Fic: Coup D'Oeil (Sam/Dean, R)
Last one. This was not a terribly productive round for me and my busted porn-fu, sadly. I mostly wrote this because glovered said I should and I am easily influenced. :)
Title: Coup D'Oeil
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating/Word Count: hard R? ~2k
Prompt/Summary: Originally here. Times when the boys have had to get changed in public; whether other people see them is up to anon but they should get off on stripping and dressing in front of each other. Voyeurism, exhibitionism, touch of public nudity.
It's something they've always done. Sam's pretty sure there was nothing weird about it at first, when he was nine and Dean was thirteen and his body started doing all kinds of interesting things, shooting up, filling out. Sam was -- curious. There was nothing unusual in that. They'd squish up in one stall, getting into their trunks for a militaristic swim in some frigid motel pool, and Sam would look at Dean's shoulders, the soft new muscle emerging. His dick, the swell of it between his legs looking so goddamn heavy compared to Sam's, the fuzz of hair foreign. A year before, Dean had been smooth there like Sam was, and the change was fascinating. Sam didn't even think to be surreptitious about it, about the fact that he was looking, and maybe Dean liked it just a little bit, too, even then. Liked to show off, be the big brother, make Sam envious. So he'd smile and stretch his arms up over his head, making sure the muscle showed.
That was how it began. Four, five years of that, and it had become so normal, so natural a behavior whenever they undressed together that it felt expected when Dean started looking back. Sam was fourteen, stripping down by the side of the road after a harpy exploded all over them in a chaos of venom, the first time he really felt the weight of Dean's eyes on him. It was October, chilly, but the knowledge that Dean was looking at him -- his ass, his dick, lately making a bid to be as disproportionate as his feet -- made him flush warm in the pit of his stomach, dangerous, low. When he looked up, Dean, thumbs working at the fastenings of his jeans, didn't look away. He only popped the button, dragged down his zipper slowly, and held Sam's eyes the whole time.
After that, it was on. At fourteen, there was pretty much nothing that didn't make Sam think of sex, but he knew there was something screwed up, all the same, about how his blood got tingly when he skinned down with his brother after one of Dad's practices; after a hunt; in their bedroom at night. Neither of them ever said anything about it, but he knew Dean knew it, too. Sam had watched Dean swell to half-hard just towelling his hair while Sam brushed past him to get into the shower, their eyes mapping each other in tacit admiration. And Dean was eighteen, nineteen, twenty; he didn't have Sam's excuse, and before long, Sam didn't really have it either. They were grown men, almost, and changing clothes together still got their pulses racing more than anything else. More than girls, for Sam, more than stolen porn. It was fucked up.
Then came Stanford, and Sam -- okay, Sam missed it. He missed Dean, in every way, but when he took his clothes off at night he always spared a second thought for him, the way he quirked a brow sometimes as he shucked his undershorts, the sharp points of his hipbones cresting up out of the waistband. Sometimes, Sam would open the curtains and undress in front of the window, as if Dean could be out there, somewhere in the darkness, to watch him pull his shirt over his head, unbuckle his belt. It made his breath come quickly, thinking about it. By the time he rubbed a palm against the fat bulge of his dick in his pants, he was ready to shoot in seconds. That was all it took.
After Jess, Dean was circumspect about things. They had to relearn how to work together, how to be together, but Sam couldn't help feeling that Dean's delicacy was only making it worse, forcing the distance wider. Six months of waiting, and he couldn't take it any more; wrapped a towel around his waist after a shower and walked right out in it, chest clenching at the way Dean's eyes went wide. Sam was bigger than Dean remembered, he knew, and Dean was obviously fascinated by it: the breadth of Sam's shoulders, the cut of his abs. Sam swallowed down a surge of fear-heat-want and tugged off the towel, tossing it into a corner. "Did you want to take a shower too?" The words came out admirably steady, given the way Sam's heart was racing, his dick filling from the root with the weight of Dean's eyes on it, skipping away but always coming back.
It felt like years before Dean said, "Yeah." Rough, like he had a cold, like he needed to cough it clear. Like he was turned on. "Yeah."
And then he was hauling his t-shirt over his head in one swift motion, the amulet slipping back into the place between his pectoral muscles that had been its home forever, and just like that, Sam was home, too. Dean worked his jeans off slowly, making a show of it even though the trembling of his hands said he was nervous, and by the time he got to his boxers, his cock was hard in them, distorting the fabric and making things awkward.
But that was okay. Sam was hard, too, just watching, and when Dean kicked off his shorts and looked at him, something seemed to break inside him, the last brittle strut keeping them apart.
"You look good, man," Sam said. Dean's boxers lay in a sad little pile six inches from Sam's foot and, moved by some sudden impulse, he reached for them, put them on, ignoring Dean's sharp intake of breath.
"Yeah, Sammy," Dean managed, after a minute. "So do you."
(look good naked look good in my clothes look good with your hard-on leaking all over my underwear --)
And that was it -- this is it. Sam doesn't know if it actually makes it any less weird that, even after a lifetime of this, they've never taken it further, never -- fucked? God, even just thinking the word is weird. Dean's his brother, of course they don't fuck. Sometimes, maybe, Dean will reach over and wrap his hand around Sam's dick when they're watching pay-per-view, hump his hips up against air until Sam gets the idea and returns the favour, but that's just guy stuff, swapping hands because it feels better that way. He and Dean, they aren't -- like that. It would be too weird.
Anyway, Sam doesn't need that when he can have this: Dean stalking out of the bathroom like Adonis naked, eyes on Sam's in the split-second before he bends over to pick up Sam's discarded boxers and put them on. Dean, buttoning and zipping and buckling himself into the fancy suit that makes him look a million dollars; the suit he'll put up with because he knows how much Sam likes to see him take it off again. Sam lolls in the desk chair and watches him, thighs casually spread, the sludgy pulse of heat in his groin getting fiercer with every piece of clothing Dean puts on that Sam isn't wearing, every deft movement of his fingers over the fastenings. Sam tips his head back, admires the view from below, and Dean laughs at him as he does up his tie, throws Sam his balled-up towel from earlier.
"You planning on going out like that, genius?"
"Mmm." This kind of arousal makes Sam lazy, giddy and drunk on it, and he stands up slowly, unfolding, his cock half-hard against his thigh. "Why -- you want me to?"
The motel is one of those old drive-in things, the door opening right onto the parking lot, and the steady thunder of Sam's blood amps up to a screeching in his ears as he throws it open, stands naked in the doorway.
"Sam -- " Dean charges past him, alarmed and startled and, if Sam's not very much mistaken, abruptly, violently turned on. His hand is outstretched to push the door closed again, but Sam stops him with a hand around his wrist. Slowly, he backs up against one side of the doorframe, crosses his legs, and Dean, pupils blown black into the green, just stares at him. There's a pulse pounding in his throat, just below the sharp line of his jaw, and Sam -- God, Sam doesn't even know what he wants. He wants to be more naked, wants Dean to see all of him, wants to crawl right out of his skin until there's no part of him Dean hasn't assessed with his eyes. But he's already as naked as he can get, one bare foot on the asphalt outside their door, and that doesn't leave him with many options.
"Hey," he says, and his voice sounds wrecked, fucked raw. "Second thought, maybe it's not a suit day." He pauses, holding Dean's eyes. "Maybe you should take that crap off and go in your jeans."
He doesn't have to say anything else. Dean knows what he wants, and saying it would make this something else entirely, something it's not. Dean's breath is coming shallow and short as he strips off his suit jacket, tugs at his tie. Unbuttons his collar, and there's nothing elegant about it, nothing teasing, but the urgency is somehow even better, the sense that Dean's clothes feel like as much of an imposition as Sam's had to him. Dean wants to be rid of them, shirt thrown into the room and fingers slipping on his belt buckle, and anyone could be watching this, Sam thinks, fuck. Anyone could be watching Dean strip for him, kick his shoes off without ceremony, shove his fancy suit trousers down over his perfect ass and toss them over the desk chair. Anyone could see Dean standing here in his boxers, Sam's boxers, with his dick so hard the head of it is straining the waistband away from the shallow of his belly, leaking slick on the fabric where Sam had leaked before.
"Dean," Sam says, in this helpless thread of a voice, and Dean swallows, hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers. Pushes them down.
"Let's just go like this," Dean says, trying for lightness, but somehow it almost comes out like he's serious, like he's getting off so fucking hard on this, and Sam can feel the pulse of precome that pearls up out of his dick at the thought, fuck. His chest is heaving, the air thick with the smell of their raw sweat and full cocks and God, a little hand-swapping never hurt anyone. Sam bites back a groan and leans over, makes a fist around Dean's dick.
"Give me a minute," he says. "Somethin' to take care of first."
Title: Coup D'Oeil
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating/Word Count: hard R? ~2k
Prompt/Summary: Originally here. Times when the boys have had to get changed in public; whether other people see them is up to anon but they should get off on stripping and dressing in front of each other. Voyeurism, exhibitionism, touch of public nudity.
It's something they've always done. Sam's pretty sure there was nothing weird about it at first, when he was nine and Dean was thirteen and his body started doing all kinds of interesting things, shooting up, filling out. Sam was -- curious. There was nothing unusual in that. They'd squish up in one stall, getting into their trunks for a militaristic swim in some frigid motel pool, and Sam would look at Dean's shoulders, the soft new muscle emerging. His dick, the swell of it between his legs looking so goddamn heavy compared to Sam's, the fuzz of hair foreign. A year before, Dean had been smooth there like Sam was, and the change was fascinating. Sam didn't even think to be surreptitious about it, about the fact that he was looking, and maybe Dean liked it just a little bit, too, even then. Liked to show off, be the big brother, make Sam envious. So he'd smile and stretch his arms up over his head, making sure the muscle showed.
That was how it began. Four, five years of that, and it had become so normal, so natural a behavior whenever they undressed together that it felt expected when Dean started looking back. Sam was fourteen, stripping down by the side of the road after a harpy exploded all over them in a chaos of venom, the first time he really felt the weight of Dean's eyes on him. It was October, chilly, but the knowledge that Dean was looking at him -- his ass, his dick, lately making a bid to be as disproportionate as his feet -- made him flush warm in the pit of his stomach, dangerous, low. When he looked up, Dean, thumbs working at the fastenings of his jeans, didn't look away. He only popped the button, dragged down his zipper slowly, and held Sam's eyes the whole time.
After that, it was on. At fourteen, there was pretty much nothing that didn't make Sam think of sex, but he knew there was something screwed up, all the same, about how his blood got tingly when he skinned down with his brother after one of Dad's practices; after a hunt; in their bedroom at night. Neither of them ever said anything about it, but he knew Dean knew it, too. Sam had watched Dean swell to half-hard just towelling his hair while Sam brushed past him to get into the shower, their eyes mapping each other in tacit admiration. And Dean was eighteen, nineteen, twenty; he didn't have Sam's excuse, and before long, Sam didn't really have it either. They were grown men, almost, and changing clothes together still got their pulses racing more than anything else. More than girls, for Sam, more than stolen porn. It was fucked up.
Then came Stanford, and Sam -- okay, Sam missed it. He missed Dean, in every way, but when he took his clothes off at night he always spared a second thought for him, the way he quirked a brow sometimes as he shucked his undershorts, the sharp points of his hipbones cresting up out of the waistband. Sometimes, Sam would open the curtains and undress in front of the window, as if Dean could be out there, somewhere in the darkness, to watch him pull his shirt over his head, unbuckle his belt. It made his breath come quickly, thinking about it. By the time he rubbed a palm against the fat bulge of his dick in his pants, he was ready to shoot in seconds. That was all it took.
After Jess, Dean was circumspect about things. They had to relearn how to work together, how to be together, but Sam couldn't help feeling that Dean's delicacy was only making it worse, forcing the distance wider. Six months of waiting, and he couldn't take it any more; wrapped a towel around his waist after a shower and walked right out in it, chest clenching at the way Dean's eyes went wide. Sam was bigger than Dean remembered, he knew, and Dean was obviously fascinated by it: the breadth of Sam's shoulders, the cut of his abs. Sam swallowed down a surge of fear-heat-want and tugged off the towel, tossing it into a corner. "Did you want to take a shower too?" The words came out admirably steady, given the way Sam's heart was racing, his dick filling from the root with the weight of Dean's eyes on it, skipping away but always coming back.
It felt like years before Dean said, "Yeah." Rough, like he had a cold, like he needed to cough it clear. Like he was turned on. "Yeah."
And then he was hauling his t-shirt over his head in one swift motion, the amulet slipping back into the place between his pectoral muscles that had been its home forever, and just like that, Sam was home, too. Dean worked his jeans off slowly, making a show of it even though the trembling of his hands said he was nervous, and by the time he got to his boxers, his cock was hard in them, distorting the fabric and making things awkward.
But that was okay. Sam was hard, too, just watching, and when Dean kicked off his shorts and looked at him, something seemed to break inside him, the last brittle strut keeping them apart.
"You look good, man," Sam said. Dean's boxers lay in a sad little pile six inches from Sam's foot and, moved by some sudden impulse, he reached for them, put them on, ignoring Dean's sharp intake of breath.
"Yeah, Sammy," Dean managed, after a minute. "So do you."
(look good naked look good in my clothes look good with your hard-on leaking all over my underwear --)
And that was it -- this is it. Sam doesn't know if it actually makes it any less weird that, even after a lifetime of this, they've never taken it further, never -- fucked? God, even just thinking the word is weird. Dean's his brother, of course they don't fuck. Sometimes, maybe, Dean will reach over and wrap his hand around Sam's dick when they're watching pay-per-view, hump his hips up against air until Sam gets the idea and returns the favour, but that's just guy stuff, swapping hands because it feels better that way. He and Dean, they aren't -- like that. It would be too weird.
Anyway, Sam doesn't need that when he can have this: Dean stalking out of the bathroom like Adonis naked, eyes on Sam's in the split-second before he bends over to pick up Sam's discarded boxers and put them on. Dean, buttoning and zipping and buckling himself into the fancy suit that makes him look a million dollars; the suit he'll put up with because he knows how much Sam likes to see him take it off again. Sam lolls in the desk chair and watches him, thighs casually spread, the sludgy pulse of heat in his groin getting fiercer with every piece of clothing Dean puts on that Sam isn't wearing, every deft movement of his fingers over the fastenings. Sam tips his head back, admires the view from below, and Dean laughs at him as he does up his tie, throws Sam his balled-up towel from earlier.
"You planning on going out like that, genius?"
"Mmm." This kind of arousal makes Sam lazy, giddy and drunk on it, and he stands up slowly, unfolding, his cock half-hard against his thigh. "Why -- you want me to?"
The motel is one of those old drive-in things, the door opening right onto the parking lot, and the steady thunder of Sam's blood amps up to a screeching in his ears as he throws it open, stands naked in the doorway.
"Sam -- " Dean charges past him, alarmed and startled and, if Sam's not very much mistaken, abruptly, violently turned on. His hand is outstretched to push the door closed again, but Sam stops him with a hand around his wrist. Slowly, he backs up against one side of the doorframe, crosses his legs, and Dean, pupils blown black into the green, just stares at him. There's a pulse pounding in his throat, just below the sharp line of his jaw, and Sam -- God, Sam doesn't even know what he wants. He wants to be more naked, wants Dean to see all of him, wants to crawl right out of his skin until there's no part of him Dean hasn't assessed with his eyes. But he's already as naked as he can get, one bare foot on the asphalt outside their door, and that doesn't leave him with many options.
"Hey," he says, and his voice sounds wrecked, fucked raw. "Second thought, maybe it's not a suit day." He pauses, holding Dean's eyes. "Maybe you should take that crap off and go in your jeans."
He doesn't have to say anything else. Dean knows what he wants, and saying it would make this something else entirely, something it's not. Dean's breath is coming shallow and short as he strips off his suit jacket, tugs at his tie. Unbuttons his collar, and there's nothing elegant about it, nothing teasing, but the urgency is somehow even better, the sense that Dean's clothes feel like as much of an imposition as Sam's had to him. Dean wants to be rid of them, shirt thrown into the room and fingers slipping on his belt buckle, and anyone could be watching this, Sam thinks, fuck. Anyone could be watching Dean strip for him, kick his shoes off without ceremony, shove his fancy suit trousers down over his perfect ass and toss them over the desk chair. Anyone could see Dean standing here in his boxers, Sam's boxers, with his dick so hard the head of it is straining the waistband away from the shallow of his belly, leaking slick on the fabric where Sam had leaked before.
"Dean," Sam says, in this helpless thread of a voice, and Dean swallows, hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers. Pushes them down.
"Let's just go like this," Dean says, trying for lightness, but somehow it almost comes out like he's serious, like he's getting off so fucking hard on this, and Sam can feel the pulse of precome that pearls up out of his dick at the thought, fuck. His chest is heaving, the air thick with the smell of their raw sweat and full cocks and God, a little hand-swapping never hurt anyone. Sam bites back a groan and leans over, makes a fist around Dean's dick.
"Give me a minute," he says. "Somethin' to take care of first."