porny ficlets (SPN)
From technosage's Porn paragraph-a-thon
Sam is 15 and he knows there's a magazine under Dean's bed. He's known that for two years, actually (though it certainly hasn't been the same magazine this whole time. He thinks they're swapped out frequently), but this is the first time he's seeking it out. He tries not to think too hard about the dirty socks and (yeah, that was probably dirty underwear) that his hand is meeting as he gropes around, (and yeah, let's definitely not think too hard about the little packet of Kleenex)- and there's the magazine, and he knows what that little bottle is so let's grab it too.
He opens it to a random page, and he expected lots of tits and maybe pert round asses and long blond hair and pouty lips. Was braced for those. What he gets is- well, the pouty lips are there, for sure, but the pouty lips belong to a guy with masses of curly black hair and they're wrapped around a thick cock glistening with spit and precome. It's not what he expected, but he's rock-hard in his jeans now and the thought of Dean looking at this, stroking himself and looking at those sexy lips wrapped around that cock and getting off on that, makes Sam so suddenly dizzy he has to sit down.
He can't even make it to the sanctuary of the bathroom like normal before he has to open his jeans and smooth a little lube over the head of his cock (and oh god that's fantastic, why has he made do with lotion until now?) but that's okay because Dean and Dad won't be back for at least an hour, right?
He nearly jumps out of his skin when Dean settles onto the bed behind him but he can't stop, not now. Dean wraps his hand around Sam's and his voice is rough and desperate as he gasps in Sam's ear "Let me- Sammy, God, let me-"
Sam pulls away from Dean's grasp and drops to his knees by the bed. "No, Dean, let me- God, Dean, let me suck you."
Dean makes a completely indescribably sound at that, can't manage anything more than "Jesus Christ Sammy so good" as Sam wraps his lips around Dean's cock. Sam tastes the first salty drips of precome on his tongue and at that he's coming, hard, bucking and spilling over his own hand as Dean cards his fingers through Sam's hair, gently, so gently.
This thing they do, they've always done it a certain way. Sure, there are times they push each other up against walls or bathroom doors, wrap their hands around each others cocks and rock and stroke, and there are blowjobs, too- but whenever Sam actually fucks Dean, it's always been like this, with Dean on his stomach and his face buried in the pillow. Maybe it started because Dean's always been loud, needed to press his face into down and muffle his cries in small apartments and adjoining rooms. More likely, it's because when your little brother not yet seventeen begs you in that broken, desperate voice to let him fuck you, it's easier not to look him in the face. Easier to bite the pillow and repeat "this is what Sam needs, this is what Sam needs" over and over and not think too hard about what this is actually called or how it makes you feel as his body covers yours, claiming and owning.
So that's just how they do it, this thing that Dean refuses to put a name to. But now hell is drawing closer every day, even if he won't hear the hellhounds for months, and Sam is breaking all kinds of rules. Breaking the "don't try to mess with the deal, I can't see you die again" rule, just for starters, and now he's started to break the "don't get jealous of random waitresses and women at bars" rule, and today the "for god's sake, no girly kissing in public" rule went right the hell out the window. So when Sam uses those mile-long legs as leverage and flips Dean right over onto his back, Dean is unsettled and disturbed but not at all surprised.
Sam has Dean's legs pressed up so far his hamstrings ache and he's fucking Dean slowly with two fingers, pressing and twisting just a little. Dean is moaning and arching and he has his head turned to the side, his arm pressed over his eyes, trying to pretend he still has his face buried in a pillow. Trying to pretend he isn't belly-up and exposed like a surrendered wolf, like that's the magic thing that draws the line between "just a thing we do and don't talk about" and "filthy dirty evil wrong incest."
"Sam. Sam, just- Just fuck me already-"
Sam says "No," and his voice is low and hard. Dean squeezes his eyes shut under the barrier of his arm what now what now. "Look at me, Dean."
Sam adds a third finger, moving slow and hard and deliberate, even as his voice almost trembles with frustration.
"Not until you look at me. You don't get to sell your goddamned soul for me and then be ashamed of this. You don't get to leave me alone pretending this was never anything."
Dean slowly pulls his arm away from his face. He forces his eyes open, and as they lock on Sam's, Sam slides into him slick and warm and thick. Dean doesn't know what to do with his hands, feels about as stupid as a turtle on its back, but Sam's hips are snapping against his, hard and urgent, and his own orgasm is building and he keeps his eyes locked on Sam's face.
Sam growls out "I'm saving you. You're not leaving. Not after all this-" and Dean wraps his hands around the back of Sam's neck, pressing their foreheads together as he gasps and comes.
Sam is 15 and he knows there's a magazine under Dean's bed. He's known that for two years, actually (though it certainly hasn't been the same magazine this whole time. He thinks they're swapped out frequently), but this is the first time he's seeking it out. He tries not to think too hard about the dirty socks and (yeah, that was probably dirty underwear) that his hand is meeting as he gropes around, (and yeah, let's definitely not think too hard about the little packet of Kleenex)- and there's the magazine, and he knows what that little bottle is so let's grab it too.
He opens it to a random page, and he expected lots of tits and maybe pert round asses and long blond hair and pouty lips. Was braced for those. What he gets is- well, the pouty lips are there, for sure, but the pouty lips belong to a guy with masses of curly black hair and they're wrapped around a thick cock glistening with spit and precome. It's not what he expected, but he's rock-hard in his jeans now and the thought of Dean looking at this, stroking himself and looking at those sexy lips wrapped around that cock and getting off on that, makes Sam so suddenly dizzy he has to sit down.
He can't even make it to the sanctuary of the bathroom like normal before he has to open his jeans and smooth a little lube over the head of his cock (and oh god that's fantastic, why has he made do with lotion until now?) but that's okay because Dean and Dad won't be back for at least an hour, right?
He nearly jumps out of his skin when Dean settles onto the bed behind him but he can't stop, not now. Dean wraps his hand around Sam's and his voice is rough and desperate as he gasps in Sam's ear "Let me- Sammy, God, let me-"
Sam pulls away from Dean's grasp and drops to his knees by the bed. "No, Dean, let me- God, Dean, let me suck you."
Dean makes a completely indescribably sound at that, can't manage anything more than "Jesus Christ Sammy so good" as Sam wraps his lips around Dean's cock. Sam tastes the first salty drips of precome on his tongue and at that he's coming, hard, bucking and spilling over his own hand as Dean cards his fingers through Sam's hair, gently, so gently.
This thing they do, they've always done it a certain way. Sure, there are times they push each other up against walls or bathroom doors, wrap their hands around each others cocks and rock and stroke, and there are blowjobs, too- but whenever Sam actually fucks Dean, it's always been like this, with Dean on his stomach and his face buried in the pillow. Maybe it started because Dean's always been loud, needed to press his face into down and muffle his cries in small apartments and adjoining rooms. More likely, it's because when your little brother not yet seventeen begs you in that broken, desperate voice to let him fuck you, it's easier not to look him in the face. Easier to bite the pillow and repeat "this is what Sam needs, this is what Sam needs" over and over and not think too hard about what this is actually called or how it makes you feel as his body covers yours, claiming and owning.
So that's just how they do it, this thing that Dean refuses to put a name to. But now hell is drawing closer every day, even if he won't hear the hellhounds for months, and Sam is breaking all kinds of rules. Breaking the "don't try to mess with the deal, I can't see you die again" rule, just for starters, and now he's started to break the "don't get jealous of random waitresses and women at bars" rule, and today the "for god's sake, no girly kissing in public" rule went right the hell out the window. So when Sam uses those mile-long legs as leverage and flips Dean right over onto his back, Dean is unsettled and disturbed but not at all surprised.
Sam has Dean's legs pressed up so far his hamstrings ache and he's fucking Dean slowly with two fingers, pressing and twisting just a little. Dean is moaning and arching and he has his head turned to the side, his arm pressed over his eyes, trying to pretend he still has his face buried in a pillow. Trying to pretend he isn't belly-up and exposed like a surrendered wolf, like that's the magic thing that draws the line between "just a thing we do and don't talk about" and "filthy dirty evil wrong incest."
"Sam. Sam, just- Just fuck me already-"
Sam says "No," and his voice is low and hard. Dean squeezes his eyes shut under the barrier of his arm what now what now. "Look at me, Dean."
Sam adds a third finger, moving slow and hard and deliberate, even as his voice almost trembles with frustration.
"Not until you look at me. You don't get to sell your goddamned soul for me and then be ashamed of this. You don't get to leave me alone pretending this was never anything."
Dean slowly pulls his arm away from his face. He forces his eyes open, and as they lock on Sam's, Sam slides into him slick and warm and thick. Dean doesn't know what to do with his hands, feels about as stupid as a turtle on its back, but Sam's hips are snapping against his, hard and urgent, and his own orgasm is building and he keeps his eyes locked on Sam's face.
Sam growls out "I'm saving you. You're not leaving. Not after all this-" and Dean wraps his hands around the back of Sam's neck, pressing their foreheads together as he gasps and comes.