fic.
Title: Tiger in Your Tank
Pairing: Dean/Sam, Dean/OCs
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 804 words
Summary: It takes ten weeks and twelve state lines for Sam to allow Dean to touch him.
::
The moans she'd been letting out while Dean was going down on her morphed into a shuddery whimper when he pushed into her. The back of his head hit the roof and he had to hike her leg up so he could put his boot down in the footwell to gain enough leverage to thrust. Whatsherface had slick auburn hair that fanned across the leatherette and perky little breasts with tight pink nipples that would've fit just right in his hands had he focused long enough to think to palm them.
She wasn't a talker, which was just as well because Dean, suddenly and inexplicably fascinated, was listening instead to the squeak of the upholstery under his knee and the sound of it sticking to the girl's bare ass as he fucked her across the backseat. The harder he went, the louder the noise, and her hand suddenly flailed up and slapped against the fogged-up window, leaving a misshapen handprint, smeared sideways. He came harder than he had in months.
He drove her to the address she gave him, listening to the sound of their combined, uneven breathing in the small confines of the car.
*
A week later he gets a tall brunette in red pumps to follow him back to his motel, and tries for an hour to fuck her on the bed that would've been Sam's. She doesn't get off either and eventually just pushes Dean off and goes to look for her shoes. She thanks him absently for the drinks and leaves on foot, even though the temperature's dropped several degrees since they left the bar, and the hem of her skirt is only inches from the waist of it.
Dean sits unhappily with his back to the headboard and tries to jack off to the softcore he can kind of make out on the shitty TV set. He gives up after mere minutes, but doesn't bother going back to the bed closest to the door.
*
He calms down a little after that, throws himself into dumb hunts, impossible odds. Somehow coming out alive is enough of a high to replace sex.
For about two weeks.
*
He looks nothing like you'd think he would. Some college kid with chunky glasses, a threadbare Super Furry Animals t-shirt and sagging Chucks, kneeling in the parking lot gravel sucking him off. "Shit," Dean says as he comes, pulling out too late, and makes a mess in the guy's curls, smudges his glasses.
"So, uh," Dean says. But the kid doesn't care, already getting to his feet with a swipe of his hand across his mouth and a smirk Dean's way.
Dean watches him leave then collapses backwards onto the front seat, his dick hanging out of his gaping fly, spit-wet and softening. It takes a second for the roof of the car to stop coming in and out of focus, and when it does, Dean realises his hand is gripping the bottom curve of the steering wheel so hard his wrist hurts.
*
He leaves New Orleans the next morning, barely bothering to pack, just throwing his shit in the general direction of his duffel and slamming the motel room door behind him.
Three days later he feels like he's aged a year, and Sam is sitting in the car next to him for the first time in four years, actual flesh and bones, smelling like soot and sulphur. If there'd been hope for how things were before now, it's all blown to smithereens now, what with the fire and Jessica and everything.
Sam is catatonic-quiet, the grief too raw and new to allow real mourning, so Dean just drives, gets them out of California, and doesn't once ask for Sam to pass him a tape.
*
It takes ten weeks and twelve state lines for Sam to allow Dean to touch him.
Sam seems to see it as an affront to his loss, but Dean means it to be comforting, a throw-back to the Good Ol' Days, a bid for their particular brand of intimacy, put on hold when Sam left to acquire his share of normal. Dean is aching for it more than he realized, and when Sam throws a forearm over his eyes and lets Dean's hand squirm into the slit of his boxers, Dean stares at Sam's mouth and savours every moan that squeezes out of Sam as he spills Dean's fingers, sticky on his belly.
He doesn't expect it when the next morning Sam, unprompted, goes down on him in the bathroom, Dean's cheeks still thick with shaving cream. Dean comes in no time flat, dizzy and embarrassed as Sam gets up to spit in the sink then slinks out of the room without a word.
It's not quite the same yet, but it's a start.
Pairing: Dean/Sam, Dean/OCs
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 804 words
Summary: It takes ten weeks and twelve state lines for Sam to allow Dean to touch him.
::
The moans she'd been letting out while Dean was going down on her morphed into a shuddery whimper when he pushed into her. The back of his head hit the roof and he had to hike her leg up so he could put his boot down in the footwell to gain enough leverage to thrust. Whatsherface had slick auburn hair that fanned across the leatherette and perky little breasts with tight pink nipples that would've fit just right in his hands had he focused long enough to think to palm them.
She wasn't a talker, which was just as well because Dean, suddenly and inexplicably fascinated, was listening instead to the squeak of the upholstery under his knee and the sound of it sticking to the girl's bare ass as he fucked her across the backseat. The harder he went, the louder the noise, and her hand suddenly flailed up and slapped against the fogged-up window, leaving a misshapen handprint, smeared sideways. He came harder than he had in months.
He drove her to the address she gave him, listening to the sound of their combined, uneven breathing in the small confines of the car.
*
A week later he gets a tall brunette in red pumps to follow him back to his motel, and tries for an hour to fuck her on the bed that would've been Sam's. She doesn't get off either and eventually just pushes Dean off and goes to look for her shoes. She thanks him absently for the drinks and leaves on foot, even though the temperature's dropped several degrees since they left the bar, and the hem of her skirt is only inches from the waist of it.
Dean sits unhappily with his back to the headboard and tries to jack off to the softcore he can kind of make out on the shitty TV set. He gives up after mere minutes, but doesn't bother going back to the bed closest to the door.
*
He calms down a little after that, throws himself into dumb hunts, impossible odds. Somehow coming out alive is enough of a high to replace sex.
For about two weeks.
*
He looks nothing like you'd think he would. Some college kid with chunky glasses, a threadbare Super Furry Animals t-shirt and sagging Chucks, kneeling in the parking lot gravel sucking him off. "Shit," Dean says as he comes, pulling out too late, and makes a mess in the guy's curls, smudges his glasses.
"So, uh," Dean says. But the kid doesn't care, already getting to his feet with a swipe of his hand across his mouth and a smirk Dean's way.
Dean watches him leave then collapses backwards onto the front seat, his dick hanging out of his gaping fly, spit-wet and softening. It takes a second for the roof of the car to stop coming in and out of focus, and when it does, Dean realises his hand is gripping the bottom curve of the steering wheel so hard his wrist hurts.
*
He leaves New Orleans the next morning, barely bothering to pack, just throwing his shit in the general direction of his duffel and slamming the motel room door behind him.
Three days later he feels like he's aged a year, and Sam is sitting in the car next to him for the first time in four years, actual flesh and bones, smelling like soot and sulphur. If there'd been hope for how things were before now, it's all blown to smithereens now, what with the fire and Jessica and everything.
Sam is catatonic-quiet, the grief too raw and new to allow real mourning, so Dean just drives, gets them out of California, and doesn't once ask for Sam to pass him a tape.
*
It takes ten weeks and twelve state lines for Sam to allow Dean to touch him.
Sam seems to see it as an affront to his loss, but Dean means it to be comforting, a throw-back to the Good Ol' Days, a bid for their particular brand of intimacy, put on hold when Sam left to acquire his share of normal. Dean is aching for it more than he realized, and when Sam throws a forearm over his eyes and lets Dean's hand squirm into the slit of his boxers, Dean stares at Sam's mouth and savours every moan that squeezes out of Sam as he spills Dean's fingers, sticky on his belly.
He doesn't expect it when the next morning Sam, unprompted, goes down on him in the bathroom, Dean's cheeks still thick with shaving cream. Dean comes in no time flat, dizzy and embarrassed as Sam gets up to spit in the sink then slinks out of the room without a word.
It's not quite the same yet, but it's a start.