CREAMIE DEANIES: A LOVE STORY (Blindfold fill)
aka Sam Winchester, in shotgun, with an ice cream bar
PG-13 or possibly R for Dean's fevered imaginings. Sam/Dean UST
VERY BELATED fill from the previous round of
blindfold_spn, for this prompt:
"Sam/Dean, food.
In parts of the US there is a dairy foods brand called "Dean's"; Dean's Milk, Dean's Sour Cream, Dean's creamy ice cream sandwiches.
Dean secretly owns a dairy business, Sam must never find out. For Dean's own sense of dignity, and because Sam doesn't know that the creamy ice cream sandwiches he really really enjoys are his brother's. Dean really enjoys Sam enjoying Dean's ice cream. Things get a little messy."
Someday I might write the secret backstory of how Dean rescued a dairy farm from a terrible fate somewhere in his years of solo hunting and received a large share or partial ownership or something out of the owner's gratitude and thus the company became named DEAN'S MILK and went on to commercial victory under new auspices. And that's what really pays for their hotel rooms. Dean just thinks credit card fraud sounds cooler.
Also, TOTALLY UNEDITED.
--
Sam must never find out.
At first, it was because Dean knew Sam would never ever let him live it down. Secret part-ownership of a dairy company? Christ, Dean's embarrassed enough just thinking about it. He doesn't need Sam's help feeling humiliated. Dean's milk company. He can imagine the lactation jokes, all right. The trashing of his masculinity. He knows what he'd do as a big brother if the situation was reversed, after all.
Still, he enjoys the thought - heh - of all those girls out there, drinking down his brand-name milk. If it's a thought that's kept him company on the occasional lonely night, well, Dean never claimed not to be a pervert. And oh man, it all gets even better when the company's products start branching out - his suggestion, thanks - to include creamy treats and ice cream sandwiches. With wild success, according to the company newsletter. In a couple of years half the gas stations in middle America are stocking Dean's brand milk and ice cream goods and Dean spends more than a few hot, sweaty shower sessions thinking about scantily-clad girls (and, yeah, the occasional hot guy) licking up his ice cream, smudging white droplets of it into their skin, maybe being such fans of the brand that they'll jump at the chance to get in bed with the owner.
And when summer hits, Sam on the road at his side, Dean finds himself with a whole new reason to make sure Sam never finds out about any of this milk business. Because, well. Sam's got a new way of coping with the heat.
These days Dean looks forward to summer travel in the Midwest with an anticipatory thudding in his blood. It means long dry days on the prairie while the summer sun crawls down over them and settles in the bones of the Impala so they can never quite shake the heat, where they strip and shed their jackets in the airless car, arms and heads hanging out the Impala's rolled-down windows. Dean drives in his boxers while Sam rides for miles half-sticking out the shotgun window, arms folded across the window ledge and head hanging out like a great shaggy dog - "Keep sticking that out and you'll get it chopped off," Dean warns - and they each have their own ways of fighting the heat. Dean cranks his music, pours himself into Zeppelin and Metallica and belts out along with the vocals until he forgets the grossness of his skin and Sam flicks water at him in retaliation for his eardrums. Sam though, Sam likes to cut loose with the expenses and calories and buys out the gas station refrigerators so he's got an endless stock of things to bring down his body temperature. On the East Coast he tends to go for torpedo pops, in the South it's giant cups of iced tea, and in the Midwest? Sam's weapon of choice for beating back the summer heat becomes Dean's own ice cream sandwiches.
It's midday and they're cruising down Highway 55 under a sky that's blue and empty and hot as a fucking furnace. Dean's humming along to BOC and keeping one eye on the radar detector and it's too damn hot to eat, for either of them, but it's midday and hot as the devil's asshole so Sam fidgets and grumbles until they stop and get something cold to drink, and - yep - an obligatory ice cream for Sam. Dean's soda is already mostly drained and sloshing with watery ice by the time Sam puts down his iced coffee with a contented huff and starts picking at the wrapper on his ice cream bar. And like the damn paper wrapper crinkling is Pavlov's bell, Dean's got his reaction pre-programmed already. At least Dean's still wearing jeans. One of these days he's probably going to get to find out just how poorly boxers hide his hardening dick when he's trying to drive and Sam's lapping up that ice cream, but today is fortunately not that day.
"Oh, shit," Sam murmurs, and Dean's eyes flick over to where the opened wrapper's just spilled drippy, melting ice cream filling from the softening sandwich halfway down Sam's forearms and in white, gooey droplets all over his crotch. Yeah, God, strike Dean down where he stands.
"You better not get any of that on the seats," Dean threatens gruffly.
"Whatever, Dean."
Sam, ever the prissy one in the family, for once in his life just doesn't seem to give a shit that he's jizzing melted ice cream all over himself and shoves half the sandwich (extra-large size) into his mouth, moaning happily at the coldness and - christ, Dean's gotta do a better job of keeping his eyes on the road. The soft sounds of Sam's muffled happy noises around the bulk of the sandwich in his mouth and the flashes of pink tongue working and damp lips out of the corner of Dean's eye are riveting. Maybe Dean should sample his own brand more often. Sam's acting like it's giving him a damn orgasm over there, after all. Complete with - Dean sneaks another direct look - writhing a little and arching the long, tanned stretch of his neck while Sam softly mouths the last of the bar into his mouth. What the fuck.
Dean's shifting uncomfortably in his seat by now, hands sweating and slipping on the steering wheel. He loves and hates this, the flip-flop feeling in his stomach at getting off on his brother without Sam's awareness, the sweet thud of blood in every artery while the road blurs in front of him and the chafing-hot-miserable sensation of his hard dick in his jeans. But at least Sam's done. Or - not.
'Cause Sam is cleaning up his mess, now that he's eaten his fill. It's a long, sucking slurp that jerks Dean's head back around to face shotgun, like Sam's got him on a string, and fuuuuck, that's the sound of Sam giving head to two of his fingers, sucking the messy strings of vanilla cream off and then licking down to his wrist with broad swipes of tongue that leave the skin shiny and wet and Dean really can't help but imagine that it's something else his brother's licking off his fingers like goddamn porn.
Dean stares out the window and kinda wishes a cop would appear, give him something else to think about except the boner he just popped for his little brother eating ice cream. How any human being can be such a tease without knowing it, Dean cannot fucking imagine.
Sam signals his completion with one last, lingering suck and a contented burp.
"You've got something on your face, man," Dean croaks, trying not to jizz right in his jeans or hump the steering wheel or do anything else suicidal that'll get them killed at seventy-five miles per hour on a two-lane road.
"Oh yeah?" says Sam, eyes fluttering open, and licks his lips. "Think you can get it for me?"
Well, damn.
--
At least I got this posted before the new round goes up, eh? EHH?
PG-13 or possibly R for Dean's fevered imaginings. Sam/Dean UST
VERY BELATED fill from the previous round of
blindfold_spn, for this prompt:
"Sam/Dean, food.
In parts of the US there is a dairy foods brand called "Dean's"; Dean's Milk, Dean's Sour Cream, Dean's creamy ice cream sandwiches.
Dean secretly owns a dairy business, Sam must never find out. For Dean's own sense of dignity, and because Sam doesn't know that the creamy ice cream sandwiches he really really enjoys are his brother's. Dean really enjoys Sam enjoying Dean's ice cream. Things get a little messy."
Someday I might write the secret backstory of how Dean rescued a dairy farm from a terrible fate somewhere in his years of solo hunting and received a large share or partial ownership or something out of the owner's gratitude and thus the company became named DEAN'S MILK and went on to commercial victory under new auspices. And that's what really pays for their hotel rooms. Dean just thinks credit card fraud sounds cooler.
Also, TOTALLY UNEDITED.
--
Sam must never find out.
At first, it was because Dean knew Sam would never ever let him live it down. Secret part-ownership of a dairy company? Christ, Dean's embarrassed enough just thinking about it. He doesn't need Sam's help feeling humiliated. Dean's milk company. He can imagine the lactation jokes, all right. The trashing of his masculinity. He knows what he'd do as a big brother if the situation was reversed, after all.
Still, he enjoys the thought - heh - of all those girls out there, drinking down his brand-name milk. If it's a thought that's kept him company on the occasional lonely night, well, Dean never claimed not to be a pervert. And oh man, it all gets even better when the company's products start branching out - his suggestion, thanks - to include creamy treats and ice cream sandwiches. With wild success, according to the company newsletter. In a couple of years half the gas stations in middle America are stocking Dean's brand milk and ice cream goods and Dean spends more than a few hot, sweaty shower sessions thinking about scantily-clad girls (and, yeah, the occasional hot guy) licking up his ice cream, smudging white droplets of it into their skin, maybe being such fans of the brand that they'll jump at the chance to get in bed with the owner.
And when summer hits, Sam on the road at his side, Dean finds himself with a whole new reason to make sure Sam never finds out about any of this milk business. Because, well. Sam's got a new way of coping with the heat.
These days Dean looks forward to summer travel in the Midwest with an anticipatory thudding in his blood. It means long dry days on the prairie while the summer sun crawls down over them and settles in the bones of the Impala so they can never quite shake the heat, where they strip and shed their jackets in the airless car, arms and heads hanging out the Impala's rolled-down windows. Dean drives in his boxers while Sam rides for miles half-sticking out the shotgun window, arms folded across the window ledge and head hanging out like a great shaggy dog - "Keep sticking that out and you'll get it chopped off," Dean warns - and they each have their own ways of fighting the heat. Dean cranks his music, pours himself into Zeppelin and Metallica and belts out along with the vocals until he forgets the grossness of his skin and Sam flicks water at him in retaliation for his eardrums. Sam though, Sam likes to cut loose with the expenses and calories and buys out the gas station refrigerators so he's got an endless stock of things to bring down his body temperature. On the East Coast he tends to go for torpedo pops, in the South it's giant cups of iced tea, and in the Midwest? Sam's weapon of choice for beating back the summer heat becomes Dean's own ice cream sandwiches.
It's midday and they're cruising down Highway 55 under a sky that's blue and empty and hot as a fucking furnace. Dean's humming along to BOC and keeping one eye on the radar detector and it's too damn hot to eat, for either of them, but it's midday and hot as the devil's asshole so Sam fidgets and grumbles until they stop and get something cold to drink, and - yep - an obligatory ice cream for Sam. Dean's soda is already mostly drained and sloshing with watery ice by the time Sam puts down his iced coffee with a contented huff and starts picking at the wrapper on his ice cream bar. And like the damn paper wrapper crinkling is Pavlov's bell, Dean's got his reaction pre-programmed already. At least Dean's still wearing jeans. One of these days he's probably going to get to find out just how poorly boxers hide his hardening dick when he's trying to drive and Sam's lapping up that ice cream, but today is fortunately not that day.
"Oh, shit," Sam murmurs, and Dean's eyes flick over to where the opened wrapper's just spilled drippy, melting ice cream filling from the softening sandwich halfway down Sam's forearms and in white, gooey droplets all over his crotch. Yeah, God, strike Dean down where he stands.
"You better not get any of that on the seats," Dean threatens gruffly.
"Whatever, Dean."
Sam, ever the prissy one in the family, for once in his life just doesn't seem to give a shit that he's jizzing melted ice cream all over himself and shoves half the sandwich (extra-large size) into his mouth, moaning happily at the coldness and - christ, Dean's gotta do a better job of keeping his eyes on the road. The soft sounds of Sam's muffled happy noises around the bulk of the sandwich in his mouth and the flashes of pink tongue working and damp lips out of the corner of Dean's eye are riveting. Maybe Dean should sample his own brand more often. Sam's acting like it's giving him a damn orgasm over there, after all. Complete with - Dean sneaks another direct look - writhing a little and arching the long, tanned stretch of his neck while Sam softly mouths the last of the bar into his mouth. What the fuck.
Dean's shifting uncomfortably in his seat by now, hands sweating and slipping on the steering wheel. He loves and hates this, the flip-flop feeling in his stomach at getting off on his brother without Sam's awareness, the sweet thud of blood in every artery while the road blurs in front of him and the chafing-hot-miserable sensation of his hard dick in his jeans. But at least Sam's done. Or - not.
'Cause Sam is cleaning up his mess, now that he's eaten his fill. It's a long, sucking slurp that jerks Dean's head back around to face shotgun, like Sam's got him on a string, and fuuuuck, that's the sound of Sam giving head to two of his fingers, sucking the messy strings of vanilla cream off and then licking down to his wrist with broad swipes of tongue that leave the skin shiny and wet and Dean really can't help but imagine that it's something else his brother's licking off his fingers like goddamn porn.
Dean stares out the window and kinda wishes a cop would appear, give him something else to think about except the boner he just popped for his little brother eating ice cream. How any human being can be such a tease without knowing it, Dean cannot fucking imagine.
Sam signals his completion with one last, lingering suck and a contented burp.
"You've got something on your face, man," Dean croaks, trying not to jizz right in his jeans or hump the steering wheel or do anything else suicidal that'll get them killed at seventy-five miles per hour on a two-lane road.
"Oh yeah?" says Sam, eyes fluttering open, and licks his lips. "Think you can get it for me?"
Well, damn.
--
At least I got this posted before the new round goes up, eh? EHH?