ficlet: Roll Your Own
Title: Roll Your Own
Author: ordinarily
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Hard R
Word Count: ~1,400
Summary: Dean smokes. Sam is turned on. Focus on lips/tongue/fingers/oral fixation. If this leads to hot blowjob action, so much the better!
Notes: Written for round three of the blindfold kink meme, for the above prompt.
Dean’s fingers are thick, maybe a little on the stubby side. Looking at them, you’d think they weren’t made for precision work, you know? Sam knows better, though, knows the fearsome intelligence stored in Dean’s hands, knows he can tear a machine down and put it back together again in working order ten times faster than any of his Stanford engineering buddies, knows he can build something from nothing. Sam’d choose Dean’s skills over MacGyver’s any day - he’s seen those hands at work close in, is all. It’d be an easy choice.
He loves to watch Dean work, but he doesn’t get much chance to do it - his brother’s just not the kind of guy who appreciates gawkers (at least, gawkers in the form of little brothers) leaning over his shoulder, and Sam suspects that leaning too close to just breathe him in might bring on a punch rather than the usual suspicious glare or terse command to back off - so mostly he just keeps his distance, sneaks the occasional look, tries not to linger too long on the surprisingly delicate movements of those sturdy fingers. Sam’s not stupid, and this is one fate, at least, he’s learned not to tempt.
They’ve established this one exception, though, kind of by accident, a little ritual that Sam uses to look his fill. Sam can track its origins pretty clearly: the darkened theater, fifteen-year-old-Dean, Uma Thurman leaning over the table with a smile and saying to John Travolta, “Can you roll me one of those, cowboy?” Adult Sam could have predicted the way Dean’s mouth hung open in the theater, but back then it kind of surprised him, Dean sneaking around behind Dad’s back to buy tobacco and rolling papers and baggies, practicing first the two-handed roll, then graduating to the one-handed roll, steady and smooth, short swipe of the tongue and seal, the pinch off the tip, the metallic snap of the Zippo, the first crackling inhale, picking tobacco off his tongue with two fingers, and Sam was a glutton for it all back then, and he’s a glutton for it all now.
Shit, Sam doesn’t even like smoking. In actual fact, Sam hates smoking. It stinks, it burns his eyes, it hazes everything over with a gray film, and smoking unfiltered tobacco is one of the stupider things Dean does, in that crazy-long list of stupid things Dean does on a regular basis. But Christ, watching Dean roll a cigarette is a thing of beauty. He outstripped Vincent Vega at sixteen, and now? Whenever Dean pulls out his supplies, Sam watches in a sort of hypnotic trance. What Dean thinks as he watches Sam watching him is anybody’s guess, really, but most likely he thinks Sam’s stare is meant to take the place of a self-righteous lecture, and Sam lets Dean think whatever he wants, because whatever Dean’s decided is going on in Sam’s head is so much more acceptable than what’s really going on.
:::
Their ritual holds, the way rituals do, until it doesn’t any more. One night, they’re walking back to the car after a salt-and-burn, finding their way in the moonlight behind the dimly specific circle of Sam’s flashlight, and eventually Dean falls behind half a step so that he can follow Sam’s lead, walking and rolling at the same time and paying half-attention to each. Like Dean, Sam’s gotten to the point where he doesn’t even have to watch, now; he can tell by the sounds coming from a step behind him what Dean’s doing, can imagine what Dean’s hands look like, can imagine his face underlit by the flare of the lighter, can imagine what Dean’s hands would do to him, what his mouth would look like wrapped around him, and since he’s ahead of Dean and in the dark besides, he doesn’t have to worry about any sort of guard. He can just picture it all, and he does, all the way back to the car.
He stows the shovels in the trunk and takes a deep breath as he slams it shut, giving himself a second to regroup before he walks around to the passenger side. It doesn’t register that Dean hasn’t walked around to the driver’s side until he feels hands on his shoulders, turning him around, and he doesn’t have time to school his features. God knows what Dean’s seeing on his face. What Sam sees on Dean’s isn’t giving him any clues, either; in the dark, his face is remote, lips tightened around the cigarette.
When Dean’s hands move from his shoulders, Sam can’t help flinching a little - whatever’s coming next won’t be pretty, he’s sure - and Dean freezes, holding his hands up, palms facing Sam, Whoa, or maybe Look, Sam, no brass knuckles here. Sam freezes too, waiting warily to see what happens next, and what happens next is that Dean pushes his hands forward until they’re flat on Sam’s chest and then slides them down, and Sam’s feeling like he just got slammed into a wall, demon-style, when all Dean’s doing is slipping up under his shirts to wrap his fingers around Sam’s belt buckle. He stops there and waits, for what Sam’s not sure, until Sam’s breath punches out of him and sucks back in on a stuttering gasp. Dean unbuckles his belt then with his eyes fixed on Sam’s face, blind but not fumbling even a little, opens Sam’s jeans, and slips his hands into the front of his shorts, down Sam’s belly, through his pubic hair, to the base of his dick, and again stops, waiting, as Sam tries to control his breathing.
“Dean.” It doesn’t sound remotely like his own voice, to Sam, but whatever Dean hears in it is enough to get him moving again, the hand inside Sam’s boxers slipping back to massage Sam’s balls, thumb of the other hand pressing slow over the tip of his cock and down the underside to the base, pulling the elastic down as he goes, and back up again. His eyes don’t leave Sam’s. His face, lit by the burnt-down cigarette, gives nothing away. And Sam, fully-dressed and rarely unguarded, is the one exposed right now; he feels stripped-down by the imbalance, like one of Dean’s machines, ready to be repaired or repurposed, breaths rising in panic and arousal until he brings his hands up to clutch at the plackets of Dean’s open shirt.
Maybe Sam’s not as exposed as he’d thought, though, maybe what Dean’s waiting for is just pure response, some clue as to what Sam’s feeling, because as soon as Sam’s hands close around his shirt, his hands are there, too, gripping Sam’s wrists, and something’s changed in his face, suddenly he’s a recognizable Dean again, spitting the cigarette to one side and reeling Sam in by the wrists, close enough to lick briefly at Sam’s lips, to smile at him and sink to his knees.
And whatever Sam imagined, watching Dean with his cigarettes over the years, it’s nothing compared to what he gets now. Dean goes all the way down, his nose pressing into Sam’s belly. One of his hands loosens Sam’s wrist to guide his hand to his hair before he goes back to massaging Sam’s balls, stroking behind them in a light rhythm synced with the thrust of his tongue. His other hand is on Sam’s wrist, still, thumb against the pulse, moving just enough for Sam to feel the motion.
Dean can dissemble and reassemble his gun in under a minute, and in a minute he can roll a cigarette and smoke it halfway down in two deep breaths. And Sam’s not so much harder to figure than a gun or a cigarette, it turns out, because in a minute he’s mostly there, in two he’s done, the orgasm flashing up his spine in a diffuse, buzzing electrical shock. Dean presses his forehead into Sam for a second, and then rises to his feet. He pulls Sam in, one kiss, then another, and one after that, and each one pulls Sam in further and further, until they’re twined so tightly together Sam can’t imagine ever being loose again.
And when Dean pulls away, slaps Sam gently on the wrist, and turns to climb in the car, another cigarette rolled and lit before he climbs in, he hasn’t said a word, and Sam doesn’t feel as though he needs to. For the first time in a long time, he feels restored, reshaped, clean.
Author: ordinarily
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Hard R
Word Count: ~1,400
Summary: Dean smokes. Sam is turned on. Focus on lips/tongue/fingers/oral fixation. If this leads to hot blowjob action, so much the better!
Notes: Written for round three of the blindfold kink meme, for the above prompt.
Dean’s fingers are thick, maybe a little on the stubby side. Looking at them, you’d think they weren’t made for precision work, you know? Sam knows better, though, knows the fearsome intelligence stored in Dean’s hands, knows he can tear a machine down and put it back together again in working order ten times faster than any of his Stanford engineering buddies, knows he can build something from nothing. Sam’d choose Dean’s skills over MacGyver’s any day - he’s seen those hands at work close in, is all. It’d be an easy choice.
He loves to watch Dean work, but he doesn’t get much chance to do it - his brother’s just not the kind of guy who appreciates gawkers (at least, gawkers in the form of little brothers) leaning over his shoulder, and Sam suspects that leaning too close to just breathe him in might bring on a punch rather than the usual suspicious glare or terse command to back off - so mostly he just keeps his distance, sneaks the occasional look, tries not to linger too long on the surprisingly delicate movements of those sturdy fingers. Sam’s not stupid, and this is one fate, at least, he’s learned not to tempt.
They’ve established this one exception, though, kind of by accident, a little ritual that Sam uses to look his fill. Sam can track its origins pretty clearly: the darkened theater, fifteen-year-old-Dean, Uma Thurman leaning over the table with a smile and saying to John Travolta, “Can you roll me one of those, cowboy?” Adult Sam could have predicted the way Dean’s mouth hung open in the theater, but back then it kind of surprised him, Dean sneaking around behind Dad’s back to buy tobacco and rolling papers and baggies, practicing first the two-handed roll, then graduating to the one-handed roll, steady and smooth, short swipe of the tongue and seal, the pinch off the tip, the metallic snap of the Zippo, the first crackling inhale, picking tobacco off his tongue with two fingers, and Sam was a glutton for it all back then, and he’s a glutton for it all now.
Shit, Sam doesn’t even like smoking. In actual fact, Sam hates smoking. It stinks, it burns his eyes, it hazes everything over with a gray film, and smoking unfiltered tobacco is one of the stupider things Dean does, in that crazy-long list of stupid things Dean does on a regular basis. But Christ, watching Dean roll a cigarette is a thing of beauty. He outstripped Vincent Vega at sixteen, and now? Whenever Dean pulls out his supplies, Sam watches in a sort of hypnotic trance. What Dean thinks as he watches Sam watching him is anybody’s guess, really, but most likely he thinks Sam’s stare is meant to take the place of a self-righteous lecture, and Sam lets Dean think whatever he wants, because whatever Dean’s decided is going on in Sam’s head is so much more acceptable than what’s really going on.
:::
Their ritual holds, the way rituals do, until it doesn’t any more. One night, they’re walking back to the car after a salt-and-burn, finding their way in the moonlight behind the dimly specific circle of Sam’s flashlight, and eventually Dean falls behind half a step so that he can follow Sam’s lead, walking and rolling at the same time and paying half-attention to each. Like Dean, Sam’s gotten to the point where he doesn’t even have to watch, now; he can tell by the sounds coming from a step behind him what Dean’s doing, can imagine what Dean’s hands look like, can imagine his face underlit by the flare of the lighter, can imagine what Dean’s hands would do to him, what his mouth would look like wrapped around him, and since he’s ahead of Dean and in the dark besides, he doesn’t have to worry about any sort of guard. He can just picture it all, and he does, all the way back to the car.
He stows the shovels in the trunk and takes a deep breath as he slams it shut, giving himself a second to regroup before he walks around to the passenger side. It doesn’t register that Dean hasn’t walked around to the driver’s side until he feels hands on his shoulders, turning him around, and he doesn’t have time to school his features. God knows what Dean’s seeing on his face. What Sam sees on Dean’s isn’t giving him any clues, either; in the dark, his face is remote, lips tightened around the cigarette.
When Dean’s hands move from his shoulders, Sam can’t help flinching a little - whatever’s coming next won’t be pretty, he’s sure - and Dean freezes, holding his hands up, palms facing Sam, Whoa, or maybe Look, Sam, no brass knuckles here. Sam freezes too, waiting warily to see what happens next, and what happens next is that Dean pushes his hands forward until they’re flat on Sam’s chest and then slides them down, and Sam’s feeling like he just got slammed into a wall, demon-style, when all Dean’s doing is slipping up under his shirts to wrap his fingers around Sam’s belt buckle. He stops there and waits, for what Sam’s not sure, until Sam’s breath punches out of him and sucks back in on a stuttering gasp. Dean unbuckles his belt then with his eyes fixed on Sam’s face, blind but not fumbling even a little, opens Sam’s jeans, and slips his hands into the front of his shorts, down Sam’s belly, through his pubic hair, to the base of his dick, and again stops, waiting, as Sam tries to control his breathing.
“Dean.” It doesn’t sound remotely like his own voice, to Sam, but whatever Dean hears in it is enough to get him moving again, the hand inside Sam’s boxers slipping back to massage Sam’s balls, thumb of the other hand pressing slow over the tip of his cock and down the underside to the base, pulling the elastic down as he goes, and back up again. His eyes don’t leave Sam’s. His face, lit by the burnt-down cigarette, gives nothing away. And Sam, fully-dressed and rarely unguarded, is the one exposed right now; he feels stripped-down by the imbalance, like one of Dean’s machines, ready to be repaired or repurposed, breaths rising in panic and arousal until he brings his hands up to clutch at the plackets of Dean’s open shirt.
Maybe Sam’s not as exposed as he’d thought, though, maybe what Dean’s waiting for is just pure response, some clue as to what Sam’s feeling, because as soon as Sam’s hands close around his shirt, his hands are there, too, gripping Sam’s wrists, and something’s changed in his face, suddenly he’s a recognizable Dean again, spitting the cigarette to one side and reeling Sam in by the wrists, close enough to lick briefly at Sam’s lips, to smile at him and sink to his knees.
And whatever Sam imagined, watching Dean with his cigarettes over the years, it’s nothing compared to what he gets now. Dean goes all the way down, his nose pressing into Sam’s belly. One of his hands loosens Sam’s wrist to guide his hand to his hair before he goes back to massaging Sam’s balls, stroking behind them in a light rhythm synced with the thrust of his tongue. His other hand is on Sam’s wrist, still, thumb against the pulse, moving just enough for Sam to feel the motion.
Dean can dissemble and reassemble his gun in under a minute, and in a minute he can roll a cigarette and smoke it halfway down in two deep breaths. And Sam’s not so much harder to figure than a gun or a cigarette, it turns out, because in a minute he’s mostly there, in two he’s done, the orgasm flashing up his spine in a diffuse, buzzing electrical shock. Dean presses his forehead into Sam for a second, and then rises to his feet. He pulls Sam in, one kiss, then another, and one after that, and each one pulls Sam in further and further, until they’re twined so tightly together Sam can’t imagine ever being loose again.
And when Dean pulls away, slaps Sam gently on the wrist, and turns to climb in the car, another cigarette rolled and lit before he climbs in, he hasn’t said a word, and Sam doesn’t feel as though he needs to. For the first time in a long time, he feels restored, reshaped, clean.