you're not a good shot but i'm worse
I was trying to organize my thoughts about Houses of the Holy (still can’t seem to do that but I have figured out that the ep leaves me with the same feeling that Wings by Josh Ritter does). Then those thoughts turned into a rambling ficlet about Dean and driving. Which lead to me opening my long neglected SPN fic bits file. Which led to me finding this mostly finished bit of almost porn. So, I finished it.
Title: The First Degree
Author: greenapricot
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/OFC
Rating: R
Word count: 452
Spoilers: none, preseries
Summary: If he’d been more awake, stopped and listened for a minute longer, he’d have known better than to go investigate.
Notes: A million thanks to catling42 for the insta!beta and encouragement. Title nicked from a line in an acoustic cover of AC/DC’s Love at First Feel by Mark Kozelek ‘cause it came on just as I was finishing the ficlet and I couldn’t think of one on my own. Also, the song is strangely appropriate in a vaguely disturbing way.
It’s late, the so-late-it’s-early kind of late where the shadows grow darker before the light. Sam’s not sure why he’s even awake. Dean’s bed is empty, Dad won’t be back until tomorrow night and there’s a strange sound coming from the living room. A sort of small whiny animal noise.
If he’d been more awake, stopped and listened for a minute longer, he’d have known better than to go investigate.
But he’s not. And he doesn’t. And he does.
Dean is sprawled on the couch shirt rucked up and jeans pushed down, girl between his legs. Her face is obscured by her hair and Dean’s left hand on her head. He’s all but writhing under her, moans and curses and bits of Latin escaping his lips. Dean’s right hand is gripping the cushion just above his head like he might fall if he lets go.
Sam stops with his hand on the door jamb and he can’t move, can’t tear his eyes away. He’s mesmerized by the bob of the girl’s head, the growl in Dean’s voice, the sheen of sweat on Dean’s stomach where the streetlight catches him through the curtains.
He should absolutely not be watching his brother get a blow job on the couch. He should turn around and go back to bed. The moan that tears from Dean’s throat as the girl slides her hand up Dean’s belly to his chest, pushing his shirt up further and tugging on his nipple should absolutely not go straight to his dick.
Sam’s grip on the door jamb tightens.
Dean throws his head back when he comes, hitting the arm of the couch hard and his eyes lock with Sam’s. Sam who’s still standing in the doorway like a statue that’s breathing a bit too heavily. Sam’s never seen Dean’s face look so open, so beautiful. Dean doesn’t take his eyes from Sam as the girl looks up, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, crawls up his body, and sees Sam.
“Dean.”
Dean bites his lip and smiles, the blinding smile that transforms his entire face, the real smile. Sam just stands there in his boxers hard as a rock, fingernails leaving half-moons in the wood around the door, he can feel the girl’s eyes on him, expectant, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Dean’s. Dean who is still grinning at him, head upside down over the arm of the couch.
“Dean,” she says again. “Who-” Dean’s eyes drop to her, fingers brushing her cheek, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. He licks his lips, eyes flashing back to Sam, dark and sparkling in the dim light.
Sam bolts before he hears Dean’s answer.
Title: The First Degree
Author: greenapricot
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/OFC
Rating: R
Word count: 452
Spoilers: none, preseries
Summary: If he’d been more awake, stopped and listened for a minute longer, he’d have known better than to go investigate.
Notes: A million thanks to catling42 for the insta!beta and encouragement. Title nicked from a line in an acoustic cover of AC/DC’s Love at First Feel by Mark Kozelek ‘cause it came on just as I was finishing the ficlet and I couldn’t think of one on my own. Also, the song is strangely appropriate in a vaguely disturbing way.
It’s late, the so-late-it’s-early kind of late where the shadows grow darker before the light. Sam’s not sure why he’s even awake. Dean’s bed is empty, Dad won’t be back until tomorrow night and there’s a strange sound coming from the living room. A sort of small whiny animal noise.
If he’d been more awake, stopped and listened for a minute longer, he’d have known better than to go investigate.
But he’s not. And he doesn’t. And he does.
Dean is sprawled on the couch shirt rucked up and jeans pushed down, girl between his legs. Her face is obscured by her hair and Dean’s left hand on her head. He’s all but writhing under her, moans and curses and bits of Latin escaping his lips. Dean’s right hand is gripping the cushion just above his head like he might fall if he lets go.
Sam stops with his hand on the door jamb and he can’t move, can’t tear his eyes away. He’s mesmerized by the bob of the girl’s head, the growl in Dean’s voice, the sheen of sweat on Dean’s stomach where the streetlight catches him through the curtains.
He should absolutely not be watching his brother get a blow job on the couch. He should turn around and go back to bed. The moan that tears from Dean’s throat as the girl slides her hand up Dean’s belly to his chest, pushing his shirt up further and tugging on his nipple should absolutely not go straight to his dick.
Sam’s grip on the door jamb tightens.
Dean throws his head back when he comes, hitting the arm of the couch hard and his eyes lock with Sam’s. Sam who’s still standing in the doorway like a statue that’s breathing a bit too heavily. Sam’s never seen Dean’s face look so open, so beautiful. Dean doesn’t take his eyes from Sam as the girl looks up, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, crawls up his body, and sees Sam.
“Dean.”
Dean bites his lip and smiles, the blinding smile that transforms his entire face, the real smile. Sam just stands there in his boxers hard as a rock, fingernails leaving half-moons in the wood around the door, he can feel the girl’s eyes on him, expectant, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Dean’s. Dean who is still grinning at him, head upside down over the arm of the couch.
“Dean,” she says again. “Who-” Dean’s eyes drop to her, fingers brushing her cheek, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. He licks his lips, eyes flashing back to Sam, dark and sparkling in the dim light.
Sam bolts before he hears Dean’s answer.