i done write porny wincest.
Title: Is That a Roll of Quarters in Your Pocket (or Are You Just Happy to See Me?)
Author: mcee
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1,925 words.
Spoiler: Set during Houses of the Holy, but no spoilers.
Notes: Thanks to ink_stain and sevenfists for the beta!
Summary: Dean thinks of masturbation as a hobby.
::
Dean thinks of masturbation as a hobby. He does it when he's bored, when the job is getting to him, when Sam's being whiny. He does it in bed, in the shower, in public bathrooms, in the car, and on one memorable occasion, on the Superman Ride of Steel roller coaster at Six Flags. It doesn't matter if he's just gotten tail or if it's been a while; it's all about supply and demand, and there's plenty more where that came from.
He also doesn't give a crap if Sam catches him. Sam's been making faces at Dean's jacking off noises since Dean's voice cracked, and Sam gave up playing dumb years ago. Dean admits it's part of the appeal.
Dean is under house arrest, Sam is out, the cable is fuzzy, and there's an honest-to-god Magic Fingers box by the bed. For all the years he and Dad and Sam have been doing the shitty motel circuit, Dean has only seen these a handful of times. He runs his fingers reverently over the obsolete gadget, a relic from another time. It reminds him of Barbarella and Elvis Costello.
The lights are on, the drapes are drawn, the door may or may not be locked. Dean hangs his shirt on the peg of the chair, folds his jeans and puts them on the seat, does the same with his underwear. He pulls his socks off, balancing on one foot then the other, then balls the pair together to throw them into his duffel.
The ugly expanse of the bedspread stretches out before him like the horizon, like miles of highway. Dean fists his dick distractedly and pulls and tugs until he's half hard. No need to get ahead of himself. He climbs across the bed, hands and knees on scratchy polyester. He's read that article about the gross crap that's on motel bedspreads, but considering the number of times he's bled, sweated, and fucked on them himself, he can't be too picky.
He lies on his belly, his arms folded under his cheek, his cock nestled between mattress and belly. He shifts his hips experimentally and then, pleased, reaches for the stack of quarters on the nightstand. He picks off the top coin and stretches to drop it in the machine's slot. The bed rattles, pauses, then begins to shake, arrhythmically, until it settles into it and begins vibrating in earnest. Dean grins and closes his eyes.
He's worked up a pretty respectable hard-on by the time the first quarter runs out. Dean puffs out a breath and opens his eyes, blinks at the lamp on the nightstand. His fingers tighten in the coverlet and he ponders flipping over and finishing himself off. He reaches for another coin instead.
By the time Sam gets back, Dean's fisting the bedspread and squirming, pressing his hips into the mattress. He feels lightheaded, his arousal rattling in his chest, pooling in his groin. He--
The door slams into the wall and Dean's eyes fly open, meeting the horrified look on Sam's face.
"DEAN!"
"Oh god," Dean moans shakily and comes, abruptly and harder than he expected. He misses what other faces Sam makes, but just picturing any from his repertoire does the trick, and Dean shudders and rides the last of it out, forehead pressed to the mattress, jaw twitching and fingers uncurling numbly from the bedspread. He can feel the pool of jizz sticking to his belly.
Sam doesn't speak to him all night, except to make him put on his underwear and ball up the comforter to cram it into the dresser's bottom drawer.
The cable is still fuzzy, but Sam spends forty minutes trying to angle the bunny ears so he can see what's going happening on this Law & Order rerun. Sam uses a little more force than the antenna requires, but Dean doesn't complain; Dean thinks Vincent D'Onofrio is kinda hot.
Another hour later they're watching Leno in polarized colors. The bottom half of the image squiggles sideways, distorded. Sam clicks off the television with a grandiose sigh.
Dean, still riding his post-orgasm high, is feeling all loose-limbed and a little obnoxious. "Sammy. You know what's fun to do when you're bored?"
Sam's still not talking to him, except to say Dean's name in that way that sounds like both a warning and a threat.
Dean pays the tone no heed; he can totally take Sam in a fair fight. He points a finger at Sam. "Jacking off. Masturbation is good for you, Sammy. It'll put some hair on your chest!"
"Or your palm," Sam grumbles. He always gets crabby when Dean makes it impossible to freeze him out. "I've witnessed you beat off more time than I can count, man. It's lost its charm."
"Lost its..." Dean stares at Sam, appalled. "Then you're not doing it right!"
Sam swings his legs down the end of the bed and looks at Dean gravely. "Dean. If the next words out of your mouth are, 'let me show you', I will rip your dick off with my bare hands and put it somewhere really high up so you can't reach it."
Funny how the obnoxiousness catches. "Dude, what's your problem! Are you being a bitch just because I started without you earlier?"
Sam says nothing. Dean's eyes go wide, his face splitting into a grin. "Oh god, you are! You're filthy, Sammy. Your own brother!"
But for all of Dean's baiting, Sam ain't biting. His ability to maintain a mood never fails to impress Dean. Sam glares at him unhappily from across the space between the beds, so Dean takes pity on him.
He hooks one ankle over the other, tucks an arm behind his head, and starts rubbing at himself again through his boxer briefs.
Sam watches him in disbelief. "Dude, what're you--"
"Making it up to you, Sammy," Dean interrupts, and meets Sam's eyes pointedly. His dick jumps back to attention, and he pets it with long, showy strokes, for Sam's benefit.
Sam makes a gurgling noise when he swallows, his adam's apple bobbing unevenly. Dean smirks; Sam's always had a bit of a voyeuristic streak, getting off on things like bad pay-per-view softcore and listening to Dean fuck bar floozies. Dean is so proud of his baby brother, sitting there on the next bed with a spectacular hard-on in his jeans. He wonders how long Sam's been fighting it.
Dean cracks his neck and sighs contentedly, relaxing into the low buzz of arousal building up again. He slips his hand into the waistband of his shorts and fists his cock, thumbing the head. He groans on a satisfied chuckle.
He can practically feel Sam's eyes burning a hole into the moving bulge in Dean's underwear. Dean knows him enough to know that it's all in the reveal.
"How you doing over there?"
He's expecting a stammered protest, or mortified silence. Instead there's a pause, a sharp intake of air, and a whispered, "Don't stop?"
Dean is almost charmed by the hesitation in it. If he were a better man, he'd cut Sam some slack and keep going without acknowledging Sam's embarassment at being turned on by this. But Dean's never been one to let anything go, especially if it means giving Sam a hard time. So to speak.
"This working for you, Sammy?" he murmurs, voice pitched low, and turns to lock eyes with Sam again. Sam's cheeks are bright red, his bottom lip spit-shiny. Sam's hand flies away from his crotch to settle uncomfortably on his knee.
Growing up, Sam was always impossibly stealthy when it came to jacking off; the idea of watching him do it openly, for once, makes Dean's dick harden in his grip. He moans, this time not for show. Sam's eyes widen and his fingers creep back up his inseam until he's digging the heel of his hand against his erection.
Time to kick this up a notch.
Dean wriggles out of his underwear and tosses it across the room, reaches for another quarter. There are a few dollars' worth of them left, they're all set. Dean pops the coin into the machine and settles back on the bed, bare ass on the messed up sheets and feet planted flat on the mattress. Tucks a hand back behind his head and squeezes his balls. His voice rattles when he speaks up.
"Now learn from the master."
Dean totally just lined it up for Sam to knock it down with '...bator', a joke that has been funny to Sam for a solid decade. The fact that Sam misses the opportunity says plenty.
Dean forgets Sam for a moment, closes his eyes and focuses on the vibration, the way it telegraphs into his hipbones and shoulder blades, how it shoots down his spine, tingles at hands and feet, pools in his belly. His erection is back to nearly painful and he pumps it lazily, unwilling to move things along just yet. His ass clenches on the sheets.
He keeps his eyes closed, hoping Sam'll take it as a cue to whip it out. Dean hears the tell-tale sound of a zipper, then a shaky huff of breath, and the sound of spitting. Then skin on skin, saliva-slick. The audio is almost as maddening as the visual probably is, and Dean squeezes at the base of his cock, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling, a little stunned.
Too fast. He shouldn't be getting off this quickly on his brother touching himself. The plan was to embarass the kid, not prove himself an even bigger pervert. But then again he's always been a bit of a show-off himself. See: the Superman ride anecdote.
Sam makes a noise that's halfway between a question and a whimper, and Dean takes it as a prompt to keep going. His chest is feeling a little tight though, and he stares down at his dick, flushed and leaking in his fist. He lets go of it. It wobbles comically, like a buoy on choppy waters. Dean laughs, a little breathlessly.
"Look, ma: no hands!"
Sam's groan, albeit choked with arousal, sounds like an eyeroll.
Time to take it home, lest he ends up the one avoiding Sam's gaze tomorrow. Dean wraps his hand back around his cock, ignoring the jolt it sends up his belly.
"Five bucks says I can hit that lampshade," he grits out, jerking his chin at the lamp by the television across the room.
Sam gurgles eloquently. Dean can hear him panting, listens to the click in Sam's wrist (a by-product of the recent injury) increase in speed.
Dean does hit the lamp, with a spectacular splat. He also gets the television, the cable listing, and the ugly watercolor framed on the wall. There a soft whimper and a creak of Sam's mattress, then a splotch of jizz hitting Dean right on the cheek.
Dean blinks, then reaches up to touch his face, wet and sticky. He clears his throat to get his voice even, then looks over to Sam, who's sitting there with his hair in his eyes, his mouth hanging open, and his limp dick in his hand.
"Just for that," Dean warns, "it's ten bucks."
There's a beat, then Sam laughs, bright and expansive, cheeks flushed.