Alright. I was re-watching "Route 666" earlier this week (I don't know) and, during the observationally interesting scene, there are two (!!!) pizza boxes and a cardboard drink carrier on the bureau. Yay for canonic pizza delivery! And, huh. Other than the diner scene in "Hell House," when have we actually seen the guys eating a meal?
But the real point. This is the porn of which I spoke earlier this week. For my loveliest
tvm. It's not 4100 words, sugar, but it's something. Maybe a little different from my usual style, if I have such a thing. It shames me to call it PWP, but, well. I think that's all this is. Perhaps to go into something bigger, sometime. Thanks to Anna and Rachel for glancing through it for me. ♥.
G.T.W.
Sam/Dean, NC-17, approx. 2,000 words.
They've been building up to it all day, all week; blame Indian summer or Mercury in retrograde or Santa Ana winds. They've been circling each other like a wolf and a big prey cat, and neither of them knows which is which or who is who. They've been avoiding and snapping and goading and taunting but never at the same time and never, never touching and maybe that's it; maybe they just go too long without grounding the current.
But it's downtime, it's mystery solved and job well done, it's another journal page filled with Sam's block print and Dean's diagrams and earmarked for later. It's hour one of shore leave and Dean making Sam leave the journal in the glove compartment. It's thigh-by-thigh sidled up to the bar with an inch-wide force field between them, shots in front of them, and short skirts beside them.
The bar stools spin and Sam's legs reach all the way to the floor. Dean's knees are wide open and he has an ankle hooked around the stool on the other side. They're both talking to girls, Sam's chin tilted down and Dean's up. They're both talking to girls, back-to-back now, but paying more attention to each other. Sam catches himself answering the question he heard Dean ask Heather instead of the one Laura had asked him, and he's had enough.
"Excuse me," he tells her, with an apologetic smile, and gets to his feet stiffly.
"Sorry, darlin'," he hears in Dean's echo.
He's already standing in front of the sink in the restroom when Dean joins him, Dean's extrication from the girls either more elaborate or less willing than Sam's. Sam's in a mood to believe the latter. "Enjoying yourself?"
"When I came to pick you up at school -- when I thought you'd come with me -- I thought, maybe, this was what it would be like," Dean says, meeting his eyes in the mirror and smirking. "You, finally old enough to be fun, going to bars and picking up girls with me."
"No, you didn't," Sam snorts, more glad than he can even fathom that it's not how it turned out. That Dean knew him better than Sam knew himself, and that Dean had always been the brave one.
Dean's grin doesn't get softer. "Okay, maybe I just hoped."
Sam bites his lip, straightens his shoulders, and pushes away from the sink. "No, you didn't," although he's less confident about that. "I'll see you back at the motel."
Dean makes him wait longer than Sam had expected, given the way he could feel Dean's eyes on his ass when he'd left. Longer than Sam had expected, but less than he'd feared. He's still pacing the room when the handle turns, after all. He also happens to be facing the right direction to yank Dean inside, kick the door shut with his heel, and use their momentum to toss Dean down onto the closest bed.
"You've been a jackass all week." Sam gives in and brings it up first, like always, every single time. He's standing over Dean, hovering, and he sucks on the knuckle of his pinkie finger that had gotten snagged on Dean's jacket.
There's no fight in Dean's position, but the challenge in his voice makes up for it. "Yeah? You've been a frigid girl."
Sam forces out a laugh. "Frigid, right. You never tried anything! I thought you forgot you even had a dick."
"You didn't forget I have a dick, though, did you," and it isn't a question. Dean's not smiling, not even smirking. "Missing it a little too much, Sammy? Got an itch that needs scratching?"
"Fuck you, I don't need-" And Sam stops, stops it there, because when he chooses to hurt Dean it's with the truth, not lies. "Fuck you, Dean."
"Sure, okay." Dean may not sound eager but he certainly sounds agreeable, and he strips and spreads quick enough to make Sam's brain spin and his eyes cross. "Come on!" he adds, and even that doesn't sound eager, just impatient. "Let's go, baby boy. Lube's in my bag."
He doesn't make a move to help Sam find it under piles of clean-enough, carefully-rolled clothes and balled-up socks. He doesn't make a move to help Sam undress, either, even though Sam had always thought that was one of Dean's favorite parts. All he does is lift one foot up onto the mattress so his knee falls open to the side -- the other stays hooked over the edge of the bed -- and raise one arm to pillow his head in his own hand. He doesn't touch himself. He's not completely hard.
Sam is completely hard, and he's also physically incapable of keeping himself from whispering "Jesus, Dean," at the display.
"Yeah?" Dean says, closing his eyes and scratching at a healing cut on the inside of his thigh with his free hand. "Let's go, already," he says again. "It's been a week and you look like you're about to explode."
If anything about the world was fair, Sam could say the same thing about Dean, because neither of them had so much as jerked off since they'd last done this. But Dean still looks like he doesn't care one way or the other if Sam joins him on the bed. If he hadn't truly been about to explode, Sam might try to wait him out, because more than anything Sam hates it when Dean makes him feel young like this. If he hadn't truly been about to explode and half-positive Dean would just fall asleep while Sam waits.
He clutches at his anger like a lifeline, lets it pull him to kneel on the bed and wrap a palm under Dean's thigh. He can't help the calming track of his thumb over top of the muscle, though, even as he wrenches Dean's leg wide and ignores Dean's darkly muttered, "Watch it."
Dean's finally hard at Sam's touch, though, and that's something, even though Sam purposefully and spitefully ignores Dean's dick in favor of lubing up his own. He gets into it, too, the slick slide of his thumb and fingers along his length and up and over the tip, until Dean sighs. Sam recognizes it for what it is: a warning to get on with it already.
Sam's still angry, and needy, and angry at being needy, but all of that just ends up meaning he treats Dean with a softer and defter touch than usual. He kisses Dean's knee before he uses his shoulders to force Dean higher on the bed. Then he has room to crouch between Dean's legs and keep using his mouth, licking wetly up to the patch of skin high on Dean's thigh that's practically bare of hair and soft like a girl's. Dean sighs out another warning and Sam nudges Dean's balls out of the way with his nose, starts kissing what he's exposed. Kissing, not licking any more, kissing with lips and not tongue, kissing and burning up a little from the heat from Dean's body.
All of Dean's muscles are clenched around Sam, under Sam, completely betraying Dean's disinterested act. Sam tries to coax the one right in front of him to relax, pressing his now-dry mouth to Dean's hole, breathing carefully, saying "shhh" against the rim like Dean's ass needs to be soothed. Maybe it does, maybe it did, because Sam can feel Dean opening for him, and only then does he start to use his tongue again.
Dean can't stay detached forever; he starts coming undone, still quiet and still refusing to touch Sam or himself, but Sam can tell he's losing it from the hitch in his breathing and the pace of his pulse against Sam's cheek. He doesn't protest when Sam sits up, but he does swat Sam's hand away when Sam reaches down to use his fingers to finish what his mouth had started.
"Don't. Let's go," Dean says for the third time, and it's three times the permission Sam wonders if he actually needs before he takes hold of the tip of his cock and works it inside his brother. "Oh, fuck."
"Fuck," Sam agrees, shifting his hips a little so he fits in the cradle of Dean's before he starts to move. Once he does, he doesn't expect to be able to stop; he never can with Dean so stupidly hot and tight and pulling Sam deeper, always.
He would let himself talk the way he usually does, sweet nothings and dirty somethings, except Dean isn't talking the way he usually does. He's got his face turned to the side, biting the inside of the arm he's infuriatingly keeping under his head, and his eyes shut tight.
Sam forces Dean's hips up higher, making Dean curl up under him until Sam can stretch to nip at Dean's other arm, wanting acknowledgement. He expects it in the form of Dean looking at him or saying his name; what he gets instead is Dean coming in thick, heavy, sudden ropes.
Sam's surprised enough to stutter in the rhythm he's set, and then that surprise is eclipsed by shock when Dean rears up on his elbows and twists his body enough to dislodge Sam completely. Sam laughs and leans to, again, except Dean raises his foot with rapid-fire reflexes and plants it firmly in the middle of Sam's abdomen, holding him at bay.
"That's enough," Dean says, his face a mask as he runs a palm through the mess on his belly and then sucks the pad of his thumb between his lips.
Sam stares at him from his knees and wraps a hand around Dean's ankle, testing it. Dean lets his foot slide lower in an obvious warning, and Sam settles back on his haunches, floored. "You're kidding me."
But Dean is quite obviously not kidding, and he even pushes a little with his foot until Sam slides off the bed entirely. "We're done here."
"We're not done," Sam protests, gesturing down at his cock, so purple and swollen it almost looks bruised.
"What, you don't 'need' it," Dean tells him then, and it's fucked up that Sam is relieved at the return of his brother's smirk, but for a long minute he'd actually been worried that something was really wrong.
Sam doesn't have much pride left when it comes to Dean on a good day, and a good day is not one where he's standing with his dick literally in his hand and willing to say anything to get it back inside Dean's ass. "Dean," he pleads. "I didn't say that, come on."
Dean raises an eyebrow and rolls over onto his stomach in a move worthy of his favorite Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, giving a stupidly tantalizing view of his ass before he yanks the bedspread over it. Sam would laugh if he could.
"Dean," he says again, refusing to believe that Dean is actually doing this to him, even if it's just a game. He strokes his cock once and shudders, shakes it off, bites back a growl. "Dean, please. Let me just-"
"If you touch me," Dean says, his voice muffled by the pillow but no less intense for it, "I will make you hurt, Sammy."
Sam considers that, painfully torn between wanting to test it, wanting to get back on the bed and fist his cock until he's coming hot and white all over the skin of Dean's exposed neck, and just wanting to get off any way he can.
He ends up stalking into the bathroom and jerking off into the toilet, dreaming up ways to get back at Dean. Outside the door, Sam can hear his brother laughing.