Fic: SPN drabble (HA)
Did this for the Brothers on a Motel Bed meme. And I totally fail at being concise, but fuck it, I knew that already.
Rated: NC-17
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: S&M with mentions of bloodplay.
The stone under Dean’s knees is cold and wet from the light misty drizzle in the air. He thinks the stone of the sarcophagus they’ve climbed up on might be alabaster because it’s white enough to make his blood when it’s smeared on it look like black paint in the moonlight. But he doesn’t know much about rocks, except sometimes in a metaphorical sense, so it could just be marble.
It’s rough like fine sandpaper on his skin when Sam’s weight against his back moves him. On his skin, Sam’s sweat mingles with the rain, his heat seeps in where he touches making the places where he doesn’t only that much more cold. His breath is hot against the back of Dean’s ear and his voice rolls like a thunderclap even when he whispers.
“Did you know that not so long ago, prostitutes took their patrons to graveyards?” Sam asks softly. He runs his tongue over the shell of Dean’s ear and holds him with one arm around his waist as he pushes a finger inside him. A finger dusted with salt residue that burns and has Dean swallowing back a cry of pain as he works it in. “For privacy,” Sam whispers.
Sam’s finger curves within him and presses firmly over his prostate. Dean thinks of the salt under Sam’s fingernail as he moves it back and forth but it doesn’t keep him from moaning or rocking back on Sam’s hand with the pleasure of what he’s doing. It burns but it pleases. Oh god, does it.
“Are you calling me a whore, Sammy?” Dean murmurs, turning his head to look at him in the dark over his shoulder.
Sam’s teeth flash in the moonlight and he nudges the side of Dean’s face with his mouth and nose affectionately. “No,” he says. He withdraws his finger, adds a second, and thrusts them both back inside Dean’s body. Dean’s breath hitches and his shoulders jerk. Sam watches it and his smile widens. “Just sharing a little history lesson.”
“Yeah, okay, geek boy,” Dean says roughly. He swallows and there’s a click in his throat as he tries to force it past the heavy beat of his heart. “Are you done?”
“Well, actually, I was going to tell you about how they used to bury prostitutes at crossroads--”
“Sam,” Dean growls.
Sam laughs a little and presses his mouth between Dean’s shoulders. “What?”
“Could you focus please?”
Sam sighs and makes a wordless sound of assent in his throat. He licks and nips over the backs of Dean’s shoulders as he strokes his fingers within him. There’s a cut on Dean’s right shoulder blade from earlier when Sam was playing with one of his knives and Sam runs his tongue into the mouth of the wound, tasting the salt and metal of Dean’s blood.
Sam removes his fingers, placing little biting kisses down Dean’s back with a soothing murmur There’s a slide-slap of leather against Dean’s ass as Sam unfastens his belt and Dean drops his head, fingers gripping the stone of the sarcophagus as he waits. He’s staring at the name in the stone when Sam grabs his hip and forces him to turn over.
His knees are scraped and he’s cut all over and Dean is not thinking about how the cuts on his back are bleeding into the rain on the alabaster and turning pink. He’s certainly not turned on by it. At all. And he’s not wondering if whoever this Seargent guy who’s tomb they’re about to fuck on would mind or not. Of course not.
“Sam…” Dean says, but he stops when Sam grabs his thighs and pulls his lower body over his lap. His fingers dig into his flesh just right for leaving bruises and Dean shivers.
Then Sam’s pushing his cock inside him and Dean doesn’t even remember what he was going to say. He doesn’t smell the salt and smoke of the dying fire of burning haunted bones a few feet off or care if Mr. Seargent is lingering around in an ectoplasmic funk to watch it all. There is the almost-sticking way that Sam thrusting within him is just short of unbearably painful. There is salt still burning inside him as Sam fucks him and Dean’s heart trying to fight its way out of his chest.
There is so much pleasure that Dean turns his face to the side and bites down on Sam’s flexing arm. Sam doesn’t jerk away or push him off or demand he stop it, he takes one of his wide-palmed, long-fingered hands away from Dean’s hip and pets it through his wet hair, then throws his weight into his next thrust to make Dean scream into his flesh.
The sound is still in his mouth, still humming on Sam’s skin, when Dean arches against him and comes. His orgasm catches Dean by surprise and he screams, dragging his blunt nails down Sam’s back as the pleasure slides right to the tips of his fingers before it fizzles out.
Sam tosses his head, throwing his long hair away from his eyes, and fucks him through it, watching Dean’s face as he moves. He watches him come apart with pleasure, the way he shakes and trembles as his body goes lax, and he wants to crawl into his body through one of Dean’s wounds and hibernate there. It’s not really a sexual urge so much as a desire to go home, which he’s sure would make no kind of sane sense to anyone.
Dean opens his eyes and catches Sam watching him. He smiles at him a little uncertainly, his breath hitching with each rolling thrust of Sam’s hips, and runs his hands up and down Sam’s back, petting over the long welts left by his nails. The soothed pain is warm and pleasant, running right down to the base of his spine. As Dean’s hands stroke down once more, Sam leans down to rest his forehead on his shoulder and moans as he comes. His movements falter and Dean tightens his legs around Sam’s waist to hold him in, thinking, absurdly, how it’ll wash the salt out of him.
They lay there like that, listening to their own and each others’ hearts slow back to normal. When he finally notices that the fine misty drizzle has become a regular old downpour, Sam manages to push himself off of Dean and get down from the tomb without going to his knees in the mud.
When he turns to look at Dean, he’s sitting there on top of the sarcophagus looking weary and oddly small. Sam wonders at it, then puts out a hand for Dean to take.
“Come on, we need to get out of here,” he says.
“Yeah,” Dean says.
He puts his hand in Sam’s and starts to get down, then halts when Sam lifts his hand to his mouth. For a second he thinks Sam’s going to kiss it like some knight kissing the hand of a maiden in a fairytale--which would be sweet but pretty damn insulting just the same--then Sam flicks his tongue out and licks over his scraped knuckles. The wounds are closed but they still hurt and the pressure of his tongue on them sends a shock of pain up Dean’s arm that makes him grit his teeth against a sound of want.
Sam sees the desire and grins. “Come on,” he says again, and reaches around Dean to get his pants for him. “Put your clothes back on. You can’t drive naked in the state of California.”
“I don’t think that’s just California, Sammy,” Dean says, pulling on his wet jeans. Now that they’re wet and he’s tired, putting them on is a whole lot more difficult than taking them off had been. “Maybe you should drive,” Dean says, giving up on his wet shirt after two buttons.
“Sure,” Sam says. “You can sleep while I drive.”
Dean looks up at him with lifted brows. “Have you been listening to that veggie lesbo music again, Sammy?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Are you gonna give the keys or what?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mutters. He takes them out and smacks them into Sam’s outstretched hand. “But no Melissa Etheridge, Meredith Brooks, Jewel, Evanescence, no soundtracks for shit like Jerry Maguire or--”
“Can we just go?” Sam says, interrupting him to shut him up. “You can write me a list or something.”
Dean grabs up his shoes from the ground thinking how they’ll have to lay over the heater in the motel room to dry and maybe even that won’t save them. “Maybe I will.”
“Fine,” Sam says.
“Fine,” Dean says back, following him out of the cemetery.
XXX
Rated: NC-17
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: S&M with mentions of bloodplay.
The stone under Dean’s knees is cold and wet from the light misty drizzle in the air. He thinks the stone of the sarcophagus they’ve climbed up on might be alabaster because it’s white enough to make his blood when it’s smeared on it look like black paint in the moonlight. But he doesn’t know much about rocks, except sometimes in a metaphorical sense, so it could just be marble.
It’s rough like fine sandpaper on his skin when Sam’s weight against his back moves him. On his skin, Sam’s sweat mingles with the rain, his heat seeps in where he touches making the places where he doesn’t only that much more cold. His breath is hot against the back of Dean’s ear and his voice rolls like a thunderclap even when he whispers.
“Did you know that not so long ago, prostitutes took their patrons to graveyards?” Sam asks softly. He runs his tongue over the shell of Dean’s ear and holds him with one arm around his waist as he pushes a finger inside him. A finger dusted with salt residue that burns and has Dean swallowing back a cry of pain as he works it in. “For privacy,” Sam whispers.
Sam’s finger curves within him and presses firmly over his prostate. Dean thinks of the salt under Sam’s fingernail as he moves it back and forth but it doesn’t keep him from moaning or rocking back on Sam’s hand with the pleasure of what he’s doing. It burns but it pleases. Oh god, does it.
“Are you calling me a whore, Sammy?” Dean murmurs, turning his head to look at him in the dark over his shoulder.
Sam’s teeth flash in the moonlight and he nudges the side of Dean’s face with his mouth and nose affectionately. “No,” he says. He withdraws his finger, adds a second, and thrusts them both back inside Dean’s body. Dean’s breath hitches and his shoulders jerk. Sam watches it and his smile widens. “Just sharing a little history lesson.”
“Yeah, okay, geek boy,” Dean says roughly. He swallows and there’s a click in his throat as he tries to force it past the heavy beat of his heart. “Are you done?”
“Well, actually, I was going to tell you about how they used to bury prostitutes at crossroads--”
“Sam,” Dean growls.
Sam laughs a little and presses his mouth between Dean’s shoulders. “What?”
“Could you focus please?”
Sam sighs and makes a wordless sound of assent in his throat. He licks and nips over the backs of Dean’s shoulders as he strokes his fingers within him. There’s a cut on Dean’s right shoulder blade from earlier when Sam was playing with one of his knives and Sam runs his tongue into the mouth of the wound, tasting the salt and metal of Dean’s blood.
Sam removes his fingers, placing little biting kisses down Dean’s back with a soothing murmur There’s a slide-slap of leather against Dean’s ass as Sam unfastens his belt and Dean drops his head, fingers gripping the stone of the sarcophagus as he waits. He’s staring at the name in the stone when Sam grabs his hip and forces him to turn over.
His knees are scraped and he’s cut all over and Dean is not thinking about how the cuts on his back are bleeding into the rain on the alabaster and turning pink. He’s certainly not turned on by it. At all. And he’s not wondering if whoever this Seargent guy who’s tomb they’re about to fuck on would mind or not. Of course not.
“Sam…” Dean says, but he stops when Sam grabs his thighs and pulls his lower body over his lap. His fingers dig into his flesh just right for leaving bruises and Dean shivers.
Then Sam’s pushing his cock inside him and Dean doesn’t even remember what he was going to say. He doesn’t smell the salt and smoke of the dying fire of burning haunted bones a few feet off or care if Mr. Seargent is lingering around in an ectoplasmic funk to watch it all. There is the almost-sticking way that Sam thrusting within him is just short of unbearably painful. There is salt still burning inside him as Sam fucks him and Dean’s heart trying to fight its way out of his chest.
There is so much pleasure that Dean turns his face to the side and bites down on Sam’s flexing arm. Sam doesn’t jerk away or push him off or demand he stop it, he takes one of his wide-palmed, long-fingered hands away from Dean’s hip and pets it through his wet hair, then throws his weight into his next thrust to make Dean scream into his flesh.
The sound is still in his mouth, still humming on Sam’s skin, when Dean arches against him and comes. His orgasm catches Dean by surprise and he screams, dragging his blunt nails down Sam’s back as the pleasure slides right to the tips of his fingers before it fizzles out.
Sam tosses his head, throwing his long hair away from his eyes, and fucks him through it, watching Dean’s face as he moves. He watches him come apart with pleasure, the way he shakes and trembles as his body goes lax, and he wants to crawl into his body through one of Dean’s wounds and hibernate there. It’s not really a sexual urge so much as a desire to go home, which he’s sure would make no kind of sane sense to anyone.
Dean opens his eyes and catches Sam watching him. He smiles at him a little uncertainly, his breath hitching with each rolling thrust of Sam’s hips, and runs his hands up and down Sam’s back, petting over the long welts left by his nails. The soothed pain is warm and pleasant, running right down to the base of his spine. As Dean’s hands stroke down once more, Sam leans down to rest his forehead on his shoulder and moans as he comes. His movements falter and Dean tightens his legs around Sam’s waist to hold him in, thinking, absurdly, how it’ll wash the salt out of him.
They lay there like that, listening to their own and each others’ hearts slow back to normal. When he finally notices that the fine misty drizzle has become a regular old downpour, Sam manages to push himself off of Dean and get down from the tomb without going to his knees in the mud.
When he turns to look at Dean, he’s sitting there on top of the sarcophagus looking weary and oddly small. Sam wonders at it, then puts out a hand for Dean to take.
“Come on, we need to get out of here,” he says.
“Yeah,” Dean says.
He puts his hand in Sam’s and starts to get down, then halts when Sam lifts his hand to his mouth. For a second he thinks Sam’s going to kiss it like some knight kissing the hand of a maiden in a fairytale--which would be sweet but pretty damn insulting just the same--then Sam flicks his tongue out and licks over his scraped knuckles. The wounds are closed but they still hurt and the pressure of his tongue on them sends a shock of pain up Dean’s arm that makes him grit his teeth against a sound of want.
Sam sees the desire and grins. “Come on,” he says again, and reaches around Dean to get his pants for him. “Put your clothes back on. You can’t drive naked in the state of California.”
“I don’t think that’s just California, Sammy,” Dean says, pulling on his wet jeans. Now that they’re wet and he’s tired, putting them on is a whole lot more difficult than taking them off had been. “Maybe you should drive,” Dean says, giving up on his wet shirt after two buttons.
“Sure,” Sam says. “You can sleep while I drive.”
Dean looks up at him with lifted brows. “Have you been listening to that veggie lesbo music again, Sammy?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Are you gonna give the keys or what?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mutters. He takes them out and smacks them into Sam’s outstretched hand. “But no Melissa Etheridge, Meredith Brooks, Jewel, Evanescence, no soundtracks for shit like Jerry Maguire or--”
“Can we just go?” Sam says, interrupting him to shut him up. “You can write me a list or something.”
Dean grabs up his shoes from the ground thinking how they’ll have to lay over the heater in the motel room to dry and maybe even that won’t save them. “Maybe I will.”
“Fine,” Sam says.
“Fine,” Dean says back, following him out of the cemetery.
XXX