: REDNECK YACHT CLUB : Supernatural : Dean/Ash
Redneck Yacht Club.
:: Dean/Ash, Supernatural, R.
Summary:: It's hot in Nebraska this time of year. Blow-jobs help.
A/N:: Title taken from the Craig Morgan song of the same name. Warning for obscure movie quotes turned into bad jokes. And a huge thanks to nutkin and chichiri_no_da for the beta'ing.
06.27.2007 Redneck Yacht Club.
Sam and Ellen were arguing the finer points of Gaelic folklore when Dean decided to slip out the backdoor of the Roadhouse. It was hot - the kind of heat that was thick enough to bite into - and it wasn't even noon yet. Just stepping into the day pulled beads of sweat up to skin. Dean covered his eyes with a hand and squinted up at the sky. Not a cloud in sight, just cornflower blue here to a Nebraska eternity that meant there'd be no relief in the weather, not today.
"Catch."
Dean turned his attention to the voice and had enough time to reach out and grab the cold can of beer from the air before it hit his chest. It was damp with condensation and he pressed it to the side of his neck with a sigh. "I'm going to melt. What a friggin way to go after a life of hunting."
There was a snort from Ash, who popped the top on the beer he'd reserved for himself. Four cans hung from plastic rings and a finger and dripped onto the dirt; the dark circles dried in the quarter minute it took him to quench his immediate thirst and wipe a forearm across his mouth. "You could go back inside." It was a half-assed offer; Ash had already started walking and Dean followed because he didn't have anything else to do.
"And be exposed to my brother's raging intellect?"
Ash glanced over a plaid-covered shoulder, the frayed edges of the sawed-off sleeve brushed aside by his chin. "Kinda like him bein' exposed to your libido?" It earned him a punch in the arm, soft and lazy with the heat hanging on Dean like another set of clothes. Their feet over the dry earth left boot prints as testament to where they'd been, but the sound of their passing was swallowed by the thick day, unwilling to roll.
Forward momentum stopped at the edge of water that wasn't big enough to be a lake but was obviously enough of a puddle for someone, because a dock about five feet long had been erected precariously. To the end of it was tied a raft, covered with plywood and a blanket, the long corners floating on the surface of the water.
"What's this?" Dean asked after swallowing already-warming beer. "The redneck yacht club?"
Ash walked down the dock and leaned far enough over to deposit the remaining drinks on the raft-cum-picnic table. "This, my friend," he said, "happens to be a brain-free yacht." His shirt was stripped off and dropped to the drunken planks beneath his feet. This far into summer, Ash was tanned to brown. Long strands of hair were stuck to his neck by sweat. "Which means you are free to board, man." He flashed a crooked smile and made the one long step necessary to bridge the gap between land and raft. It wobbled under the weight but Ash shifted easily to compensate and sat himself indian-style to start pulling off his boots.
Squinting through the sunshine, Dean twisted to look back up at the Roadhouse. Nothing moved and the light made bright mirrors of the windows. Even from here, he could hear the air conditioner growling out its best.
Dean finished the rest of his beer as he turned back around and his shirt came off with only mild protest, cotton clinging to sweaty skin. Ash's boots thumped onto the dock and Dean's were left with them a minute later, socks poking out of the tops like threadbare bunny ears.
It wasn't any cooler, laying out on the raft as it floated on the still pond. The sun beat down and turned their piece of Nebraska into an oversized kiln. Moving was a chore that was only overcome to raise can to mouth.
Dean trailed fingers in the water. His eyes were closed, skin tightening and baking and he could hear his Sam-as-Conscience saying that skin cancer was just around the corner. He was never too young, according to his brother, to die a natural death.
"You know what Meryl Streep said to the hunter?" Which was less of attempt to inspire discussion as it was Ash just needing to assert his place in the world. Dean grunted a non-answer as Ash waited for effect, and then, "the Wendingo ate my baby."
The water lapped at the edges of the raft in quiet time, five seconds, ten.
"Dude," Dean said, "you are my hero."
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the younger man touch two fingers to his forehead and then roll them out, upward, like he was taking a bow. "I aim to please."
A minute later some of Ash's weight settled onto his hip and side and Dean crossed his dry arm behind his head. The metal of jewelry sang quiet with movement and was cool where it landed on his hot skin. Ash's tongue across the line of his hip wasn't, but the warm spit turned to ice when it was blown on and Dean's cock twitched under denim that felt twice as heavy for the heat of the day.
Water fell from Dean's fingers and splashed them both as he moved his hand to wrap in matted brown strands. If Ash cared about the way the touch tightened into a fist it didn't show as he opened Dean's pants and peeled sweat-stiff jean away from half of an erection. Dean sighed. "It's too hot." He thumbed the top curve of Ash's ear.
Breath huffed over his dick. "Bite your tongue," Ash muttered. "That's fuckin' blasphemy." Dean's laugh rolled over into a moan as the damp heat of Ash's mouth replaced the stagnant press of the afternoon. Without direct consent his ass lifted, feet shifting and toes curling into the dry, thin blanket. The prohibition on movement apparently didn't extend to his dick, either.
"Come on, Sam'n Ellen could just look out a window -" But Dean's voice was already breaking and his fingers stayed tight in Ash's hair.
The sloppy sound Ash made pulling off him to answer was obscene. Wet dick exposed to the suddenly cooler air, Dean's breath backed up in his throat as Ash said, "Too far. Relax, man, and stop complainin'. If you missed it, you're gettin' a damn bj, so this is the part where you start actin' grateful."
Head thumping down on the raft, Dean groaned and shifted to throw an arm over his eyes. "Son of a bitch," he murmured to no one. His dick twitched an agreement as it settled against the soft back of Ash's throat.
The slow, hard suck didn't do anything to cool Dean off. Sweat followed the lines of his ribs and slid down the sides of his chest, aided by a deep inhale/exhale that echoed the up/down movement of Ash's sweetly hollowed cheeks on his dick. His nerves sizzled and stood up goosebumps where they could, making already tight skin feel that much tighter. Making muscles clench. Making him arch, wanting to move, to burn off the feeling.
Hair caught under Dean's fingernails but Ash didn't complain. His tongue flattened and pulled up along Dean's dick, flicking at the fork of soft flesh and Dean's breath snagged in his chest. "Fuck, yes," he whispered, lips barely moving.
For as much as it had been too hot just minutes before, Dean was well past caring now. Heat was relative. With his blood boiling inside the air almost felt colder in comparison. He sucked in a deep lungful and tightened his fingers in damp hair. Vocabulary shrank to monosyllabic huffs of air through clenched teeth as hips were worked upward in tense, shallow shifts. Ash didn't stop, didn't tell him no, just took the extra inch and didn't seem to be embarrassed in the slightest when spit started to pool around the top of his fingers, looped loosely around the base of Dean's dick. He fisted through it and the maddeningly steady motion slickened and quickened.
Over his head Dean twisted fingers into the nubby blanket, hot and brittle against his skin. He didn't realize that Ash's attention had wandered - all Dean needed to be occupied was the wet suck of that mouth around him - and gasped as a cold, wet hand slid over his hip and stretched up his stomach. Water pooled into his bellybutton, sluiced sweat from his ribs, tightened his nipples into attentive, throbbing nubs. The hand disappeared and left the cool imprints to evaporate.
Pressure, damp pressure, flicked across Dean's hole before a wet finger was sinking inside of him. The feeling of unwanted intimacy was overwhelmed in one, two, heartbeats as Dean's body caught up to the sensation and bucked. "Ash." His voice was strangled. "Godda-" The protest splintered on his tongue when he came, jerking limbs and trembling muscles stiff for the moment it took him to empty himself into Ash's mouth.
He collapsed, blanket itchy against his back, as Ash tugged his hair out of Dean's failing grip and leaned over the side of the raft to spit. The heat came slinking back in, crawling over Dean, finding a little more purchase with each easier-than-the-last draw of breath.
It was too much effort to tuck himself back into his pants - to pull on clothes against the sun - so instead he stripped himself completely under the lazy gaze of Ash and the winking windows of the Roadhouse. Standing, lifting a foot to Ash's back, Dean pushed him off the raft. The other man gave an undignified squawk as he hit the water and came up sputtering.
With a grin as wide as the horizon, Dean dove in beside him.
:: Dean/Ash, Supernatural, R.
Summary:: It's hot in Nebraska this time of year. Blow-jobs help.
A/N:: Title taken from the Craig Morgan song of the same name. Warning for obscure movie quotes turned into bad jokes. And a huge thanks to nutkin and chichiri_no_da for the beta'ing.
06.27.2007 Redneck Yacht Club.
Sam and Ellen were arguing the finer points of Gaelic folklore when Dean decided to slip out the backdoor of the Roadhouse. It was hot - the kind of heat that was thick enough to bite into - and it wasn't even noon yet. Just stepping into the day pulled beads of sweat up to skin. Dean covered his eyes with a hand and squinted up at the sky. Not a cloud in sight, just cornflower blue here to a Nebraska eternity that meant there'd be no relief in the weather, not today.
"Catch."
Dean turned his attention to the voice and had enough time to reach out and grab the cold can of beer from the air before it hit his chest. It was damp with condensation and he pressed it to the side of his neck with a sigh. "I'm going to melt. What a friggin way to go after a life of hunting."
There was a snort from Ash, who popped the top on the beer he'd reserved for himself. Four cans hung from plastic rings and a finger and dripped onto the dirt; the dark circles dried in the quarter minute it took him to quench his immediate thirst and wipe a forearm across his mouth. "You could go back inside." It was a half-assed offer; Ash had already started walking and Dean followed because he didn't have anything else to do.
"And be exposed to my brother's raging intellect?"
Ash glanced over a plaid-covered shoulder, the frayed edges of the sawed-off sleeve brushed aside by his chin. "Kinda like him bein' exposed to your libido?" It earned him a punch in the arm, soft and lazy with the heat hanging on Dean like another set of clothes. Their feet over the dry earth left boot prints as testament to where they'd been, but the sound of their passing was swallowed by the thick day, unwilling to roll.
Forward momentum stopped at the edge of water that wasn't big enough to be a lake but was obviously enough of a puddle for someone, because a dock about five feet long had been erected precariously. To the end of it was tied a raft, covered with plywood and a blanket, the long corners floating on the surface of the water.
"What's this?" Dean asked after swallowing already-warming beer. "The redneck yacht club?"
Ash walked down the dock and leaned far enough over to deposit the remaining drinks on the raft-cum-picnic table. "This, my friend," he said, "happens to be a brain-free yacht." His shirt was stripped off and dropped to the drunken planks beneath his feet. This far into summer, Ash was tanned to brown. Long strands of hair were stuck to his neck by sweat. "Which means you are free to board, man." He flashed a crooked smile and made the one long step necessary to bridge the gap between land and raft. It wobbled under the weight but Ash shifted easily to compensate and sat himself indian-style to start pulling off his boots.
Squinting through the sunshine, Dean twisted to look back up at the Roadhouse. Nothing moved and the light made bright mirrors of the windows. Even from here, he could hear the air conditioner growling out its best.
Dean finished the rest of his beer as he turned back around and his shirt came off with only mild protest, cotton clinging to sweaty skin. Ash's boots thumped onto the dock and Dean's were left with them a minute later, socks poking out of the tops like threadbare bunny ears.
It wasn't any cooler, laying out on the raft as it floated on the still pond. The sun beat down and turned their piece of Nebraska into an oversized kiln. Moving was a chore that was only overcome to raise can to mouth.
Dean trailed fingers in the water. His eyes were closed, skin tightening and baking and he could hear his Sam-as-Conscience saying that skin cancer was just around the corner. He was never too young, according to his brother, to die a natural death.
"You know what Meryl Streep said to the hunter?" Which was less of attempt to inspire discussion as it was Ash just needing to assert his place in the world. Dean grunted a non-answer as Ash waited for effect, and then, "the Wendingo ate my baby."
The water lapped at the edges of the raft in quiet time, five seconds, ten.
"Dude," Dean said, "you are my hero."
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the younger man touch two fingers to his forehead and then roll them out, upward, like he was taking a bow. "I aim to please."
A minute later some of Ash's weight settled onto his hip and side and Dean crossed his dry arm behind his head. The metal of jewelry sang quiet with movement and was cool where it landed on his hot skin. Ash's tongue across the line of his hip wasn't, but the warm spit turned to ice when it was blown on and Dean's cock twitched under denim that felt twice as heavy for the heat of the day.
Water fell from Dean's fingers and splashed them both as he moved his hand to wrap in matted brown strands. If Ash cared about the way the touch tightened into a fist it didn't show as he opened Dean's pants and peeled sweat-stiff jean away from half of an erection. Dean sighed. "It's too hot." He thumbed the top curve of Ash's ear.
Breath huffed over his dick. "Bite your tongue," Ash muttered. "That's fuckin' blasphemy." Dean's laugh rolled over into a moan as the damp heat of Ash's mouth replaced the stagnant press of the afternoon. Without direct consent his ass lifted, feet shifting and toes curling into the dry, thin blanket. The prohibition on movement apparently didn't extend to his dick, either.
"Come on, Sam'n Ellen could just look out a window -" But Dean's voice was already breaking and his fingers stayed tight in Ash's hair.
The sloppy sound Ash made pulling off him to answer was obscene. Wet dick exposed to the suddenly cooler air, Dean's breath backed up in his throat as Ash said, "Too far. Relax, man, and stop complainin'. If you missed it, you're gettin' a damn bj, so this is the part where you start actin' grateful."
Head thumping down on the raft, Dean groaned and shifted to throw an arm over his eyes. "Son of a bitch," he murmured to no one. His dick twitched an agreement as it settled against the soft back of Ash's throat.
The slow, hard suck didn't do anything to cool Dean off. Sweat followed the lines of his ribs and slid down the sides of his chest, aided by a deep inhale/exhale that echoed the up/down movement of Ash's sweetly hollowed cheeks on his dick. His nerves sizzled and stood up goosebumps where they could, making already tight skin feel that much tighter. Making muscles clench. Making him arch, wanting to move, to burn off the feeling.
Hair caught under Dean's fingernails but Ash didn't complain. His tongue flattened and pulled up along Dean's dick, flicking at the fork of soft flesh and Dean's breath snagged in his chest. "Fuck, yes," he whispered, lips barely moving.
For as much as it had been too hot just minutes before, Dean was well past caring now. Heat was relative. With his blood boiling inside the air almost felt colder in comparison. He sucked in a deep lungful and tightened his fingers in damp hair. Vocabulary shrank to monosyllabic huffs of air through clenched teeth as hips were worked upward in tense, shallow shifts. Ash didn't stop, didn't tell him no, just took the extra inch and didn't seem to be embarrassed in the slightest when spit started to pool around the top of his fingers, looped loosely around the base of Dean's dick. He fisted through it and the maddeningly steady motion slickened and quickened.
Over his head Dean twisted fingers into the nubby blanket, hot and brittle against his skin. He didn't realize that Ash's attention had wandered - all Dean needed to be occupied was the wet suck of that mouth around him - and gasped as a cold, wet hand slid over his hip and stretched up his stomach. Water pooled into his bellybutton, sluiced sweat from his ribs, tightened his nipples into attentive, throbbing nubs. The hand disappeared and left the cool imprints to evaporate.
Pressure, damp pressure, flicked across Dean's hole before a wet finger was sinking inside of him. The feeling of unwanted intimacy was overwhelmed in one, two, heartbeats as Dean's body caught up to the sensation and bucked. "Ash." His voice was strangled. "Godda-" The protest splintered on his tongue when he came, jerking limbs and trembling muscles stiff for the moment it took him to empty himself into Ash's mouth.
He collapsed, blanket itchy against his back, as Ash tugged his hair out of Dean's failing grip and leaned over the side of the raft to spit. The heat came slinking back in, crawling over Dean, finding a little more purchase with each easier-than-the-last draw of breath.
It was too much effort to tuck himself back into his pants - to pull on clothes against the sun - so instead he stripped himself completely under the lazy gaze of Ash and the winking windows of the Roadhouse. Standing, lifting a foot to Ash's back, Dean pushed him off the raft. The other man gave an undignified squawk as he hit the water and came up sputtering.
With a grin as wide as the horizon, Dean dove in beside him.