New DTTE Fic: In the Hidden Places
Today I edited a manual written by one Mike Way. This amuses me greatly.
Hey, look! It's Thursday, and I have fic! Note how I did NOT say "I ficced" or "I porned" or anything ridiculously twee like that. People could learn from that. I'm looking at YOU, Kyra-who-can't-pronounce-her-own-name.
In the Hidden Places
Sam/Dean, 1,375 words
Notes: I had this lovely NyQuil-induced dream last night, and it made me all kinds of happy. Pure, unabashed porn with a healthy side of schmoop. Not betaed, and I'm still on pretty heavy-duty drugs, so apologies for anything badly out of place. DTTE-verse.
It's nearly dusk when he wakes. The light coming through the windshield is filtered and weak, and when he looks out his window, the fields of yellow wildflowers are almost glowing, bluish and inhuman, beautiful. They're in Colorado, he thinks, one of those weird two-lane stretches of I-76 that looks more like a country road than a freeway, and the knowledge brings a warm feeling with it. He's not sure when the road stopped being something he wanted so desperately to escape, not sure when it became tangled with "home" in his mind as surely as the car and Dean, but it feels like a long time past.
Dean is singing along with "When the Levee Breaks" beside him, softly, like he hasn't realize Sam's awake. The music's turned down low, and there are two cups of coffee in a cardboard cup-holder between them; Dean stopped at some point without waking him up. Sam yawns, stretches as well as he can, and Dean laughs softly beside him. "'bout time you woke up," he says. "I hate to break it to you, Sammy, but you're not pretty enough to play Sleeping Beauty."
"Jerk," Sam mutters, but his heart's not in it; he's well-rested and warm, and there's coffee and Dean, slouched in the driver's seat with a tiny smile playing around his lips, the one he only gets when he's behind the wheel with Sam beside him and a long stretch of road ahead. He knows without asking that the cup closest to him will be thickly laced with cream and sugar, double-cupped in a valiant attempt to keep it hot, just like he knows there's a bag in the back seat with a sandwich and chips and maybe even fruit, if Dean could find something that didn't look too scary. His brother is chuckling again, always far more amused by his own jokes than anyone else, and in that moment he loves Dean so much his chest aches with it.
"Pull over," he says, and his voice sounds harsh and breathless in his own ears, but Dean doesn't seem to notice, just shrugs and pulls the car over to the shoulder.
"Probably should have woken you up before," Dean says. He opens the door, and Sam wants to stop him, to jerk him back inside and cover his mouth with his own, hold him down and kiss until neither of them can breathe, make him beg and make him whine and make him come and swallow it all down, more of Dean's that's just for him, all the secret parts of his brother that no one else gets to see. But the coffee is between them, and Dean howling about stains on his baby's upholstery won't help him get his mouth on his brother any quicker, so he climbs out stiffly, cock already a hard, hot line in his jeans.
"Dean," he says, and Dean blinks at him, confused.
"You need help to piss now?" he says, but Sam's already moving, silently thanking god or fate or whatever for the empty road, and he swallows the last few words as he jerks Dean against him. "Shit, Sam, what--" Dean starts, but Sam kisses him again, mumbling, "Shut up" against his mouth.
Dean is as easy as ever; his lips part beneath Sam's, and he groans softly, pushing his hips against Sam's thigh. Sam drags his mouth across Dean's cheek, the line of his jaw; he presses hot kisses against Dean's neck, sinks his teeth into his brother's collarbone and then sucks the moan from his lips. "Sammy, god," Dean groans, and Sam ignores him, already fumbling with his belt, clumsy in his eagerness.
He drops to his knees then, wanting to touch and smell and taste so badly he can barely stand it, but he takes a few long moments to tease them both first, rubbing his face against Dean's denim-covered erection, sucking at the head through the cloth. Dean growls, frustrated now, pushes Sam back roughly and jerks his own cock out. It's thick and swollen, flushed deeply red, a drop of precome gathering on the head, and Dean smells so good, clean and hot and sharply musky. Sam groans in spite of himself, mouth watering, and he moves forward, tonguing the slit.
Dean sighs and jerks his hips forward, and Sam opens his mouth, lets Dean thrust his way in. He moans with the pleasure of it; Dean inside him, cock hard and silky hot against his tongue. He loves the way Dean tastes, the quiet grunts he makes, loves the simple worship of the act, on his knees before his brother, using his hands and mouth to give as much pleasure as he can, to make Dean feel good. He moans again when Dean grips his head with both hands, opens his throat as far as he can to let Dean fuck his mouth. He can feel tears gathering in the corners of his eyes and it's hard to breathe as Dean presses deeper, but it's still not enough, never enough, and he holds Dean's hips hard enough to bruise, wanting more.
When Dean pulls back, he chokes out a protest and tries to follow, hungry mouth seeking, but Dean's hands are inexorable on his face. His cock is right there, just out of reach, and Sam can still smell him, taste him on his tongue. He begs, "Please, please," wanting so much he thinks it might kill him, but Dean just chokes, "Wait," and then he's coming hot and thick across Sam's face, and it's too much; Sam comes in his jeans like a teenager, shuddering and moaning with his brother's come splashed across his face like a brand.
"Baby," Dean breathes and Sam moans again, slides forward easily to take Dean's cock back into his mouth when Dean wraps a hand around his head to guide him. He licks it clean and then sucks gently, urging out the final drops, until Dean eases him off. "So good," he says, and then "More?" and Sam nods hopefully, still too hungry to be ashamed. Dean slides two fingers through the mess on Sam's face, then slips the come-sticky fingers into Sam's mouth, and he makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan when Sam sucks eagerly. He scoops up the last of the wetness and feeds it to Sam, laughs when Sam keeps sucking when the final bit is gone.
"Such a comeslut for me," Dean says hoarsely.
Sam knows he should object, but he doesn't have a lot of grounds at the moment, on his knees with the remnants of Dean's come on his face and Dean's fingers in his mouth. He sucks one last time, hard, swirls his tongue around his brother's fingers before pulling off and looking up at Dean.
Dean smiles down at him, sated and just slightly bemused, and starts to put himself back together. "You want to tell me what brought that on?"
Sam shakes his head, not sure he can explain. "Just... you," he says, standing up, and Dean grins.
"I have that effect on people," he says comfortably. He gestures at the wet spot at the front of Sam's jeans. "I'd offer to help you out, but it looks like you went off half-cocked."
"Bite me," Sam says. He's a bit too breathless to pull off the sentiment, but Dean just laughs, slings an arm around him and ruffles his hair.
"You want some water, Sammy?" he asks.
"No," Sam says. "I want--"
"What?"
"You think you can get it up again by the time we find a motel?" he asks.
Dean raises his eyebrows. "You want more?"
"Want you to fuck me," Sam breathes. "Want you to throw me down on the bed and fuck me so hard I can't sit down for a week."
Dean swallows hard. "I can do that," he says, and Sam kisses him, hard and deep and slow. Dean finally breaks his mouth away, says, "What's gotten into you?" and Sam grins.
"It's a good day," he says, and steals one last lingering kiss.
When he slides into the passenger seat, his coffee is light and sweet and perfect, still warm to the touch.
Hey, look! It's Thursday, and I have fic! Note how I did NOT say "I ficced" or "I porned" or anything ridiculously twee like that. People could learn from that. I'm looking at YOU, Kyra-who-can't-pronounce-her-own-name.
In the Hidden Places
Sam/Dean, 1,375 words
Notes: I had this lovely NyQuil-induced dream last night, and it made me all kinds of happy. Pure, unabashed porn with a healthy side of schmoop. Not betaed, and I'm still on pretty heavy-duty drugs, so apologies for anything badly out of place. DTTE-verse.
It's nearly dusk when he wakes. The light coming through the windshield is filtered and weak, and when he looks out his window, the fields of yellow wildflowers are almost glowing, bluish and inhuman, beautiful. They're in Colorado, he thinks, one of those weird two-lane stretches of I-76 that looks more like a country road than a freeway, and the knowledge brings a warm feeling with it. He's not sure when the road stopped being something he wanted so desperately to escape, not sure when it became tangled with "home" in his mind as surely as the car and Dean, but it feels like a long time past.
Dean is singing along with "When the Levee Breaks" beside him, softly, like he hasn't realize Sam's awake. The music's turned down low, and there are two cups of coffee in a cardboard cup-holder between them; Dean stopped at some point without waking him up. Sam yawns, stretches as well as he can, and Dean laughs softly beside him. "'bout time you woke up," he says. "I hate to break it to you, Sammy, but you're not pretty enough to play Sleeping Beauty."
"Jerk," Sam mutters, but his heart's not in it; he's well-rested and warm, and there's coffee and Dean, slouched in the driver's seat with a tiny smile playing around his lips, the one he only gets when he's behind the wheel with Sam beside him and a long stretch of road ahead. He knows without asking that the cup closest to him will be thickly laced with cream and sugar, double-cupped in a valiant attempt to keep it hot, just like he knows there's a bag in the back seat with a sandwich and chips and maybe even fruit, if Dean could find something that didn't look too scary. His brother is chuckling again, always far more amused by his own jokes than anyone else, and in that moment he loves Dean so much his chest aches with it.
"Pull over," he says, and his voice sounds harsh and breathless in his own ears, but Dean doesn't seem to notice, just shrugs and pulls the car over to the shoulder.
"Probably should have woken you up before," Dean says. He opens the door, and Sam wants to stop him, to jerk him back inside and cover his mouth with his own, hold him down and kiss until neither of them can breathe, make him beg and make him whine and make him come and swallow it all down, more of Dean's that's just for him, all the secret parts of his brother that no one else gets to see. But the coffee is between them, and Dean howling about stains on his baby's upholstery won't help him get his mouth on his brother any quicker, so he climbs out stiffly, cock already a hard, hot line in his jeans.
"Dean," he says, and Dean blinks at him, confused.
"You need help to piss now?" he says, but Sam's already moving, silently thanking god or fate or whatever for the empty road, and he swallows the last few words as he jerks Dean against him. "Shit, Sam, what--" Dean starts, but Sam kisses him again, mumbling, "Shut up" against his mouth.
Dean is as easy as ever; his lips part beneath Sam's, and he groans softly, pushing his hips against Sam's thigh. Sam drags his mouth across Dean's cheek, the line of his jaw; he presses hot kisses against Dean's neck, sinks his teeth into his brother's collarbone and then sucks the moan from his lips. "Sammy, god," Dean groans, and Sam ignores him, already fumbling with his belt, clumsy in his eagerness.
He drops to his knees then, wanting to touch and smell and taste so badly he can barely stand it, but he takes a few long moments to tease them both first, rubbing his face against Dean's denim-covered erection, sucking at the head through the cloth. Dean growls, frustrated now, pushes Sam back roughly and jerks his own cock out. It's thick and swollen, flushed deeply red, a drop of precome gathering on the head, and Dean smells so good, clean and hot and sharply musky. Sam groans in spite of himself, mouth watering, and he moves forward, tonguing the slit.
Dean sighs and jerks his hips forward, and Sam opens his mouth, lets Dean thrust his way in. He moans with the pleasure of it; Dean inside him, cock hard and silky hot against his tongue. He loves the way Dean tastes, the quiet grunts he makes, loves the simple worship of the act, on his knees before his brother, using his hands and mouth to give as much pleasure as he can, to make Dean feel good. He moans again when Dean grips his head with both hands, opens his throat as far as he can to let Dean fuck his mouth. He can feel tears gathering in the corners of his eyes and it's hard to breathe as Dean presses deeper, but it's still not enough, never enough, and he holds Dean's hips hard enough to bruise, wanting more.
When Dean pulls back, he chokes out a protest and tries to follow, hungry mouth seeking, but Dean's hands are inexorable on his face. His cock is right there, just out of reach, and Sam can still smell him, taste him on his tongue. He begs, "Please, please," wanting so much he thinks it might kill him, but Dean just chokes, "Wait," and then he's coming hot and thick across Sam's face, and it's too much; Sam comes in his jeans like a teenager, shuddering and moaning with his brother's come splashed across his face like a brand.
"Baby," Dean breathes and Sam moans again, slides forward easily to take Dean's cock back into his mouth when Dean wraps a hand around his head to guide him. He licks it clean and then sucks gently, urging out the final drops, until Dean eases him off. "So good," he says, and then "More?" and Sam nods hopefully, still too hungry to be ashamed. Dean slides two fingers through the mess on Sam's face, then slips the come-sticky fingers into Sam's mouth, and he makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan when Sam sucks eagerly. He scoops up the last of the wetness and feeds it to Sam, laughs when Sam keeps sucking when the final bit is gone.
"Such a comeslut for me," Dean says hoarsely.
Sam knows he should object, but he doesn't have a lot of grounds at the moment, on his knees with the remnants of Dean's come on his face and Dean's fingers in his mouth. He sucks one last time, hard, swirls his tongue around his brother's fingers before pulling off and looking up at Dean.
Dean smiles down at him, sated and just slightly bemused, and starts to put himself back together. "You want to tell me what brought that on?"
Sam shakes his head, not sure he can explain. "Just... you," he says, standing up, and Dean grins.
"I have that effect on people," he says comfortably. He gestures at the wet spot at the front of Sam's jeans. "I'd offer to help you out, but it looks like you went off half-cocked."
"Bite me," Sam says. He's a bit too breathless to pull off the sentiment, but Dean just laughs, slings an arm around him and ruffles his hair.
"You want some water, Sammy?" he asks.
"No," Sam says. "I want--"
"What?"
"You think you can get it up again by the time we find a motel?" he asks.
Dean raises his eyebrows. "You want more?"
"Want you to fuck me," Sam breathes. "Want you to throw me down on the bed and fuck me so hard I can't sit down for a week."
Dean swallows hard. "I can do that," he says, and Sam kisses him, hard and deep and slow. Dean finally breaks his mouth away, says, "What's gotten into you?" and Sam grins.
"It's a good day," he says, and steals one last lingering kiss.
When he slides into the passenger seat, his coffee is light and sweet and perfect, still warm to the touch.