FIC: According to Terry Prachett
Title: According to Terry Prachett
Part: Standalone
Author: miss_drea_fic
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: When Dean turns 45, he finds he needs glasses to read. Sam thinks it’s hot.
Disclaimer: Kripke, Singer and Gamble own it all.
*
The first time Sam sees them, he thinks they’re Lee’s from next doors. He’s never paid them much attention so he couldn’t say for sure but he knows he doesn’t wear them, and Dean wouldn’t be caught dead in brass colored, wire framed, oval shaped glasses.
The second time Sam’s sees them, he’s sure they’re Lee’s, because Lee is currently wearing a very similar pair to the neighborhood BBQ, and no one else seems to be wearing them. He puts the matter out of his mind, because in the grand scheme of things, it’s not a huge deal. He needs to con one of Lee’s kids to clean out their gutter, and invest in a snow blower before winter comes. These things are much more important than the mystically appearing glasses.
The third time he sees them, is through a crack in the door, sitting perched on Dean’s straight nose. He can hear the sounds of turning pages, and every so often, Dean reaches up with one long finger and pushes them back up. They continually slip down the bridge though, and it’s obvious that he got them a size too big.
Clearly Dean doesn’t want him to know about the brass colored, wire framed, oval shaped glasses. He’s gone to great lengths to keep them a secret, never even using them when they go out to their favorite diner. Even made all the appointments without telling Sam, and Sam thinks that his older brother is still just as ridiculous at forty-five than he was at thirty.
So Sam pushes open the door to their study, startling Dean so badly that he drops his book. “Uh, Sam,” his brother says, busying himself with finding his place again. “I thought you were over at Lee’s.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “I was,” he says mildly. “But Lee’s kid is out so it was useless to wait.” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans in the doorway. “Got something to tell me, Dean?”
“Uh, no?” Dean says, and in what had to habit, pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Freezes. Pales. “Oh,” he says faintly.
Sam moves into the room, nudging the door closed behind him. “Glasses, Dean?” he purrs. “You weren’t going to tell me?”
Dean scratches behind his ear, warmth blushing into his face. “Uh, I forgot?” The question that lifts the end of his sentence gives away his lie. He automatically shifts over on the leather couch there, making room as Sam drops down next to him.
“You forgot you wear glasses?” Sam says, amused. “That’s a little fucked up, even for you, Dean.” He shifts on the leather, ass sliding pleasantly. He stretches his legs out, tugging on the front of his jeans. Dean’s eyes zero in on his hands, licking his lower lip.
Dean clears his throat, putting down the book on the coffee table in front of them. “No, I got used to them,” he says evenly. “So I forget I’m wearing them.”
Sam’s lip’s quirk up in a grin. “But you forgot to tell me about them.”
His brother’s eyes slide away and he chews on his lip and curls up on the couch, tucking his feet under him. “I didn’t want you to know,” he admits quietly. “I know we haven’t hunted in a long time, but it was always an option, to go back. But with these . . . ” Dean trails off, running a hand through his messy, spiky hair.
They haven’t talked about hunting since Sam turned thirty-six. Not since the werewolf almost took off his leg at the knee. “Dean,” he murmurs, “it’s just for reading, right?”
“I get a little blurry at distance too,” Dean whispers. “Street signs and when aiming my gun.” When he looks at Sam again, his green eyes are wide, sad, and a little strained. “I should wear them all the time, the doc says.”
Sam sucks his lower lip under his teeth and chews for a second. “Read to me,” he says decisively. Because even when Dean is having serious self doubt, he’s still smokin’ hot.
If Dean is surprised by the request, he doesn’t show it, simply opens his book and starts from the beginning. “Eleven years ago,” Dean begins, and Sam suddenly grins, he knows which book this is. Crowley gave it to them. “Current theories on the creation of the Universe state that, if it was created at all and didn’t just start, as it were, unofficially, it came into being between ten and twenty thousand million years ago. By the same token the earth itself is generally supposed to be about four and a half thousand million years old.” Dean’s voice is a low growl, heat and laughter, and like always, Sam finds himself getting hard. “These dates,” Dean says with just the right about amused scorn, “are incorrect.”
“Because Crowley says so?” Sam asks to distract himself from the growing heat between his legs.
Dean shoots him a look over the top of his glasses and Sam’s breath catches. “Medieval Jewish scholars put the date of the Creation at 3760 B.C. Greek Orthodox theologists put Creation as far back as 5508 B.C. These suggestions are also incorrect.” Dean looks up again when Sam shifts in his seat, stretching to put one long leg on the coffee table, the other leg falling open at the knee to touch Dean’s. “Archbishop James Usher (1580-1656) published Annales Veteris et Novi Testaments in 1654, which suggested that the Heaven and the Earth were created in 4004 B.C. One of his aides took the calculation further, and was able to announce triumphantly that the Earth was created on Sunday the 21st of October, 4004 B.C. at exactly 9:00AM., because God liked to get work done early in the morning while he was feeling fresh.” Sam snorts, and Dean grins. It isn’t like they both haven’t read this before, but sometimes nostalgia takes them both by the balls. “This too is incorrect. By almost a quarter of an hour.”
Sam chuckles again, and shifts, Dean’s eyes are immediately drawn to the bulge growing in the front of his jeans. “Dean, come on dude. Read to me.”
His brother clears his throat and finds his place on the page. “The whole business with the fossilized dinosaur skeletons was a joke the paleontologists haven’t seen yet. This proves two things: Firstly, that God moves in extremely mysterious, not to say, circuitous ways. God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, for the perspective of any of the other players [i.e. everybody] to being involved in an obscure and complex version of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won’t tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time.” Dean looks a little dazed at the end of the sentence. Sam grins again.
“Secondly,” Sam quotes, to give Dean a minute to catch his breath, “the Earth’s a Libra.”
“Dude, that’s a little sad even for you,” Dean replies, his pointer finger holding down his place on the page and the fingers of his other hand pushing up the glasses. At the motion, Sam gets a little bit harder. “The astrological prediction for Libra in the “Your Stars Today” column of the Tadfield Advertiser on the day this history begins, reads as follows: LIBRA, 24 September - 23 October. You may be feeling run down and always in the same old daily round Home and family matters are highlighted and are hanging fire. Avoid unnecessary risks. A friend is important to you. Shelve major decisions until the way ahead seems clear. You may be vulnerable to a stomach upset today so avoid salads. Help could come from an unexpected quarter. This was perfectly correct on every count except for the bit about the salads.”
Dean licks his lips again, probably just to wet them, probably just to torture Sam a little more. Dean’s voice had always been enough to get Sam going, especially when he was shouting orders, or whispering in the dark. Especially when it was growling against his skin. “Nothing wrong with salads,” Sam defends half heartedly.
Green eyes heat up just slightly, and Dean grins before dropping his gaze to the page. “It wasn’t a dark and stormy night. It should have been, but that’s the weather for you. For every mad scientist who’s had a convenient thunderstorm just on the night his Great Work is finished and lying on the slab, there have been dozens who’ve sat around under the peaceful stars while Igor clocks up the overtime.”
Dean’s voice has dropped into the range of late nights in their bedroom, and Sam’s hand which had been laying on the leather couch drops without his consent on the fly of his jeans. Dean’s voice stutters for a second, but he soldiers on, dragging his eyes back to the page. “But don’t let the fog (with rain later, temperatures dropping to around forty-five degrees) give anyone a false sense of security. Just because it’s a mild night doesn’t mean that dark forces aren’t abroad. They’re abroad all the time. They’re everywhere. They always are. That’s the whole point.”
“Two of them lurked in the ruined graveyard,” Sam says, pressing the heel of his palm into his erection. Its one of his favorite lines, because it always reminds him of them - lurking from stone to stone, shovels over their shoulders.
“Two shadowy figures, one hunched and squat, the other lean and menacing, both of them Olympic-grade lurkers. If Bruce Springsteen had ever recorded “Born to Lurk” these two would have been on the album cover.” Dean’s eyes keep straying to Sam’s hand, causing him to lose his place on the page. “They had been lurking in the fog for an hour now, but they had been pacing themselves and could lurk for the rest of the night if necessary, with still enough sullen menace left for a final burst of lurking around dawn.”
Sam lets his fingers trail over his cock, the light touch doing nothing to sate him, but he’s an expert at teasing Dean. “Finally,” Dean coughs out, “after another twenty minutes, one of them said: ‘bugger this for a lark, He should of been here hours ago.’ The speakers name was Hastur. He was a Duke of Hell.”
He shifts against his hand and Dean swallows hard. “Go on,” Sam murmurs, unzipping his too tight jeans. “Keep reading.”
“M-Many phenomena-wars, plagues, sudden audits-have been advanced as evidence for the hidden hand of Satan in the affairs of Man, but whenever students of demonology get together the M25 London orbital motorway is generally agreed to be among the top contenders of Exhibit A.”
Dean’s still reading as Sam pulls his cock out of his jeans, it was laundry day and he wore no boxers. Dean’s voice catches, and Sam slings a hand around his dick, stroking slowly, using barely any pressure. He wants this to last. “Where they go wrong,” Dean says, strained, “of course, is in assuming that the wretched road is evil simply because of the incredible carnage and frustration it engenders every day.”
“Clearly,” Sam grunts, brushing his thumb over the head of his cock, “these people have never driven on the George Washington Bridge at rush hour.” He says it every time he reads it and when Crowley’s around, the demon laughs and laughs, agreeing with a wide smile. Dean simply stares, eyes hot behind the glasses.
“In fact,” Dean continues, leaning forward with a creak of the leather, “very few people on the face of the planet know that the very shape of the M25 forms the sign odegra in the language of the Black Priesthood of Ancient Mu, and means ‘hail the great beast, devourer of worlds’. The thousands of motorists who daily fume their way around its serpentine lengths have the same effect as water on a prayer wheel, grinding out an endless fog of low-grade evil to pollute the metaphysical atmosphere for scores of miles around.”
Sam pushes his jeans out of the way, sliding them down under the slope of his ass, settling into the warm, worn leather under him. Dean’s words trail off again, and he stares slack jawed at the jut of Sam’s cock. He’s wet at the tip, light touches leave him painfully aroused but not close enough to coming. “Dean,” he murmurs on a low moan, stopping the slow motion of his hand until Dean blinks, coughs, and starts reading again.
“It was one of Crowley’s better achievements. It had taken years to achieve, and had involved three computer hacks, two break-ins, one minor bribery and, on one wet night when all else had failed, two hours in a squelchy field shifting the marker pegs a few but occulty incredible meters. When Crowley had watched the first thirty mile long tailback he’d experienced the lovely warm feeling of a bad job well done. It had earned him a commendation.”
Sam lets the words flow over him, closing his eyes so as to feel them like touches on his skin, like fingers ghosting over his bare arms, or on his thighs. He moans low in his throat as Dean forms each word like a caress, his voice a growl. “Crowley was currently doing 110 mph somewhere east of Slough,” Dean says and Sam arches under his hand, moving just a little bit faster. “Nothing about him looked particularly demonic, at least by classical standards. No horns, no wings. Admittedly he was listening a Best of Queen tape, but no conclusions should be drawn from this because all tapes left in a car for more than about a fortnight metamorphose into Best of Queen albums. No particularly demonic thoughts were going through his head. In fact, he was currently wondering vaguely who Moey and Chandon were.”
Dean must have looked up from the book, because he trails off again with a groan. Sam forces his hand to stop and he opens his eyes. “Dean?” he asks, and looks over at his brother. Dean is trembling finely, his fingers shaking the well worn pages of their book. A quick glance shows that he too is hard, and his legs are no longer curled up under him. “Keep reading?” Sam implores, fingers twitching on his length.
“Crowley,” Dean whispers hoarsely, “had dark hair and good cheekbones and he was wearing snakeskin shoes, or at least presumably he was wearing shoes, and he could do really weird things with his tongue. And, whenever he forgot himself, he had a tendency to hiss.”
Dean trips over the word tongue twice before he gets it, and Sam bites his lip at the pleasure of it. He’s beginning to stick to the seat, and sweat trails down the small of his back. “He also,” Dean says, eyes not on the page, “didn’t blink much.”
His glasses are slipping down his nose, and Sam concentrates hard on the glassy look in Dean’s green eyes. “The car he was driving was a 1926 black Bentley, one owner from new, and that owner had been Crowley. He’d looked after it.” Car porn. Oh yeah, they’d over used that cliche several times in their long life time.
“The reason he was late was that he was enjoying the twentieth century immensely. It was much better than the seventeenth, and a lot better than the fourteenth. One of the nice things,” the more Dean reads, the faster Sam’s hand moves, and soon he’s shifting his hips in time with the cadence of his brothers voice, free hand clenching on Dean’s knee with sudden pleasure every time he scrapes his fingernail down the center of his cock. “...about Time,” Dean pants, “Crowley always said, was that it was steadily taking him further away from the fourteenth century, the most bloody boring hundred years on God’s, excuse his French, Earth.” Sam makes a sound, a whimper or a moan and Dean’s voice comes to a stammering, breathless halt again.
Sam whines when he pulls his hand away from his cock. He’s close, close enough that the skin of his thighs is twitching and his balls ache. “Dean,” he says, spreading his legs as far as his downed jeans allow. “Dude.”
“The twentieth century was anything but boring,” Dean growls, glancing down at the book before bringing his eyes back up to Sam’s hand. “In fact, a flashing blue light in his rearview mirror had been telling Crowley, for the last fifty seconds, that he was being followed by two men who would like to make it every more interesting for him.” Sam drags his hand up and down his cock in slow torturous circuits, flicking his thumb over the head and twisting his wrist every third pass or so.
“Fuck,” he whispers, feeling his balls draw up in preparation. Dean moans, one hand dropping down to his own unattended erection, and Sam stops again, because Dean stops reading. “Dean, come on man, so fucking close, please...” Sam whispers, shifting.
“He glanced at his watch, which was designed for the kind of rich deep-sea diver who likes to know what the time is in twenty-one world capitals while he’s down there. [It was custom made for Crowley. Getting just one chip custom-made is incredibly expensive but he could afford it. This watch gave the time in twenty world capitals and in a capital city of Another Place,” he was trailing off as Sam arched into his fist, grunting with each pass, pleasure curling his toes in the white socks he wore. “...where it was always one time,” Dean forced out from memory, the book forgotten in his lap, “and that was Too Late.]”
One last pass over the head of his cock and one last twist of his wrist, and Sam shouts, coming over his fist.
The minute Sam feels like he can move again, he knocks the book from Dean’s lax fingers to the floor before yanking open the zipper on Dean’s own jeans. His cock pops free and Sam doesn’t bother with the preliminaries. He licks one long line up the underside of his brother’s dick and then swallows the thing whole. He could probably quote the entirety of the book against the skin of Dean’s cock, but Dean’s torment was already extreme, and Sam could only tease for so long.
He swallows around the head of his cock, and Dean shouts, burying his hands in Sam’s hair. It’s still long, and good for making fists in. If Terry Prachett thought that Crowley could do some weird shit with his tongue, he’d never met Sam Winchester.
Dean cries out once in warning before emptying down Sam’s throat, pulsing long and hard. He’s panting when Sam pulls off, and he pulls his brother up for a long awaited kiss. Dean tastes himself on Sam’s tongue, and he delves deep for the flavor. “Fuck Sam,” he mutters against his brother’s lips. “Fuck, you are so fucking hot.”
Sam’s fingers reach for Dean’s pants, pulling them down his hips and away. “Think you get it up again, old man?” he asks, half teasing.
Dean’s cock gives an interested twitch and Dean moans in appreciation. “Fuck yes, I can,” he answers, pulling Sam across his lap to kiss him more comfortably.
He reaches to pull the glasses off the end of his nose, they’ve slid down to their furthest but Sam grabs his hand. “Nah,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes, “leave them on.”
End
Part: Standalone
Author: miss_drea_fic
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: When Dean turns 45, he finds he needs glasses to read. Sam thinks it’s hot.
Disclaimer: Kripke, Singer and Gamble own it all.
*
The first time Sam sees them, he thinks they’re Lee’s from next doors. He’s never paid them much attention so he couldn’t say for sure but he knows he doesn’t wear them, and Dean wouldn’t be caught dead in brass colored, wire framed, oval shaped glasses.
The second time Sam’s sees them, he’s sure they’re Lee’s, because Lee is currently wearing a very similar pair to the neighborhood BBQ, and no one else seems to be wearing them. He puts the matter out of his mind, because in the grand scheme of things, it’s not a huge deal. He needs to con one of Lee’s kids to clean out their gutter, and invest in a snow blower before winter comes. These things are much more important than the mystically appearing glasses.
The third time he sees them, is through a crack in the door, sitting perched on Dean’s straight nose. He can hear the sounds of turning pages, and every so often, Dean reaches up with one long finger and pushes them back up. They continually slip down the bridge though, and it’s obvious that he got them a size too big.
Clearly Dean doesn’t want him to know about the brass colored, wire framed, oval shaped glasses. He’s gone to great lengths to keep them a secret, never even using them when they go out to their favorite diner. Even made all the appointments without telling Sam, and Sam thinks that his older brother is still just as ridiculous at forty-five than he was at thirty.
So Sam pushes open the door to their study, startling Dean so badly that he drops his book. “Uh, Sam,” his brother says, busying himself with finding his place again. “I thought you were over at Lee’s.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “I was,” he says mildly. “But Lee’s kid is out so it was useless to wait.” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans in the doorway. “Got something to tell me, Dean?”
“Uh, no?” Dean says, and in what had to habit, pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Freezes. Pales. “Oh,” he says faintly.
Sam moves into the room, nudging the door closed behind him. “Glasses, Dean?” he purrs. “You weren’t going to tell me?”
Dean scratches behind his ear, warmth blushing into his face. “Uh, I forgot?” The question that lifts the end of his sentence gives away his lie. He automatically shifts over on the leather couch there, making room as Sam drops down next to him.
“You forgot you wear glasses?” Sam says, amused. “That’s a little fucked up, even for you, Dean.” He shifts on the leather, ass sliding pleasantly. He stretches his legs out, tugging on the front of his jeans. Dean’s eyes zero in on his hands, licking his lower lip.
Dean clears his throat, putting down the book on the coffee table in front of them. “No, I got used to them,” he says evenly. “So I forget I’m wearing them.”
Sam’s lip’s quirk up in a grin. “But you forgot to tell me about them.”
His brother’s eyes slide away and he chews on his lip and curls up on the couch, tucking his feet under him. “I didn’t want you to know,” he admits quietly. “I know we haven’t hunted in a long time, but it was always an option, to go back. But with these . . . ” Dean trails off, running a hand through his messy, spiky hair.
They haven’t talked about hunting since Sam turned thirty-six. Not since the werewolf almost took off his leg at the knee. “Dean,” he murmurs, “it’s just for reading, right?”
“I get a little blurry at distance too,” Dean whispers. “Street signs and when aiming my gun.” When he looks at Sam again, his green eyes are wide, sad, and a little strained. “I should wear them all the time, the doc says.”
Sam sucks his lower lip under his teeth and chews for a second. “Read to me,” he says decisively. Because even when Dean is having serious self doubt, he’s still smokin’ hot.
If Dean is surprised by the request, he doesn’t show it, simply opens his book and starts from the beginning. “Eleven years ago,” Dean begins, and Sam suddenly grins, he knows which book this is. Crowley gave it to them. “Current theories on the creation of the Universe state that, if it was created at all and didn’t just start, as it were, unofficially, it came into being between ten and twenty thousand million years ago. By the same token the earth itself is generally supposed to be about four and a half thousand million years old.” Dean’s voice is a low growl, heat and laughter, and like always, Sam finds himself getting hard. “These dates,” Dean says with just the right about amused scorn, “are incorrect.”
“Because Crowley says so?” Sam asks to distract himself from the growing heat between his legs.
Dean shoots him a look over the top of his glasses and Sam’s breath catches. “Medieval Jewish scholars put the date of the Creation at 3760 B.C. Greek Orthodox theologists put Creation as far back as 5508 B.C. These suggestions are also incorrect.” Dean looks up again when Sam shifts in his seat, stretching to put one long leg on the coffee table, the other leg falling open at the knee to touch Dean’s. “Archbishop James Usher (1580-1656) published Annales Veteris et Novi Testaments in 1654, which suggested that the Heaven and the Earth were created in 4004 B.C. One of his aides took the calculation further, and was able to announce triumphantly that the Earth was created on Sunday the 21st of October, 4004 B.C. at exactly 9:00AM., because God liked to get work done early in the morning while he was feeling fresh.” Sam snorts, and Dean grins. It isn’t like they both haven’t read this before, but sometimes nostalgia takes them both by the balls. “This too is incorrect. By almost a quarter of an hour.”
Sam chuckles again, and shifts, Dean’s eyes are immediately drawn to the bulge growing in the front of his jeans. “Dean, come on dude. Read to me.”
His brother clears his throat and finds his place on the page. “The whole business with the fossilized dinosaur skeletons was a joke the paleontologists haven’t seen yet. This proves two things: Firstly, that God moves in extremely mysterious, not to say, circuitous ways. God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, for the perspective of any of the other players [i.e. everybody] to being involved in an obscure and complex version of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won’t tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time.” Dean looks a little dazed at the end of the sentence. Sam grins again.
“Secondly,” Sam quotes, to give Dean a minute to catch his breath, “the Earth’s a Libra.”
“Dude, that’s a little sad even for you,” Dean replies, his pointer finger holding down his place on the page and the fingers of his other hand pushing up the glasses. At the motion, Sam gets a little bit harder. “The astrological prediction for Libra in the “Your Stars Today” column of the Tadfield Advertiser on the day this history begins, reads as follows: LIBRA, 24 September - 23 October. You may be feeling run down and always in the same old daily round Home and family matters are highlighted and are hanging fire. Avoid unnecessary risks. A friend is important to you. Shelve major decisions until the way ahead seems clear. You may be vulnerable to a stomach upset today so avoid salads. Help could come from an unexpected quarter. This was perfectly correct on every count except for the bit about the salads.”
Dean licks his lips again, probably just to wet them, probably just to torture Sam a little more. Dean’s voice had always been enough to get Sam going, especially when he was shouting orders, or whispering in the dark. Especially when it was growling against his skin. “Nothing wrong with salads,” Sam defends half heartedly.
Green eyes heat up just slightly, and Dean grins before dropping his gaze to the page. “It wasn’t a dark and stormy night. It should have been, but that’s the weather for you. For every mad scientist who’s had a convenient thunderstorm just on the night his Great Work is finished and lying on the slab, there have been dozens who’ve sat around under the peaceful stars while Igor clocks up the overtime.”
Dean’s voice has dropped into the range of late nights in their bedroom, and Sam’s hand which had been laying on the leather couch drops without his consent on the fly of his jeans. Dean’s voice stutters for a second, but he soldiers on, dragging his eyes back to the page. “But don’t let the fog (with rain later, temperatures dropping to around forty-five degrees) give anyone a false sense of security. Just because it’s a mild night doesn’t mean that dark forces aren’t abroad. They’re abroad all the time. They’re everywhere. They always are. That’s the whole point.”
“Two of them lurked in the ruined graveyard,” Sam says, pressing the heel of his palm into his erection. Its one of his favorite lines, because it always reminds him of them - lurking from stone to stone, shovels over their shoulders.
“Two shadowy figures, one hunched and squat, the other lean and menacing, both of them Olympic-grade lurkers. If Bruce Springsteen had ever recorded “Born to Lurk” these two would have been on the album cover.” Dean’s eyes keep straying to Sam’s hand, causing him to lose his place on the page. “They had been lurking in the fog for an hour now, but they had been pacing themselves and could lurk for the rest of the night if necessary, with still enough sullen menace left for a final burst of lurking around dawn.”
Sam lets his fingers trail over his cock, the light touch doing nothing to sate him, but he’s an expert at teasing Dean. “Finally,” Dean coughs out, “after another twenty minutes, one of them said: ‘bugger this for a lark, He should of been here hours ago.’ The speakers name was Hastur. He was a Duke of Hell.”
He shifts against his hand and Dean swallows hard. “Go on,” Sam murmurs, unzipping his too tight jeans. “Keep reading.”
“M-Many phenomena-wars, plagues, sudden audits-have been advanced as evidence for the hidden hand of Satan in the affairs of Man, but whenever students of demonology get together the M25 London orbital motorway is generally agreed to be among the top contenders of Exhibit A.”
Dean’s still reading as Sam pulls his cock out of his jeans, it was laundry day and he wore no boxers. Dean’s voice catches, and Sam slings a hand around his dick, stroking slowly, using barely any pressure. He wants this to last. “Where they go wrong,” Dean says, strained, “of course, is in assuming that the wretched road is evil simply because of the incredible carnage and frustration it engenders every day.”
“Clearly,” Sam grunts, brushing his thumb over the head of his cock, “these people have never driven on the George Washington Bridge at rush hour.” He says it every time he reads it and when Crowley’s around, the demon laughs and laughs, agreeing with a wide smile. Dean simply stares, eyes hot behind the glasses.
“In fact,” Dean continues, leaning forward with a creak of the leather, “very few people on the face of the planet know that the very shape of the M25 forms the sign odegra in the language of the Black Priesthood of Ancient Mu, and means ‘hail the great beast, devourer of worlds’. The thousands of motorists who daily fume their way around its serpentine lengths have the same effect as water on a prayer wheel, grinding out an endless fog of low-grade evil to pollute the metaphysical atmosphere for scores of miles around.”
Sam pushes his jeans out of the way, sliding them down under the slope of his ass, settling into the warm, worn leather under him. Dean’s words trail off again, and he stares slack jawed at the jut of Sam’s cock. He’s wet at the tip, light touches leave him painfully aroused but not close enough to coming. “Dean,” he murmurs on a low moan, stopping the slow motion of his hand until Dean blinks, coughs, and starts reading again.
“It was one of Crowley’s better achievements. It had taken years to achieve, and had involved three computer hacks, two break-ins, one minor bribery and, on one wet night when all else had failed, two hours in a squelchy field shifting the marker pegs a few but occulty incredible meters. When Crowley had watched the first thirty mile long tailback he’d experienced the lovely warm feeling of a bad job well done. It had earned him a commendation.”
Sam lets the words flow over him, closing his eyes so as to feel them like touches on his skin, like fingers ghosting over his bare arms, or on his thighs. He moans low in his throat as Dean forms each word like a caress, his voice a growl. “Crowley was currently doing 110 mph somewhere east of Slough,” Dean says and Sam arches under his hand, moving just a little bit faster. “Nothing about him looked particularly demonic, at least by classical standards. No horns, no wings. Admittedly he was listening a Best of Queen tape, but no conclusions should be drawn from this because all tapes left in a car for more than about a fortnight metamorphose into Best of Queen albums. No particularly demonic thoughts were going through his head. In fact, he was currently wondering vaguely who Moey and Chandon were.”
Dean must have looked up from the book, because he trails off again with a groan. Sam forces his hand to stop and he opens his eyes. “Dean?” he asks, and looks over at his brother. Dean is trembling finely, his fingers shaking the well worn pages of their book. A quick glance shows that he too is hard, and his legs are no longer curled up under him. “Keep reading?” Sam implores, fingers twitching on his length.
“Crowley,” Dean whispers hoarsely, “had dark hair and good cheekbones and he was wearing snakeskin shoes, or at least presumably he was wearing shoes, and he could do really weird things with his tongue. And, whenever he forgot himself, he had a tendency to hiss.”
Dean trips over the word tongue twice before he gets it, and Sam bites his lip at the pleasure of it. He’s beginning to stick to the seat, and sweat trails down the small of his back. “He also,” Dean says, eyes not on the page, “didn’t blink much.”
His glasses are slipping down his nose, and Sam concentrates hard on the glassy look in Dean’s green eyes. “The car he was driving was a 1926 black Bentley, one owner from new, and that owner had been Crowley. He’d looked after it.” Car porn. Oh yeah, they’d over used that cliche several times in their long life time.
“The reason he was late was that he was enjoying the twentieth century immensely. It was much better than the seventeenth, and a lot better than the fourteenth. One of the nice things,” the more Dean reads, the faster Sam’s hand moves, and soon he’s shifting his hips in time with the cadence of his brothers voice, free hand clenching on Dean’s knee with sudden pleasure every time he scrapes his fingernail down the center of his cock. “...about Time,” Dean pants, “Crowley always said, was that it was steadily taking him further away from the fourteenth century, the most bloody boring hundred years on God’s, excuse his French, Earth.” Sam makes a sound, a whimper or a moan and Dean’s voice comes to a stammering, breathless halt again.
Sam whines when he pulls his hand away from his cock. He’s close, close enough that the skin of his thighs is twitching and his balls ache. “Dean,” he says, spreading his legs as far as his downed jeans allow. “Dude.”
“The twentieth century was anything but boring,” Dean growls, glancing down at the book before bringing his eyes back up to Sam’s hand. “In fact, a flashing blue light in his rearview mirror had been telling Crowley, for the last fifty seconds, that he was being followed by two men who would like to make it every more interesting for him.” Sam drags his hand up and down his cock in slow torturous circuits, flicking his thumb over the head and twisting his wrist every third pass or so.
“Fuck,” he whispers, feeling his balls draw up in preparation. Dean moans, one hand dropping down to his own unattended erection, and Sam stops again, because Dean stops reading. “Dean, come on man, so fucking close, please...” Sam whispers, shifting.
“He glanced at his watch, which was designed for the kind of rich deep-sea diver who likes to know what the time is in twenty-one world capitals while he’s down there. [It was custom made for Crowley. Getting just one chip custom-made is incredibly expensive but he could afford it. This watch gave the time in twenty world capitals and in a capital city of Another Place,” he was trailing off as Sam arched into his fist, grunting with each pass, pleasure curling his toes in the white socks he wore. “...where it was always one time,” Dean forced out from memory, the book forgotten in his lap, “and that was Too Late.]”
One last pass over the head of his cock and one last twist of his wrist, and Sam shouts, coming over his fist.
The minute Sam feels like he can move again, he knocks the book from Dean’s lax fingers to the floor before yanking open the zipper on Dean’s own jeans. His cock pops free and Sam doesn’t bother with the preliminaries. He licks one long line up the underside of his brother’s dick and then swallows the thing whole. He could probably quote the entirety of the book against the skin of Dean’s cock, but Dean’s torment was already extreme, and Sam could only tease for so long.
He swallows around the head of his cock, and Dean shouts, burying his hands in Sam’s hair. It’s still long, and good for making fists in. If Terry Prachett thought that Crowley could do some weird shit with his tongue, he’d never met Sam Winchester.
Dean cries out once in warning before emptying down Sam’s throat, pulsing long and hard. He’s panting when Sam pulls off, and he pulls his brother up for a long awaited kiss. Dean tastes himself on Sam’s tongue, and he delves deep for the flavor. “Fuck Sam,” he mutters against his brother’s lips. “Fuck, you are so fucking hot.”
Sam’s fingers reach for Dean’s pants, pulling them down his hips and away. “Think you get it up again, old man?” he asks, half teasing.
Dean’s cock gives an interested twitch and Dean moans in appreciation. “Fuck yes, I can,” he answers, pulling Sam across his lap to kiss him more comfortably.
He reaches to pull the glasses off the end of his nose, they’ve slid down to their furthest but Sam grabs his hand. “Nah,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes, “leave them on.”
End