(no subject)
So winterlive and I were having this discussion about who could go all night, if you know what I mean, and this is what came of it. Really, really unadulterated porn.
In essence: one pretty surefire way of getting rid of Sam's pissy mood.
Where It Lives, Sam/Dean, NC-17, 1450 words.
Where It Lives
Sam’s had a bad week - two visions, the inevitable migraines to go with, and news about a friend from Stanford getting married. He’s been in a bad mood for three days, hunched in on himself in the passenger seat, and Dean decides he’s fucking had it when Sam turns down dinner for the second day in a row. Instead of getting back on the interstate, he finds a motel, gets a room with a king, and drags Sam inside before he can start bitching again.
“What are you doing?” Sam says, hovering near the door, looking dubious.
Sure, this particular motel lacks any sort of theme - Dean kind of misses the fake cacti and pin-up girl silhouettes - but there's just no reason for Sam to be looking at the bed like that. Then again, God himself probably wouldn't satisfy Sam right now, so Dean decides to just go with the original plan.
He pushes Sam up against the wall, because - aw, yeah - Sam never fails to turn it around and shove back, and that’s where it’s at, with Sam pressed up close, the perfect combination of confused and pissed off.
“Putting you in a better mood, Sammy,” Dean says, and kisses him, hard.
It didn’t take Dean too long to figure out that Sam loves sex - and that he cares way less about how they’re doing it than the fact that they are - but he hasn’t had a chance yet to figure out just how far he can push Sam, and anyway, Dean’s pretty sure that a hell of a lot of sex will do his uptight ass some good.
Three blowjobs - slow, messy, wet sex, just the kind that drives Sam crazy - later, Sam’s significantly less tense, flushed all over, and his pupils are so wide Dean can barely tell what color they are.
“Do you want,” he starts, and Dean just presses his mouth behind Sam’s knee, licking.
“Shut up, Sam,” he says, and slides a hand over Sam’s stomach, feeling the muscles jump.
“I’m not sure if I can -” Sam says, flushed, and Dean figures, if he’s still functional enough to be embarrassed over coming, well - Dean’s just going to have to make him do it again.
Sam's been game for just about everything Dean's suggested so far, but there are a couple of things Dean hasn't exactly been willing to try. It's not that he's worried about them, exactly, it's just that it'd take a hell of a lot more tequila than he's been able to find in one place.
With Sam this boneless, though, it's not like he's going to notice if Dean tries something a little different, so Dean just puts a palm against his hip and rolls him over, then licks his way down Sam's spine.
"Hey," Sam says, sounding almost drowsy, then, "oh fuck," when he realizes just where Dean's going with this.
Sam starts to squirm, enough that Dean has to fucking pin him down for a second before he can actually spread Sam open and go for it, and okay, it's a little weird, but when Dean drags his tongue up Sam makes a noise that makes the whole thing worth it, close enough to a growl that Dean can feel it. It only takes a couple minutes before Sam's hard again - kind of unsurprising in Dean's opinion, given that he's been fucking Sam with his tongue - and Dean gives it a little longer before he pulls back, letting Sam shift to look at him.
"Jesus," Sam says.
The fact that even his stomach is flushed probably doesn't have much to do with embarrassment. Dean's ideas are always awesome.
"You want to fuck me now?" Dean says, nice and matter of fact, like it's not a big deal at all. Turns out that's the right approach, because Sam actually chokes.
"Yeah, okay," Sam manages, finally, and Dean pulls a condom and lube out of the pocket of his jeans - fuck being a boy scout, Dean learned about being prepared from a hooker outside of Minneapolis when he was seventeen.
They've done this before, once while Dean was drunk as hell and once after he almost got killed by a goddamn hellhound, so the startled, turned-on look on Sam's face just proves that he's a freaking girl, because it's not anything new.
Sam takes his sweet time, sliding his fingers in slow enough that Dean's fucking squirming by the time he adds a third. Just because Sam came three times doesn't mean everyone in the goddamn room did, and Dean's so hard it actually hurts, something he hasn't experienced since he was fifteen and using it as a line to get Juliet Evans' to go down on him.
"I think that's good," Sam says, finally, in exactly the same tone of voice he uses when checking the Impala's tires or reading through a newspaper, and Dean decides while Sam's rolling on the condom that if he's still sounding that together, just letting Sam fuck him probably isn't going to do it.
He shoves, until Sam's sitting back against the pillows, looking kind of confused, and then slides down onto him. Doing it in one easy motion is definitely for porn stars, because Sam's, okay, not anything close to what you'd call small - obviously a Winchester trait - but the look on his face when Dean sinks down is what Dean's been waiting for all fucking night.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean murmurs, against his jaw, trying not to grin, "you like that, baby?"
Dean's totally fucking with him, but Sam blushes a little deeper and catches his breath, like he's so turned on he doesn't know what to do with it. Dean files that away for further knowledge - and possibly blackmail - and shifts down, pulling Sam's hands to his hips, because he's been waiting all fucking night, and Sam needs to get this show on the road.
Dean kisses him, slick and hot and filthy, and Sam gets the damn idea and lifts his hips. Maybe the one benefit to Sam being so fucking huge is that he can do this, no problem. Dean can hit it with chicks, get his hips in tight and just thrust, but this is almost better - not that he'd admit it to Sam, ever - with Sam pressed up close and murmuring against his skin.
"God, Dean," Sam says, pulling down on Dean's hips a little to change the angle, until he's in deep and Dean can feel every inch of him.
"Come on," he manages, because jesus, Sam can go all night but Dean's never quite figured that one out, and Sam gets the idea and rocks up, putting a little thrust into it, and he hits just right.
Sam wraps a hand around his erection, rubbing his thumb all over the head, and it takes about ten seconds of that before Dean comes all over him. Sam makes a really embarrassing noise that Dean's definitely going to use for ammo later, when he can think again, and thrusts into him a couple more times before he stops breathing and comes with a soft gasp. His hands are tight against Dean's hips and from the look on his face, it maybe even hurts a little - Dean's done the three-or-four times in a row thing once or twice, and it's still good, but coming dry isn't exactly anything he'd label as fun.
Dean gives him a couple minutes before he eases off and takes care of the condom, and by the time he comes back with a washcloth, Sam's eyes are closed. He's moved maybe a total of one inch since he came, just enough to let his head fall back against the pillows, and Dean decides that the whole thing calls for a general celebration of just how awesome he is, because Sammy sure as hell isn't whining anymore.
"M'sorry," Sam says, blinking drowsily while Dean wipes them both off. "Just kinda tired."
"So go to sleep, dumbass," Dean says, giving Sam his best you're such an idiot look, perfected by years of dealing with gas station cashiers. Sam yawns and sinks down further, pulling the blankets up.
Dean waits until he's completely asleep to pull on jeans and head out the door for something to eat - probably pancakes, with a hell of a lot of syrup and a freakin' enormous side of bacon, because hell, it's not like he got any dinner, and he definitely deserves some kind of reward for a job well done.
In essence: one pretty surefire way of getting rid of Sam's pissy mood.
Where It Lives, Sam/Dean, NC-17, 1450 words.
Where It Lives
Sam’s had a bad week - two visions, the inevitable migraines to go with, and news about a friend from Stanford getting married. He’s been in a bad mood for three days, hunched in on himself in the passenger seat, and Dean decides he’s fucking had it when Sam turns down dinner for the second day in a row. Instead of getting back on the interstate, he finds a motel, gets a room with a king, and drags Sam inside before he can start bitching again.
“What are you doing?” Sam says, hovering near the door, looking dubious.
Sure, this particular motel lacks any sort of theme - Dean kind of misses the fake cacti and pin-up girl silhouettes - but there's just no reason for Sam to be looking at the bed like that. Then again, God himself probably wouldn't satisfy Sam right now, so Dean decides to just go with the original plan.
He pushes Sam up against the wall, because - aw, yeah - Sam never fails to turn it around and shove back, and that’s where it’s at, with Sam pressed up close, the perfect combination of confused and pissed off.
“Putting you in a better mood, Sammy,” Dean says, and kisses him, hard.
It didn’t take Dean too long to figure out that Sam loves sex - and that he cares way less about how they’re doing it than the fact that they are - but he hasn’t had a chance yet to figure out just how far he can push Sam, and anyway, Dean’s pretty sure that a hell of a lot of sex will do his uptight ass some good.
Three blowjobs - slow, messy, wet sex, just the kind that drives Sam crazy - later, Sam’s significantly less tense, flushed all over, and his pupils are so wide Dean can barely tell what color they are.
“Do you want,” he starts, and Dean just presses his mouth behind Sam’s knee, licking.
“Shut up, Sam,” he says, and slides a hand over Sam’s stomach, feeling the muscles jump.
“I’m not sure if I can -” Sam says, flushed, and Dean figures, if he’s still functional enough to be embarrassed over coming, well - Dean’s just going to have to make him do it again.
Sam's been game for just about everything Dean's suggested so far, but there are a couple of things Dean hasn't exactly been willing to try. It's not that he's worried about them, exactly, it's just that it'd take a hell of a lot more tequila than he's been able to find in one place.
With Sam this boneless, though, it's not like he's going to notice if Dean tries something a little different, so Dean just puts a palm against his hip and rolls him over, then licks his way down Sam's spine.
"Hey," Sam says, sounding almost drowsy, then, "oh fuck," when he realizes just where Dean's going with this.
Sam starts to squirm, enough that Dean has to fucking pin him down for a second before he can actually spread Sam open and go for it, and okay, it's a little weird, but when Dean drags his tongue up Sam makes a noise that makes the whole thing worth it, close enough to a growl that Dean can feel it. It only takes a couple minutes before Sam's hard again - kind of unsurprising in Dean's opinion, given that he's been fucking Sam with his tongue - and Dean gives it a little longer before he pulls back, letting Sam shift to look at him.
"Jesus," Sam says.
The fact that even his stomach is flushed probably doesn't have much to do with embarrassment. Dean's ideas are always awesome.
"You want to fuck me now?" Dean says, nice and matter of fact, like it's not a big deal at all. Turns out that's the right approach, because Sam actually chokes.
"Yeah, okay," Sam manages, finally, and Dean pulls a condom and lube out of the pocket of his jeans - fuck being a boy scout, Dean learned about being prepared from a hooker outside of Minneapolis when he was seventeen.
They've done this before, once while Dean was drunk as hell and once after he almost got killed by a goddamn hellhound, so the startled, turned-on look on Sam's face just proves that he's a freaking girl, because it's not anything new.
Sam takes his sweet time, sliding his fingers in slow enough that Dean's fucking squirming by the time he adds a third. Just because Sam came three times doesn't mean everyone in the goddamn room did, and Dean's so hard it actually hurts, something he hasn't experienced since he was fifteen and using it as a line to get Juliet Evans' to go down on him.
"I think that's good," Sam says, finally, in exactly the same tone of voice he uses when checking the Impala's tires or reading through a newspaper, and Dean decides while Sam's rolling on the condom that if he's still sounding that together, just letting Sam fuck him probably isn't going to do it.
He shoves, until Sam's sitting back against the pillows, looking kind of confused, and then slides down onto him. Doing it in one easy motion is definitely for porn stars, because Sam's, okay, not anything close to what you'd call small - obviously a Winchester trait - but the look on his face when Dean sinks down is what Dean's been waiting for all fucking night.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean murmurs, against his jaw, trying not to grin, "you like that, baby?"
Dean's totally fucking with him, but Sam blushes a little deeper and catches his breath, like he's so turned on he doesn't know what to do with it. Dean files that away for further knowledge - and possibly blackmail - and shifts down, pulling Sam's hands to his hips, because he's been waiting all fucking night, and Sam needs to get this show on the road.
Dean kisses him, slick and hot and filthy, and Sam gets the damn idea and lifts his hips. Maybe the one benefit to Sam being so fucking huge is that he can do this, no problem. Dean can hit it with chicks, get his hips in tight and just thrust, but this is almost better - not that he'd admit it to Sam, ever - with Sam pressed up close and murmuring against his skin.
"God, Dean," Sam says, pulling down on Dean's hips a little to change the angle, until he's in deep and Dean can feel every inch of him.
"Come on," he manages, because jesus, Sam can go all night but Dean's never quite figured that one out, and Sam gets the idea and rocks up, putting a little thrust into it, and he hits just right.
Sam wraps a hand around his erection, rubbing his thumb all over the head, and it takes about ten seconds of that before Dean comes all over him. Sam makes a really embarrassing noise that Dean's definitely going to use for ammo later, when he can think again, and thrusts into him a couple more times before he stops breathing and comes with a soft gasp. His hands are tight against Dean's hips and from the look on his face, it maybe even hurts a little - Dean's done the three-or-four times in a row thing once or twice, and it's still good, but coming dry isn't exactly anything he'd label as fun.
Dean gives him a couple minutes before he eases off and takes care of the condom, and by the time he comes back with a washcloth, Sam's eyes are closed. He's moved maybe a total of one inch since he came, just enough to let his head fall back against the pillows, and Dean decides that the whole thing calls for a general celebration of just how awesome he is, because Sammy sure as hell isn't whining anymore.
"M'sorry," Sam says, blinking drowsily while Dean wipes them both off. "Just kinda tired."
"So go to sleep, dumbass," Dean says, giving Sam his best you're such an idiot look, perfected by years of dealing with gas station cashiers. Sam yawns and sinks down further, pulling the blankets up.
Dean waits until he's completely asleep to pull on jeans and head out the door for something to eat - probably pancakes, with a hell of a lot of syrup and a freakin' enormous side of bacon, because hell, it's not like he got any dinner, and he definitely deserves some kind of reward for a job well done.