PixCT: 9-13
Happy Cock Thursday!
What’s Cock Thursday?
Well. Instead of retyping everything, drvsilla has a pretty good explanation of it all here. All you need to know is this is about cock, fic, pic, and fun. That’s all there is to it.
So, here’s what you should be aware of before continuing any further:
This fic is the following:
Slash (Wincest: Dean/Sam) oneshot
I’m going to just rate it “adult” to cover my bases (although it's probably not that bad, really)
Spoilers, I suppose, for S2: “In My Time of Dying”
794 words
Dru’s fic (Same pic, different fic.)
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The Pic
- - - -
The sun is setting beyond the trees, leaving behind a spread of deep clouds, and a cool breeze rolls through the grass in the field. On the hill that overlooks the crooked line of goldenrod and tousled weeds growing along the fence line, Dean rests against a weathered hay bale, pillowed and round. A six-pack with two bottles gone stands beside him, and Sam sits between Dean’s spread legs.
Sam swallows before he asks, “So what now?” He doesn’t look back at Dean and stares instead at the treetops. “What do you want to do?”
Dean shrugs soundlessly behind Sam. He wraps himself around Sam, hands covering the skin on Sam’s forearms that the evening air has chilled to tight gooseflesh.
“Dean?” Sam tries again. Dad’s dead and they’ve left Bobby’s for good, but Sam wants to know that Dean’s okay to return to the monsters. Sam will wait as long as Dean needs before continuing the hunt after the demon that killed their family. If Dean will never be ready, then Sam will never be ready.
“I dunno,” Dean sighs finally. “I dunno, Sammy.”
“We don’t have to go back right now. Just-I don’t know, lay low. Nobody’s expecting us. We could stay away…just the two of us.”
Dean tucks his face against the nape of Sam’s neck. His breath is a puff of hot air, and Sam closes his eyes against the feeling. Beneath Sam, the grass is cold, and he digs his fingers into the ground to keep from falling off the world with Dean so close.
“How ‘bout we just stay here?” Dean mumbles, lips brushing against the sensitive bare skin.
“It’s getting dark. And cold. We can’t-”
Dean kisses his way up Sam’s neck until his cheek rests against Sam’s ear, and he asks, “Why not here?” His hands slide off Sam’s arms and come to rest on Sam’s belt buckle, settling on the cold metal beneath layers of clothing.
“Dean,” Sam begins questionably, prepared to ask, Are you sure? Is this what you want? Don’t do this if you’re not ready. Don’t do this if you don’t mean it.
It seems like years since they’ve been together. While the feel of Dean’s hands on Sam’s bare stomach has been so missed, Sam doesn’t want to rush anything. Dean’s still so brittle, so fragile and unstable in the wake of knowledge that Dad died-sacrificed himself to Hell-so Dean could live.
Sam doesn’t want to see Dean break again.
“’m okay, Sammy,” Dean whispers, sliding a hand into Sam’s now undone pants. His fingers slip lower, and Sam chokes down at a gasp at the sensation of being touched like this, by Dean, once again. Oh, it really has been far too long.
Sam leans against Dean and tilts his head, circling one arm around Dean’s neck to meet their lips in a tender kiss. Dean’s breath is alcohol sweet, and his mouth fits with Sam’s just as perfectly as it did before.
Dean strokes Sam’s cock languidly, nothing hurried and frantic, nothing desperate or careless. His hand is steady, movements perfected by long nights under motel covers together.
With a quiet moan, Sam lets his legs fall open as Dean eases back into the bale of hay, pulling Sam with him. They keep their foreheads pressed together as pieces of dried grass flutter onto them. The goldenrod tap their pointed leaves against the bottom of Sam’s boot, and the dried grass scratches against his jeans.
Everything is happening too fast, and Sam whispers a broken, “Dean,” before fisting his hand in the collar of Dean’s shirt and coming with a whimper. Dean tightens his free arm around Sam’s waist and holds as Sam tenses and shakes.
When Sam opens his eyes, he sees Dean wiping his hand off in the long weeds beside them. Head still spinning, Sam allows Dean to help him button his pants. Sam rolls off Dean and onto his back, so they lie side by side, cocooned in the warm hay.
“You good, Sammy?” Dean whispers, lifting his hand to Sam’s face.
“Are you?” Sam asks a little breathlessly as he thinks of the tears they’ve both shed, of all their losses, of their pain and separation.
Dean pauses, studying Sam’s worried face before he smiles. It’s a soft, small expression, but it’s a smile regardless. It’s an almost forgotten feature on Dean.
“Yeah,” Dean replies, “yeah, I am.”
“Okay,” Sam says and buries his face in the fabric of Dean’s shirt. He smells aftershave and gasoline, leather and detergent, everything lost and rediscovered, everything Dean. Closing his eyes, Sam feels Dean rest a cheek atop his head, and Sam smiles, knowing that Dean is ready for their life once again.
End
What’s Cock Thursday?
Well. Instead of retyping everything, drvsilla has a pretty good explanation of it all here. All you need to know is this is about cock, fic, pic, and fun. That’s all there is to it.
So, here’s what you should be aware of before continuing any further:
This fic is the following:
- - - - -
The Pic
- - - -
The sun is setting beyond the trees, leaving behind a spread of deep clouds, and a cool breeze rolls through the grass in the field. On the hill that overlooks the crooked line of goldenrod and tousled weeds growing along the fence line, Dean rests against a weathered hay bale, pillowed and round. A six-pack with two bottles gone stands beside him, and Sam sits between Dean’s spread legs.
Sam swallows before he asks, “So what now?” He doesn’t look back at Dean and stares instead at the treetops. “What do you want to do?”
Dean shrugs soundlessly behind Sam. He wraps himself around Sam, hands covering the skin on Sam’s forearms that the evening air has chilled to tight gooseflesh.
“Dean?” Sam tries again. Dad’s dead and they’ve left Bobby’s for good, but Sam wants to know that Dean’s okay to return to the monsters. Sam will wait as long as Dean needs before continuing the hunt after the demon that killed their family. If Dean will never be ready, then Sam will never be ready.
“I dunno,” Dean sighs finally. “I dunno, Sammy.”
“We don’t have to go back right now. Just-I don’t know, lay low. Nobody’s expecting us. We could stay away…just the two of us.”
Dean tucks his face against the nape of Sam’s neck. His breath is a puff of hot air, and Sam closes his eyes against the feeling. Beneath Sam, the grass is cold, and he digs his fingers into the ground to keep from falling off the world with Dean so close.
“How ‘bout we just stay here?” Dean mumbles, lips brushing against the sensitive bare skin.
“It’s getting dark. And cold. We can’t-”
Dean kisses his way up Sam’s neck until his cheek rests against Sam’s ear, and he asks, “Why not here?” His hands slide off Sam’s arms and come to rest on Sam’s belt buckle, settling on the cold metal beneath layers of clothing.
“Dean,” Sam begins questionably, prepared to ask, Are you sure? Is this what you want? Don’t do this if you’re not ready. Don’t do this if you don’t mean it.
It seems like years since they’ve been together. While the feel of Dean’s hands on Sam’s bare stomach has been so missed, Sam doesn’t want to rush anything. Dean’s still so brittle, so fragile and unstable in the wake of knowledge that Dad died-sacrificed himself to Hell-so Dean could live.
Sam doesn’t want to see Dean break again.
“’m okay, Sammy,” Dean whispers, sliding a hand into Sam’s now undone pants. His fingers slip lower, and Sam chokes down at a gasp at the sensation of being touched like this, by Dean, once again. Oh, it really has been far too long.
Sam leans against Dean and tilts his head, circling one arm around Dean’s neck to meet their lips in a tender kiss. Dean’s breath is alcohol sweet, and his mouth fits with Sam’s just as perfectly as it did before.
Dean strokes Sam’s cock languidly, nothing hurried and frantic, nothing desperate or careless. His hand is steady, movements perfected by long nights under motel covers together.
With a quiet moan, Sam lets his legs fall open as Dean eases back into the bale of hay, pulling Sam with him. They keep their foreheads pressed together as pieces of dried grass flutter onto them. The goldenrod tap their pointed leaves against the bottom of Sam’s boot, and the dried grass scratches against his jeans.
Everything is happening too fast, and Sam whispers a broken, “Dean,” before fisting his hand in the collar of Dean’s shirt and coming with a whimper. Dean tightens his free arm around Sam’s waist and holds as Sam tenses and shakes.
When Sam opens his eyes, he sees Dean wiping his hand off in the long weeds beside them. Head still spinning, Sam allows Dean to help him button his pants. Sam rolls off Dean and onto his back, so they lie side by side, cocooned in the warm hay.
“You good, Sammy?” Dean whispers, lifting his hand to Sam’s face.
“Are you?” Sam asks a little breathlessly as he thinks of the tears they’ve both shed, of all their losses, of their pain and separation.
Dean pauses, studying Sam’s worried face before he smiles. It’s a soft, small expression, but it’s a smile regardless. It’s an almost forgotten feature on Dean.
“Yeah,” Dean replies, “yeah, I am.”
“Okay,” Sam says and buries his face in the fabric of Dean’s shirt. He smells aftershave and gasoline, leather and detergent, everything lost and rediscovered, everything Dean. Closing his eyes, Sam feels Dean rest a cheek atop his head, and Sam smiles, knowing that Dean is ready for their life once again.
End