Supernatural, Sam/Dean, Interstate Love Song
Interstate Love Song
Supernatural
Sam/Dean, NC-17
For pornbattle. My very first SPN fic!
Riding shotgun through Tucson, the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand on end and he wonders if maybe they've driven through some supernatural hotspot but then he notices Dean's hand behind him on the seatback, arm stretched out in typical Dean sprawl. When Dean asks what's up Sam says nothing and crosses his arms and pretends to sleep, looking out at the early evening desert darkening at 65 mph.
The motel is cleaner than usual but no more comfortable, at least not until they've spread their clothes and gear around, the smell of them, and the wet air from Dean's near endless hot shower making the room feel closer. Dean crashes easily, still wet from the shower, coverlet tossed aside on the floor because dude, do you know how often they don't wash those?, no word on the case they're presumably working on, not even a cursory surf of the local television fare. Sam's shower is shorter and he spreads Dean's wet towel on the floor of the bathroom, a barrier against the cold tile.
In west Texas, two days later, Dean finds a brutalized raffia cowboy hat near the signboard of a roadside diner and refuses to take it off once Sam voices his disapproval. The waitress is a pretty girl with a simple smile and a soft voice who has trouble looking Dean in the eye but she compliments his hat and he pushes it up with his thumb, slings an arm over the booth's seatback and winks at her. Sam orders a short-stack and coffee.
Passing through Mississippi, on the way to a new job Dean can't shut up about why they should stop in New Orleans for a few days, sample the local cuisine and I don't mean the jambalaya, Sammy, but Sam presses and is suprised that Dean agrees on Mobile. They stop in a bar and before the night is over Dean has two girls in his lap and another man's money in his pocket. One of the girls is wearing the raffia hat and Sam begins to suspect its inexplicable appeal may be supernatural. But Dean sleeps alone that night and Sam watches the late show and the late late show and then the light from the television as it flickers over Dean's sheets.
The next afternoon they're in Jacksonville and Dean says this is where Skynyrd is from. Sam can see why they sang about Alabama instead. The job's downtown, an old spirit, Sam thinks, rare because there've been hunters as long as there've been ghosts. They'll be off I-10 soon, two thousand miles on the same piece of asphalt, and it couldn't be soon enough. But he likes the ghost jobs best now. There may be more guessing involved but ghosts are easier than demons, and demons make Dean pissy.
A few miles from I-95 Dean decides the heat's getting to him and he claims this is a night job anyway, Sammy. Mid-afternoon and they're checking into some shitty chain motel because everything in this town is chain, and Sam's glad not to see a sign advertising rooms by the hour. The room looks better inside than out and the air conditioning is chilly on his tacky skin.
"Bar down the street," Dean says, toeing off his boots, shedding his pants and thin tee. He pulls back the coverlet and sprawls on the bed.
"You mind?" Sam asks, but he's tempted to do the same.
"It's hot, dude. Did you hear what I said?"
"Bar's empty this time of day."
"Yeah, but not tonight."
Sam toes off his shoes, fingers the hem of his tee, sits next to Dean on the bed. "We could stay in."
"Whatever," Dean says, rubbing his naked belly, "just glad to know you're talking to me again."
Sam releases the hem of his tee in frustration, instead runs his hands through his hair. "I never wasn't talking to you, Dean."
"Well you haven't been not talking to me since San Bernandino, not to amount to anything anyway."
Sam knows Dean's right. "Yeah, well," he says, elbows on his knees.
"Yeah, well," Dean says, "we could stay in."
"Yeah."
"And do the job late."
"Yeah."
"And maybe you could stop acting like such a little girl."
"What?" Sam asks, turns to Dean and Dean's pushing his own briefs down, pulls out his cock and starts stroking. "San Bernandino, Sammy," Dean says, "it didn't not happen and not talking about it isn't going to make it unhappen."
Sam's on his feet at the first glimpse of his brother's cock but he's still just standing there and he's not leaving the room and he's not looking away,"This isn't talking, Dean," he tries to reason, tries to swallow, tries to step back but it ends up being a step forward.
"I know," Dean says, grinning, "better, ain't it?"
Sam's watching Dean as Dean jerks himself off and for an instant he sees something that isn't a grin, something that maybe isn't so sure this is the best idea and please, Sam. Sam's pause is brief before he sheds his shirt and unbuckles and unzips and straddles his brother, his naked, cock-in-hand, used-to-bathe-together brother, all lean lines and red lips and Dean. He only touches Dean's chest except for where he straddles his thighs and Dean moans his name. Sam takes his own erection in hand and mirrors his brother's actions, faster to catch up. Dean has a hand on his ass, sliding it beneath the open denim, chanting "Sammy" in a desperate, broken way like it might ward off whatever demon is possessing him, a look of such need in his eyes Sam can hardly breathe. Sam comes first over Dean's flushed chest and Dean joins him when he rolls off and almost onto the floor but not quite because Dean catches him and they wipe their hands and bellies with the coverlet and you see, Sammy, that's why you should never sleep under these things.
at pornbattle
Supernatural
Sam/Dean, NC-17
For pornbattle. My very first SPN fic!
Riding shotgun through Tucson, the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand on end and he wonders if maybe they've driven through some supernatural hotspot but then he notices Dean's hand behind him on the seatback, arm stretched out in typical Dean sprawl. When Dean asks what's up Sam says nothing and crosses his arms and pretends to sleep, looking out at the early evening desert darkening at 65 mph.
The motel is cleaner than usual but no more comfortable, at least not until they've spread their clothes and gear around, the smell of them, and the wet air from Dean's near endless hot shower making the room feel closer. Dean crashes easily, still wet from the shower, coverlet tossed aside on the floor because dude, do you know how often they don't wash those?, no word on the case they're presumably working on, not even a cursory surf of the local television fare. Sam's shower is shorter and he spreads Dean's wet towel on the floor of the bathroom, a barrier against the cold tile.
In west Texas, two days later, Dean finds a brutalized raffia cowboy hat near the signboard of a roadside diner and refuses to take it off once Sam voices his disapproval. The waitress is a pretty girl with a simple smile and a soft voice who has trouble looking Dean in the eye but she compliments his hat and he pushes it up with his thumb, slings an arm over the booth's seatback and winks at her. Sam orders a short-stack and coffee.
Passing through Mississippi, on the way to a new job Dean can't shut up about why they should stop in New Orleans for a few days, sample the local cuisine and I don't mean the jambalaya, Sammy, but Sam presses and is suprised that Dean agrees on Mobile. They stop in a bar and before the night is over Dean has two girls in his lap and another man's money in his pocket. One of the girls is wearing the raffia hat and Sam begins to suspect its inexplicable appeal may be supernatural. But Dean sleeps alone that night and Sam watches the late show and the late late show and then the light from the television as it flickers over Dean's sheets.
The next afternoon they're in Jacksonville and Dean says this is where Skynyrd is from. Sam can see why they sang about Alabama instead. The job's downtown, an old spirit, Sam thinks, rare because there've been hunters as long as there've been ghosts. They'll be off I-10 soon, two thousand miles on the same piece of asphalt, and it couldn't be soon enough. But he likes the ghost jobs best now. There may be more guessing involved but ghosts are easier than demons, and demons make Dean pissy.
A few miles from I-95 Dean decides the heat's getting to him and he claims this is a night job anyway, Sammy. Mid-afternoon and they're checking into some shitty chain motel because everything in this town is chain, and Sam's glad not to see a sign advertising rooms by the hour. The room looks better inside than out and the air conditioning is chilly on his tacky skin.
"Bar down the street," Dean says, toeing off his boots, shedding his pants and thin tee. He pulls back the coverlet and sprawls on the bed.
"You mind?" Sam asks, but he's tempted to do the same.
"It's hot, dude. Did you hear what I said?"
"Bar's empty this time of day."
"Yeah, but not tonight."
Sam toes off his shoes, fingers the hem of his tee, sits next to Dean on the bed. "We could stay in."
"Whatever," Dean says, rubbing his naked belly, "just glad to know you're talking to me again."
Sam releases the hem of his tee in frustration, instead runs his hands through his hair. "I never wasn't talking to you, Dean."
"Well you haven't been not talking to me since San Bernandino, not to amount to anything anyway."
Sam knows Dean's right. "Yeah, well," he says, elbows on his knees.
"Yeah, well," Dean says, "we could stay in."
"Yeah."
"And do the job late."
"Yeah."
"And maybe you could stop acting like such a little girl."
"What?" Sam asks, turns to Dean and Dean's pushing his own briefs down, pulls out his cock and starts stroking. "San Bernandino, Sammy," Dean says, "it didn't not happen and not talking about it isn't going to make it unhappen."
Sam's on his feet at the first glimpse of his brother's cock but he's still just standing there and he's not leaving the room and he's not looking away,"This isn't talking, Dean," he tries to reason, tries to swallow, tries to step back but it ends up being a step forward.
"I know," Dean says, grinning, "better, ain't it?"
Sam's watching Dean as Dean jerks himself off and for an instant he sees something that isn't a grin, something that maybe isn't so sure this is the best idea and please, Sam. Sam's pause is brief before he sheds his shirt and unbuckles and unzips and straddles his brother, his naked, cock-in-hand, used-to-bathe-together brother, all lean lines and red lips and Dean. He only touches Dean's chest except for where he straddles his thighs and Dean moans his name. Sam takes his own erection in hand and mirrors his brother's actions, faster to catch up. Dean has a hand on his ass, sliding it beneath the open denim, chanting "Sammy" in a desperate, broken way like it might ward off whatever demon is possessing him, a look of such need in his eyes Sam can hardly breathe. Sam comes first over Dean's flushed chest and Dean joins him when he rolls off and almost onto the floor but not quite because Dean catches him and they wipe their hands and bellies with the coverlet and you see, Sammy, that's why you should never sleep under these things.
at pornbattle