The stone under Dean’s knees is cold and wet from the light misty drizzle in the air. He thinks the stone of the sarcophagus they’ve climbed up on might be alabaster because it’s white enough to make his blood when it’s smeared on it look like black paint in the moonlight. But he doesn’t know much about rocks, except sometimes in a metaphorical sense, so it could just be marble.
It’s rough like fine sandpaper on his skin when Sam’s weight against his back moves him. On his skin, Sam’s sweat mingles with the rain, his heat seeps in where he touches making the places where he doesn’t only that much more cold. His breath is hot against the back of Dean’s ear and his voice rolls like a thunderclap even when he whispers.
“Did you know that not so long ago, prostitutes took their patrons to graveyards?” Sam asks softly. He runs his tongue over the shell of Dean’s ear and holds him with one arm around his waist as he pushes a finger inside him. A finger dusted with salt residue that burns and has Dean swallowing back a cry of pain as he works it in. “For privacy,” Sam whispers.
Sam’s finger curves within him and presses firmly over his prostate. Dean thinks of the salt under Sam’s fingernail as he moves it back and forth but it doesn’t keep him from moaning or rocking back on Sam’s hand with the pleasure of what he’s doing. It burns but it pleases. Oh god, does it.
“Are you calling me a whore, Sammy?” Dean murmurs, turning his head to look at him in the dark over his shoulder.
Sam’s teeth flash in the moonlight and he nudges the side of Dean’s face with his mouth and nose affectionately. “No,” he says. He withdraws his finger, adds a second, and thrusts them both back inside Dean’s body. Dean’s breath hitches and his shoulders jerk. Sam watches it and his smile widens. “Just sharing a little history lesson.”
“Yeah, okay, geek boy,” Dean says roughly. He swallows and there’s a click in his throat as he tries to force it past the heavy beat of his heart. “Are you done?”
“Well, actually, I was going to tell you about how they used to bury prostitutes at crossroads--”
“Sam,” Dean growls.
Sam laughs a little and presses his mouth between Dean’s shoulders. “What?”
“Could you focus please?”
Sam sighs and makes a wordless sound of assent in his throat. He licks and nips over the backs of Dean’s shoulders as he strokes his fingers within him. There’s a cut on Dean’s right shoulder blade from earlier when Sam was playing with one of his knives and Sam runs his tongue into the mouth of the wound, tasting the salt and metal of Dean’s blood.
Sam removes his fingers, placing little biting kisses down Dean’s back with a soothing murmur There’s a slide-slap of leather against Dean’s ass as Sam unfastens his belt and Dean drops his head, fingers gripping the stone of the sarcophagus as he waits. He’s staring at the name in the stone when Sam grabs his hip and forces him to turn over.
His knees are scraped and he’s cut all over and Dean is not thinking about how the cuts on his back are bleeding into the rain on the alabaster and turning pink. He’s certainly not turned on by it. At all. And he’s not wondering if whoever this Seargent guy who’s tomb they’re about to fuck on would mind or not. Of course not.
“Sam…” Dean says, but he stops when Sam grabs his thighs and pulls his lower body over his lap. His fingers dig into his flesh just right for leaving bruises and Dean shivers.
Then Sam’s pushing his cock inside him and Dean doesn’t even remember what he was going to say. He doesn’t smell the salt and smoke of the dying fire of burning haunted bones a few feet off or care if Mr. Seargent is lingering around in an ectoplasmic funk to watch it all. There is the almost-sticking way that Sam thrusting within him is just short of unbearably painful. There is salt still burning inside him as Sam fucks him and Dean’s heart trying to fight its way out of his chest.
Graveyard
The stone under Dean’s knees is cold and wet from the light misty drizzle in the air. He thinks the stone of the sarcophagus they’ve climbed up on might be alabaster because it’s white enough to make his blood when it’s smeared on it look like black paint in the moonlight. But he doesn’t know much about rocks, except sometimes in a metaphorical sense, so it could just be marble.
It’s rough like fine sandpaper on his skin when Sam’s weight against his back moves him. On his skin, Sam’s sweat mingles with the rain, his heat seeps in where he touches making the places where he doesn’t only that much more cold. His breath is hot against the back of Dean’s ear and his voice rolls like a thunderclap even when he whispers.
“Did you know that not so long ago, prostitutes took their patrons to graveyards?” Sam asks softly. He runs his tongue over the shell of Dean’s ear and holds him with one arm around his waist as he pushes a finger inside him. A finger dusted with salt residue that burns and has Dean swallowing back a cry of pain as he works it in. “For privacy,” Sam whispers.
Sam’s finger curves within him and presses firmly over his prostate. Dean thinks of the salt under Sam’s fingernail as he moves it back and forth but it doesn’t keep him from moaning or rocking back on Sam’s hand with the pleasure of what he’s doing. It burns but it pleases. Oh god, does it.
“Are you calling me a whore, Sammy?” Dean murmurs, turning his head to look at him in the dark over his shoulder.
Sam’s teeth flash in the moonlight and he nudges the side of Dean’s face with his mouth and nose affectionately. “No,” he says. He withdraws his finger, adds a second, and thrusts them both back inside Dean’s body. Dean’s breath hitches and his shoulders jerk. Sam watches it and his smile widens. “Just sharing a little history lesson.”
“Yeah, okay, geek boy,” Dean says roughly. He swallows and there’s a click in his throat as he tries to force it past the heavy beat of his heart. “Are you done?”
“Well, actually, I was going to tell you about how they used to bury prostitutes at crossroads--”
“Sam,” Dean growls.
Sam laughs a little and presses his mouth between Dean’s shoulders. “What?”
“Could you focus please?”
Sam sighs and makes a wordless sound of assent in his throat. He licks and nips over the backs of Dean’s shoulders as he strokes his fingers within him. There’s a cut on Dean’s right shoulder blade from earlier when Sam was playing with one of his knives and Sam runs his tongue into the mouth of the wound, tasting the salt and metal of Dean’s blood.
Sam removes his fingers, placing little biting kisses down Dean’s back with a soothing murmur There’s a slide-slap of leather against Dean’s ass as Sam unfastens his belt and Dean drops his head, fingers gripping the stone of the sarcophagus as he waits. He’s staring at the name in the stone when Sam grabs his hip and forces him to turn over.
His knees are scraped and he’s cut all over and Dean is not thinking about how the cuts on his back are bleeding into the rain on the alabaster and turning pink. He’s certainly not turned on by it. At all. And he’s not wondering if whoever this Seargent guy who’s tomb they’re about to fuck on would mind or not. Of course not.
“Sam…” Dean says, but he stops when Sam grabs his thighs and pulls his lower body over his lap. His fingers dig into his flesh just right for leaving bruises and Dean shivers.
Then Sam’s pushing his cock inside him and Dean doesn’t even remember what he was going to say. He doesn’t smell the salt and smoke of the dying fire of burning haunted bones a few feet off or care if Mr. Seargent is lingering around in an ectoplasmic funk to watch it all. There is the almost-sticking way that Sam thrusting within him is just short of unbearably painful. There is salt still burning inside him as Sam fucks him and Dean’s heart trying to fight its way out of his chest.
Reply
Leave a comment