, Dean wasn’t too thick to get it.
So here they are, in a room where even Dean knows that the pale blue walls, covered in pin-ups from the ‘40s and ‘50s, clash with the bed. Hell, the bed clashes with itself, and Sam tosses their bags in the corner and shakes his head again.
Dean throws himself onto the heart-shaped bed, feeling it bounce softly beneath him. He stares up at the mirror for a long moment, then looks down and notices that there’s a room service menu on the table next to him, under the lamp with a tasseled shade. He picks it up.
It ain’t for food.
“Hey, Sam. You want the giant red dildo, or the giant blue one?” he asks, holding up the laminated sheet, showing off the pictures of vibrators and edible underwear and fake dicks and pussies. Sam glares and goes to sit in the huge, overstuffed yellow armchair on the other side of the bed, closer to the little window. Dean’s never seen a motel window that small. Guess people really want their privacy here.
Dean flips the menu over, and his fingers slide on something sticky. He drops it on the floor by the table, wiping his hands off on the bedspread, grimacing. Sam chortles at that. “I bet their products are just as unsanitary.” It’s Dean’s turn to glare, and he flips Sam off, too, just for good measure.
Dean opens the drawer of the bedside table, wondering if Gideon left his Bible here. He didn’t. The drawer is full of condoms and little packets of lube, and even some dental dams and gloves in the back. Dean pulls out a handful of condoms consideringly. They are free, after all.
“People probably take pins to those,” Sam says, voice sour.
“You’re just full of good cheer and faith in your fellow man, aren’t you?” Dean drops the condoms back in the pile and closes the drawer. Sam’s been pissy all week.
And you know, Dean had tried his hardest with that Sarah chick, he really had, and he was proud of Sam for taking at least part of a chance, but still. Since then, Sam has been even worse. Dean thinks Sam might be trying to be an obnoxious bitch on purpose at this point. Not that Sam has to work very hard for that title.
Sam’s got Dad’s journal open, fussing with the collection of newspaper clippings for the job. Dean figures if he tries to touch anything right now Sam’ll bite his head off. That journal ain’t big enough for the both of them.
The ghost or whatever isn’t going to kill anyone in the next hour while the townsfolk’re all still singing hosannas, so Dean picks up the remote and clicks on the TV. Loud moans fill the room, and he lowers the volume quickly. Sam flicks him a glare, then looks away, pointedly ignoring it.
Some guy is pounding into a girl from behind, camera cutting to a close-up from between his legs, his dick slipping in and out of her pussy, balls bouncing. Dean changes the channel, idly surfing from sex act to sex act. He alights on one with the time-honored pizza guy plot just as the four women are starting to take off their clothes.
“Dude, that guy is fugly,” he says, as the women all descend on the man and pull at his shirt. “Those chicks should come to me, instead.”
“That’s what Jess always used to say.” Sam doesn’t look up, but Dean turns to stare at him. Not only is he confused by what Sam might mean, but Sam almost never talks about Jess, certainly not casual mentions like that.
So Dean knows basically nothing about her. She was hot, Sam loved her, she died. That’s it. Sam doesn’t tell stories about her, or drop comments if anything reminds him of her. No, ‘Hey, I saw this movie with Jessica,’ or, ‘So this one time, when Jess and I…’ Nothing.
“What do you mean?” Dean asks, trying to keep his voice neutral, hoping Sam will open up, hoping this is healthy for him.
Sam shrugs. “She said the guys in porn were generally unattractive so that men wouldn’t feel threatened by them, either as competition or possible lust objects.” He’s still staring at a newspaper article, body still, but his fingernail is catching repetitively on the edge of the page, making an annoying little noise.
Dean just doesn’t know how Sam’s mind works sometimes. Of all the things he could say about his dead girlfriend. Dean lowers the TV volume a little more as the pizza guy becomes the appetizer, the women all cooing over the chance to suck his dick.
“Women apparently don’t have the same problem,” Sam continues. “Something about the over-exposure of the nude female form in our culture.”
He stops talking, and Dean fumbles for the first thing he can think to say, anything to keep Sam going. “What, did you two watch porn together a lot?”
“Jess did this whole project with one of her friends.”
“A porn project?”
“An analysis of the social and artistic merits of various types of porn.”
Hot, but smart in that same annoying Sam way.
“So what did she decide?” Dean asks, still wondering how long this will last. He doesn’t look at Sam, but starts changing the channel again. The flickers of constantly new images are enough to hold his eyes without distracting him from the conversation, mental white noise.
“A lot of things. Mostly that it was all really fake.” Sam shakes his head, Dean seeing the motion just out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t know, she kinda liked the gay porn. Enough that I watched some with her.”
“You watched guys fucking each other?”
“It’s the kind of thing you do when you love someone,” Sam says, as if Dean wouldn’t know anything about that. Dean clenches his jaw.
“Did you like it?”
“I liked what happened afterward.” Sam almost smiles, almost, and Dean laughs and changes the channel again. “When you’re with someone for a long time, you have to try new things.” He pauses, continues. “Did you and Cassie ever…?”
“Nah. We never really… got to that stage.”
“So what’s the weirdest thing a woman ever asked you to do?”
“Well, this one chick wanted to piss on my face.”
Sam stares open-mouthed. “Did you do it?”
“No way.”
“I should fucking hope not.”
Suddenly there’s a scream from the next room, a high-pitched shriek of ecstasy that sounds as fake as any bad porno. They both jump a little.
“Sounds like someone’s getting busy,” Dean says, once his heart’s calmed down from that first moment when he heard the scream as fear, like most of the screams he hears.
Sam wipes his hands on his jeans, pressing them against his thighs, looking down at the newspaper in his lap. Dean glances at his watch, checking the time, giving himself an excuse to glance over at Sam briefly. Sam’s face has returned to being closed off.
The woman in the other room shrieks again, and again. Her repetitions of ‘yes’ and ‘oh God’ are just annoying. Sam winces.
“They can’t keep it up forever,” Dean says, hopefully, and earns an eyeroll in response. They sit there and wait it out for the next few minutes, until the yells and thumps fade away. Dean watches Sam as he flips through newspaper articles, his shoulders getting tighter and tighter, until he finally jerks his head up.
“I’m reading. Leave me alone. Surely you have better things to do.”
Grinning, Dean turns the volume back up on the TV, settles himself against the headboard to actually watch it. He passes through a few more channels and thinks he’s probably gone through them all, but isn’t quite sure. He finally stops on one, this redhead fingering herself in the middle of a bed covered with stuffed animals. He watches her and yeah, that’s the ticket, that’s good.
Her breasts are small but bouncy, her eyes closed and mouth pursed, her fingers slipping wetly in and out of her pussy. She’s spread open, camera between her legs, holding her own thighs apart. Dean’s getting hard, watching, imagining his hands touching her instead.
“Hey, Sam, why should every woman in the world masturbate with these two fingers?” He holds up the first two fingers of his left hand, the hand closest to Sam.
“Why, Dean?” Sam responds, voice resigned.
“Because they’re mine.”
Dean can’t remember where he first heard that joke, but he loves it. It’s so true. Sam doesn’t even bother to react, just keeps reading.
Fine, so Sam wants to continue to be that way, uptight, annoyed, annoying. Dean can live with it, but he doesn’t want to right now. It just sucks that Sam would take a good thing like kissing a pretty girl and turn it into one more reason to have a bad mood.
The girl onscreen is gasping harder now, fingers speeding up, brokenly fucking herself. Dean shifts on the bed, fiddling with the remote, rubbing his thumb over the buttons of it, his jeans constricting. He doesn’t touch himself yet, just feels the press of denim against his dick, feels the throbbing spreading up his spine.
There’s a tiny motion in Sam’s chair, and Dean can tell that Sam is intrigued, even though he’s pretending not to be. He doesn’t even have to really look or listen to know that, he can just feel it. Sam’s presence in the room is natural as air, always has been, and Dean knows these things automatically. There was a time when he got used to Sam not being there, but it never stopped feeling like something was missing.
At first, when Sam came back, it was like a constant exclamation in Dean’s heart, ‘Sammy’s here, Sammy’s here, Sammy’s here.’ By now it’s settled down more, and it’s again just, ‘oh, of course Sam’s here.’
Dean’s determined to make Sam cheer up, at least for a little while.
On the TV, the girl is yelling, “I’m coming! I’m coming!” Dean doesn’t care if it’s real or not, the fiction’s good enough for him.
“Sammy, do you mind if I…” He waves vaguely at his crotch.
Sam doesn’t look up. “Does it even matter what I say? You’ll do it anyway.”
“Yeah, well, just trying to be polite.”
Setting the remote beside him, Dean reaches for his fly, slowly unbuttoning it and pulling down the zipper. He slides his right hand down and gets his dick through the slit in his boxers, wrapping his hand around the base as the redhead onscreen pants into her pillow. He rubs his thumb back and forth, feeling the zing through the back of his brain. Sighing, he straightens up against the headboard.
The TV girl looks over to the side as her door creaks open and a man enters. He starts talking about how noisy and naughty she’s been. “I guess you’ll have to punish me, Daddy,” she says, and Dean drops his dick like a hot potato to fumble for the remote, sees Sam frowning.
Blowjob, anal, bondage, and Dean’s looking for something else good to cover the silence in the room when he sees two women, a blonde and a brunette, touching each other in a flowery garden. Oh, yeah.
He sets the remote down again, this time carefully within reach, and remembers those two chicks from last week. They were smokin’, even if he hadn’t managed to talk them into putting on a show like this. What they had done totally made up for it.
Dean holds his jeans with his left hand, keeping the teeth of the zipper out of the way. He grips his dick, stroking firmly, imposing the faces of those two women over the ones on the screen, watching the blonde suck at the brunette’s tits. He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, breathing heavier.
Out of the corner of his eye Dean can see that Sam’s slouched lower in the chair, legs spread. Dean grins. He’s gonna win this one.
“Hey, Sam, you really oughta watch this. The brunette’s sliding her hand up the blonde’s thigh, going up her skirt.” The blonde whimpers as the brunette’s hand disappears, then reappears when the camera moves to an angle looking up the skirt. The blonde isn’t wearing any underwear. It’s like striking gold.
Dean grips his dick tighter as the brunette’s slim fingers stroke across the other girl’s blushing skin. That looks so good right now. It’s feeling way too long since he’s gotten laid, even if it was only a week ago. His hand just doesn’t feel quite as nice as that pussy would, or even her hand.
It feels good enough for a quick release, though, heat gathering in his crotch, shivers running up his spine. But he’s not ready yet, moves his hand slow.
The brunette leans over the blonde, mouthing at her ear, fingers still working. The blonde moans, reaches for the other woman’s breast.
“Now the blonde’s sucking the brunette’s nipple. She’s got awesome tits, firm, round. They both do.” Dean’s hand is moving so slowly that glaciers could outrun it, which is its own kind of torturous pleasure, as he waits for Sam to give in. It’s been ages since Sam last turned a page, his head still stubbornly down, but Dean can feel the tension vibrating off him, knows he’s interested. “Come on, hot lesbian action. How can you resist.”
Sam turns to stare in Dean’s eyes. “Hey, Dean, you remember that one time?”
“What one time?” Dean has absolutely no idea what Sam’s talking about, since he doesn’t think there was that one time they got covered in honey and thrown to the lesbians together.
“Years ago, when I had a girl over and you started yelling instructions at her from the kitchen?”
Oh right, but that doesn’t have anything to do with this. “Her technique was awful.”
“You ruined the mood.”
“What mood? She was giving you the world’s worst blowjob.”
“You made her so angry she stormed out of the house!” The newspaper crinkles as Sam clenches his fingers on it, turning away and staring at the wall in front of him. “Anyhow, the point is, there’s this thing called counter-productive, and you’re being it.”
Dean snorts, but Sam’s got a point. There’s been too much talking and not enough jerking.
The brunette tugs at the denim of the blonde’s skirt, pulling it down her legs, then slips out of her own pants, and Dean tugs on himself faster.
“Damn,” Dean breathes, as the two women press together, wrapping their legs around each other, wet pussies joining, breasts rubbing, tongues locking in a deep kiss. This is how Dean wants to spend every Sunday morning, a sermon he’d gladly see preached again and again.
It gets even better when Dean notices the furtive motion of Sam sticking his hand down his pants. Dean grins triumphantly. He’s the man, oh yeah, he’s the fucking man. There’s no way Sam can resist Dean’s genius powers of persuasion.
Dean rolls his head back, looking at the mirror on the ceiling. He sees his own face, smirking and a little flushed. There’s the TV, with the girls on it all upside down, looking mighty acrobatic at that angle. And there’s the top of Sam’s head, shaggy bangs obscuring his face, one huge-ass hand still holding up a newspaper, the other working in his crotch. How Sam can fit that hand in under his jeans along with his dick and actually do anything useful is beyond Dean’s comprehension. He almost says something like: ‘oh come on Sammy, don’t be a dork, just whip it out, get your rocks off properly, chill.’
But he certainly doesn’t want to be counter-productive right now, because damn, it took enough work to get Sam to this point. Dean just wants Sam to relax and have fun and not ruin Dean’s good moods all the time.
Speaking of good moods…
The brunette has slid down between the blonde’s legs, face buried in her pussy, and Dean can appreciate that, too. He speeds up, ready to finish this off, hot pleasure gathering harder, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and tonguing it.
There’s a metallic rasp, and Dean can hear Sam’s breathing and the rustle of his jeans, barely audible over the TV. He doesn’t bother to check on him visually again. It’s all going well, he’s pleased, and he’s not going to worry about that anymore. It’s a job well done, time to enjoy his rewards.
The sensation is pooling, strengthening, wrapping its way up his spine, and he’s not even paying attention to anything anymore, the moans from the TV and the colors on the screen flowing over him like water off a duck’s back. He pulls harder, thumbing over the head of his dick, just an inch away from completion.
And there, it tightens up and the sensation bursts in his brain, come slopping out across his fingers and stomach.
Dean lets himself relax further into the pillows, millions of sparkles across his skin. That’s the ticket. The room comes back into focus and he stares at the blonde’s face as she pretends to come, too, but he’s not really paying attention to it, instead listening to Sam’s faint sounds. He’s about to wipe his hand on the bedspread when the ruffles catch his eye, and he remembers there’s only one bed and decides not to give Sam any reason to bitch. So he grabs a tissue from the box on the tacky table and cleans up.
There’s one last sigh from Sam’s direction and then silence. Dean waits a few seconds, then tosses the Kleenex box over without looking, just a muttered ‘here’ to warn Sam in advance. Sam catches it, and Dean chuckles and fastens up his jeans. He grabs the remote and starts changing channels again, but he’s paying even less attention than before. He doesn’t really need all these naked bodies and random sex acts anymore. Sam’s rustling papers again. Suddenly, Dean’s watching a man chop vegetables on the screen and his finger hovers in shock, not pushing the button.
“Hey, they have the cooking channel here,” Sam says, a note of interest in his voice. Dean turns and stares. Sam stares back, eyes open wide, eyebrows raised, as if wondering what Dean could possibly think is worth looking at. Then his mouth slowly splits into a wide grin, and he guffaws. Dean shakes his head softly, smiling back.
Sam stands up, hand at his fly, holding it closed.
“I’m going to take a shower.”
Dean jerks his chin. “Be careful about touching the walls. You never know what people have done in there.”
“Bitch,” Sam shoots back.
“That’s my line.” Dean can’t help grinning. Sam just smirks as he opens the bathroom door.
Summary: ...are entirely unnecessary. (Sam and Dean check into yet another over-the-top motel. Sam is pissy. Dean is horny. Whatever, they’ve seen it all before.)
Author: ciaan
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke and The CW, and I doubt you’ll ever see this in an episode.
Spoilers: up through Provenance
Pairing: none (Dean, Sam, masturbation, porn-watching)
Rating: non-work-safe
Words: 3,400
Thanks: To buffyspazz, sinisterf, and beckaandzac for betaing. Muchly thanks.
The bed is shaped like a heart. A giant, red heart with ruffles around it, and a huge mirror on the ceiling. Sam twitches when they open the door, and Dean laughs. This is even crazier than the motel last week in New York.
They’d pulled into town to discover that, on Sunday morning, everyone was at church, which meant they couldn’t interview anyone or explore the graveyard. All the stores were closed. The one motel in town had burned down the week before, the other was full of dentists, and the next town over was sixty miles away. Too far to commute for this job, Dean had thought. They kept driving around a bit and then they saw this place.
Somewhere that charged by the hour wasn’t their usual type. Dean had had to listen to Sam muttering about how it “contradicts the small-town religious values clearly espoused by this community” and “can’t possibly be economically feasible in this locale” until Dean punched him in the arm and just booked them a room anyway.
The pretty woman at the check-in counter had given him quite a leer when he told her they wanted to stay until the next day, but she’d seemed to ignore his flirting after Sam came in with the bags. Dean grumbled about that, and Sam gave him this Look as they walked down the hallway and, well, Dean wasn’t too thick to get it.
So here they are, in a room where even Dean knows that the pale blue walls, covered in pin-ups from the ‘40s and ‘50s, clash with the bed. Hell, the bed clashes with itself, and Sam tosses their bags in the corner and shakes his head again.
Dean throws himself onto the heart-shaped bed, feeling it bounce softly beneath him. He stares up at the mirror for a long moment, then looks down and notices that there’s a room service menu on the table next to him, under the lamp with a tasseled shade. He picks it up.
It ain’t for food.
“Hey, Sam. You want the giant red dildo, or the giant blue one?” he asks, holding up the laminated sheet, showing off the pictures of vibrators and edible underwear and fake dicks and pussies. Sam glares and goes to sit in the huge, overstuffed yellow armchair on the other side of the bed, closer to the little window. Dean’s never seen a motel window that small. Guess people really want their privacy here.
Dean flips the menu over, and his fingers slide on something sticky. He drops it on the floor by the table, wiping his hands off on the bedspread, grimacing. Sam chortles at that. “I bet their products are just as unsanitary.” It’s Dean’s turn to glare, and he flips Sam off, too, just for good measure.
Dean opens the drawer of the bedside table, wondering if Gideon left his Bible here. He didn’t. The drawer is full of condoms and little packets of lube, and even some dental dams and gloves in the back. Dean pulls out a handful of condoms consideringly. They are free, after all.
“People probably take pins to those,” Sam says, voice sour.
“You’re just full of good cheer and faith in your fellow man, aren’t you?” Dean drops the condoms back in the pile and closes the drawer. Sam’s been pissy all week.
And you know, Dean had tried his hardest with that Sarah chick, he really had, and he was proud of Sam for taking at least part of a chance, but still. Since then, Sam has been even worse. Dean thinks Sam might be trying to be an obnoxious bitch on purpose at this point. Not that Sam has to work very hard for that title.
Sam’s got Dad’s journal open, fussing with the collection of newspaper clippings for the job. Dean figures if he tries to touch anything right now Sam’ll bite his head off. That journal ain’t big enough for the both of them.
The ghost or whatever isn’t going to kill anyone in the next hour while the townsfolk’re all still singing hosannas, so Dean picks up the remote and clicks on the TV. Loud moans fill the room, and he lowers the volume quickly. Sam flicks him a glare, then looks away, pointedly ignoring it.
Some guy is pounding into a girl from behind, camera cutting to a close-up from between his legs, his dick slipping in and out of her pussy, balls bouncing. Dean changes the channel, idly surfing from sex act to sex act. He alights on one with the time-honored pizza guy plot just as the four women are starting to take off their clothes.
“Dude, that guy is fugly,” he says, as the women all descend on the man and pull at his shirt. “Those chicks should come to me, instead.”
“That’s what Jess always used to say.” Sam doesn’t look up, but Dean turns to stare at him. Not only is he confused by what Sam might mean, but Sam almost never talks about Jess, certainly not casual mentions like that.
So Dean knows basically nothing about her. She was hot, Sam loved her, she died. That’s it. Sam doesn’t tell stories about her, or drop comments if anything reminds him of her. No, ‘Hey, I saw this movie with Jessica,’ or, ‘So this one time, when Jess and I…’ Nothing.
“What do you mean?” Dean asks, trying to keep his voice neutral, hoping Sam will open up, hoping this is healthy for him.
Sam shrugs. “She said the guys in porn were generally unattractive so that men wouldn’t feel threatened by them, either as competition or possible lust objects.” He’s still staring at a newspaper article, body still, but his fingernail is catching repetitively on the edge of the page, making an annoying little noise.
Dean just doesn’t know how Sam’s mind works sometimes. Of all the things he could say about his dead girlfriend. Dean lowers the TV volume a little more as the pizza guy becomes the appetizer, the women all cooing over the chance to suck his dick.
“Women apparently don’t have the same problem,” Sam continues. “Something about the over-exposure of the nude female form in our culture.”
He stops talking, and Dean fumbles for the first thing he can think to say, anything to keep Sam going. “What, did you two watch porn together a lot?”
“Jess did this whole project with one of her friends.”
“A porn project?”
“An analysis of the social and artistic merits of various types of porn.”
Hot, but smart in that same annoying Sam way.
“So what did she decide?” Dean asks, still wondering how long this will last. He doesn’t look at Sam, but starts changing the channel again. The flickers of constantly new images are enough to hold his eyes without distracting him from the conversation, mental white noise.
“A lot of things. Mostly that it was all really fake.” Sam shakes his head, Dean seeing the motion just out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t know, she kinda liked the gay porn. Enough that I watched some with her.”
“You watched guys fucking each other?”
“It’s the kind of thing you do when you love someone,” Sam says, as if Dean wouldn’t know anything about that. Dean clenches his jaw.
“Did you like it?”
“I liked what happened afterward.” Sam almost smiles, almost, and Dean laughs and changes the channel again. “When you’re with someone for a long time, you have to try new things.” He pauses, continues. “Did you and Cassie ever…?”
“Nah. We never really… got to that stage.”
“So what’s the weirdest thing a woman ever asked you to do?”
“Well, this one chick wanted to piss on my face.”
Sam stares open-mouthed. “Did you do it?”
“No way.”
“I should fucking hope not.”
Suddenly there’s a scream from the next room, a high-pitched shriek of ecstasy that sounds as fake as any bad porno. They both jump a little.
“Sounds like someone’s getting busy,” Dean says, once his heart’s calmed down from that first moment when he heard the scream as fear, like most of the screams he hears.
Sam wipes his hands on his jeans, pressing them against his thighs, looking down at the newspaper in his lap. Dean glances at his watch, checking the time, giving himself an excuse to glance over at Sam briefly. Sam’s face has returned to being closed off.
The woman in the other room shrieks again, and again. Her repetitions of ‘yes’ and ‘oh God’ are just annoying. Sam winces.
“They can’t keep it up forever,” Dean says, hopefully, and earns an eyeroll in response. They sit there and wait it out for the next few minutes, until the yells and thumps fade away. Dean watches Sam as he flips through newspaper articles, his shoulders getting tighter and tighter, until he finally jerks his head up.
“I’m reading. Leave me alone. Surely you have better things to do.”
Grinning, Dean turns the volume back up on the TV, settles himself against the headboard to actually watch it. He passes through a few more channels and thinks he’s probably gone through them all, but isn’t quite sure. He finally stops on one, this redhead fingering herself in the middle of a bed covered with stuffed animals. He watches her and yeah, that’s the ticket, that’s good.
Her breasts are small but bouncy, her eyes closed and mouth pursed, her fingers slipping wetly in and out of her pussy. She’s spread open, camera between her legs, holding her own thighs apart. Dean’s getting hard, watching, imagining his hands touching her instead.
“Hey, Sam, why should every woman in the world masturbate with these two fingers?” He holds up the first two fingers of his left hand, the hand closest to Sam.
“Why, Dean?” Sam responds, voice resigned.
“Because they’re mine.”
Dean can’t remember where he first heard that joke, but he loves it. It’s so true. Sam doesn’t even bother to react, just keeps reading.
Fine, so Sam wants to continue to be that way, uptight, annoyed, annoying. Dean can live with it, but he doesn’t want to right now. It just sucks that Sam would take a good thing like kissing a pretty girl and turn it into one more reason to have a bad mood.
The girl onscreen is gasping harder now, fingers speeding up, brokenly fucking herself. Dean shifts on the bed, fiddling with the remote, rubbing his thumb over the buttons of it, his jeans constricting. He doesn’t touch himself yet, just feels the press of denim against his dick, feels the throbbing spreading up his spine.
There’s a tiny motion in Sam’s chair, and Dean can tell that Sam is intrigued, even though he’s pretending not to be. He doesn’t even have to really look or listen to know that, he can just feel it. Sam’s presence in the room is natural as air, always has been, and Dean knows these things automatically. There was a time when he got used to Sam not being there, but it never stopped feeling like something was missing.
At first, when Sam came back, it was like a constant exclamation in Dean’s heart, ‘Sammy’s here, Sammy’s here, Sammy’s here.’ By now it’s settled down more, and it’s again just, ‘oh, of course Sam’s here.’
Dean’s determined to make Sam cheer up, at least for a little while.
On the TV, the girl is yelling, “I’m coming! I’m coming!” Dean doesn’t care if it’s real or not, the fiction’s good enough for him.
“Sammy, do you mind if I…” He waves vaguely at his crotch.
Sam doesn’t look up. “Does it even matter what I say? You’ll do it anyway.”
“Yeah, well, just trying to be polite.”
Setting the remote beside him, Dean reaches for his fly, slowly unbuttoning it and pulling down the zipper. He slides his right hand down and gets his dick through the slit in his boxers, wrapping his hand around the base as the redhead onscreen pants into her pillow. He rubs his thumb back and forth, feeling the zing through the back of his brain. Sighing, he straightens up against the headboard.
The TV girl looks over to the side as her door creaks open and a man enters. He starts talking about how noisy and naughty she’s been. “I guess you’ll have to punish me, Daddy,” she says, and Dean drops his dick like a hot potato to fumble for the remote, sees Sam frowning.
Blowjob, anal, bondage, and Dean’s looking for something else good to cover the silence in the room when he sees two women, a blonde and a brunette, touching each other in a flowery garden. Oh, yeah.
He sets the remote down again, this time carefully within reach, and remembers those two chicks from last week. They were smokin’, even if he hadn’t managed to talk them into putting on a show like this. What they had done totally made up for it.
Dean holds his jeans with his left hand, keeping the teeth of the zipper out of the way. He grips his dick, stroking firmly, imposing the faces of those two women over the ones on the screen, watching the blonde suck at the brunette’s tits. He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, breathing heavier.
Out of the corner of his eye Dean can see that Sam’s slouched lower in the chair, legs spread. Dean grins. He’s gonna win this one.
“Hey, Sam, you really oughta watch this. The brunette’s sliding her hand up the blonde’s thigh, going up her skirt.” The blonde whimpers as the brunette’s hand disappears, then reappears when the camera moves to an angle looking up the skirt. The blonde isn’t wearing any underwear. It’s like striking gold.
Dean grips his dick tighter as the brunette’s slim fingers stroke across the other girl’s blushing skin. That looks so good right now. It’s feeling way too long since he’s gotten laid, even if it was only a week ago. His hand just doesn’t feel quite as nice as that pussy would, or even her hand.
It feels good enough for a quick release, though, heat gathering in his crotch, shivers running up his spine. But he’s not ready yet, moves his hand slow.
The brunette leans over the blonde, mouthing at her ear, fingers still working. The blonde moans, reaches for the other woman’s breast.
“Now the blonde’s sucking the brunette’s nipple. She’s got awesome tits, firm, round. They both do.” Dean’s hand is moving so slowly that glaciers could outrun it, which is its own kind of torturous pleasure, as he waits for Sam to give in. It’s been ages since Sam last turned a page, his head still stubbornly down, but Dean can feel the tension vibrating off him, knows he’s interested. “Come on, hot lesbian action. How can you resist.”
Sam turns to stare in Dean’s eyes. “Hey, Dean, you remember that one time?”
“What one time?” Dean has absolutely no idea what Sam’s talking about, since he doesn’t think there was that one time they got covered in honey and thrown to the lesbians together.
“Years ago, when I had a girl over and you started yelling instructions at her from the kitchen?”
Oh right, but that doesn’t have anything to do with this. “Her technique was awful.”
“You ruined the mood.”
“What mood? She was giving you the world’s worst blowjob.”
“You made her so angry she stormed out of the house!” The newspaper crinkles as Sam clenches his fingers on it, turning away and staring at the wall in front of him. “Anyhow, the point is, there’s this thing called counter-productive, and you’re being it.”
Dean snorts, but Sam’s got a point. There’s been too much talking and not enough jerking.
The brunette tugs at the denim of the blonde’s skirt, pulling it down her legs, then slips out of her own pants, and Dean tugs on himself faster.
“Damn,” Dean breathes, as the two women press together, wrapping their legs around each other, wet pussies joining, breasts rubbing, tongues locking in a deep kiss. This is how Dean wants to spend every Sunday morning, a sermon he’d gladly see preached again and again.
It gets even better when Dean notices the furtive motion of Sam sticking his hand down his pants. Dean grins triumphantly. He’s the man, oh yeah, he’s the fucking man. There’s no way Sam can resist Dean’s genius powers of persuasion.
Dean rolls his head back, looking at the mirror on the ceiling. He sees his own face, smirking and a little flushed. There’s the TV, with the girls on it all upside down, looking mighty acrobatic at that angle. And there’s the top of Sam’s head, shaggy bangs obscuring his face, one huge-ass hand still holding up a newspaper, the other working in his crotch. How Sam can fit that hand in under his jeans along with his dick and actually do anything useful is beyond Dean’s comprehension. He almost says something like: ‘oh come on Sammy, don’t be a dork, just whip it out, get your rocks off properly, chill.’
But he certainly doesn’t want to be counter-productive right now, because damn, it took enough work to get Sam to this point. Dean just wants Sam to relax and have fun and not ruin Dean’s good moods all the time.
Speaking of good moods…
The brunette has slid down between the blonde’s legs, face buried in her pussy, and Dean can appreciate that, too. He speeds up, ready to finish this off, hot pleasure gathering harder, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and tonguing it.
There’s a metallic rasp, and Dean can hear Sam’s breathing and the rustle of his jeans, barely audible over the TV. He doesn’t bother to check on him visually again. It’s all going well, he’s pleased, and he’s not going to worry about that anymore. It’s a job well done, time to enjoy his rewards.
The sensation is pooling, strengthening, wrapping its way up his spine, and he’s not even paying attention to anything anymore, the moans from the TV and the colors on the screen flowing over him like water off a duck’s back. He pulls harder, thumbing over the head of his dick, just an inch away from completion.
And there, it tightens up and the sensation bursts in his brain, come slopping out across his fingers and stomach.
Dean lets himself relax further into the pillows, millions of sparkles across his skin. That’s the ticket. The room comes back into focus and he stares at the blonde’s face as she pretends to come, too, but he’s not really paying attention to it, instead listening to Sam’s faint sounds. He’s about to wipe his hand on the bedspread when the ruffles catch his eye, and he remembers there’s only one bed and decides not to give Sam any reason to bitch. So he grabs a tissue from the box on the tacky table and cleans up.
There’s one last sigh from Sam’s direction and then silence. Dean waits a few seconds, then tosses the Kleenex box over without looking, just a muttered ‘here’ to warn Sam in advance. Sam catches it, and Dean chuckles and fastens up his jeans. He grabs the remote and starts changing channels again, but he’s paying even less attention than before. He doesn’t really need all these naked bodies and random sex acts anymore. Sam’s rustling papers again. Suddenly, Dean’s watching a man chop vegetables on the screen and his finger hovers in shock, not pushing the button.
“Hey, they have the cooking channel here,” Sam says, a note of interest in his voice. Dean turns and stares. Sam stares back, eyes open wide, eyebrows raised, as if wondering what Dean could possibly think is worth looking at. Then his mouth slowly splits into a wide grin, and he guffaws. Dean shakes his head softly, smiling back.
Sam stands up, hand at his fly, holding it closed.
“I’m going to take a shower.”
Dean jerks his chin. “Be careful about touching the walls. You never know what people have done in there.”
“Bitch,” Sam shoots back.
“That’s my line.” Dean can’t help grinning. Sam just smirks as he opens the bathroom door.