SPN: Bulletproof (Sam/Dean) NC17
Title: Bulletproof
Author: technosage
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: the usual, and incest, of course
Notes: I fail at porn and paragraphs this morning. I haven't slept, I'm drugged to the gills, but Dean wanted to talk about Sam when I looked at the prompt "discovery" in the porn-paragraph-a-thon. Flashfic, so corrections for typos appreciated.
For: giandujakiss
Summary: Sam has three bulletproof kinks, and Dean has one of his own.
Sam has three absolutely bulletproof kinks. They're just about as girly as you'd expect. But since they make his dick hard, his brain stop, and can cut through any kind of resistance in a heartbeat, Dean really couldn't give a flying fuck how girly they are.
Maybe it's a little weird, okay it is a little weird, that he remembers exactly how he discovered each of them. It's no weirder than Sam remembering random shit about the early Christian church or obscure demon lore from a trip to the Cloisters in New York once a million years ago. If you ask him over a couple of drinks, he'll tell you it says a lot about them, what they have memories for. If you ask him over a few more, he'll tell you it doesn't mean shit, because Sammy never forgets anything they've done together. He just holds the memories different.
Anyway, he remembers he learned the first kink in Guthrie, Oklahoma, where they met Andy, before all hell broke loose. Sam was sitting on the sidewalk staring into the abyss, that's how Dean thinks of it, when you get to feeling like nothing you can do will ever be enough. If you let it get to you, you'll tip over the edge and never stop falling unless someone gives you a hand out.
That's what he meant to do with Sam. Help him out of the abyss with a kind word and a brotherly touch. So he told Sam it wasn't his fault, messed up his hair -- all right, maybe he stroked it a little. The next thing he knew, Sam had his cheek pressed to Dean's hip and was staring up at him, eyes big and dark. Hungry, that's the word he used then and the word he uses now when he remembers. Starving, like he could swallow Dean with his eyes.
Later, when they got back to the hotel, he barely had the door closed and salted before Sam dropped to his knees. Dean probably should've asked him if he was all right, probably should've given him a hug. But that's not how they are together or how they make things right. He just buried his fist in Sam's hair and let Sam suck his dick.
What? He's a dude not some kind of a saint. Except, when Sam's fingers bruise his hips and his throat opens like a highway tunnel, Dean says enough oh gods and holy christs for any six of them.
The hand thing he should've realized a lot sooner than he did. Looking back, he can remember a dozen or more times Sam went zero to sixty in seconds on him, shoving him up against a wall or door or riding his mouth down to the bed. He can't exactly blame himself for not cluing in. Sam's prissy as a fourteen year-old girl in a brand-new white dress, but when the switch flips in his brain, the switch flips.
Boy's downright dirty when it comes to sex, purrs wicked filth in Dean's ears the whole time his dick's worked on up Dean's ass. Possessive little sonuvabitch, too, always sucking bruises in his throat, hips, inside his thigh, pretty much anywhere he can latch on to, including his ass cheeks. Not that Dean minds, he kind of likes being Sam's one true thing. Just don't tell Sam that.
Anyway, the hand thing he didn't actually figure out 'til Rivergrove, after the demon virus didn't kill Sam. When the lady doc came in to get them, to come see the all clear, Dean reached back and grabbed Sam's wrist. Hard. He remembers that like it was yesterday, the feel of Sam's bone, solid and sure under thin-soft skin and more strength than he usually gives Sam credit for. He'd been stronger than Dean wanted that day, ready to die alone, and there's no way, you know? Just no way Dean was going to let that happen. So Sam's pulse racing under his fingertips, it felt like God Himself came and plucked the two of them out of the abyss. It wasn't until Sam made a little mewing sound, like a hungry kitten, and crowded up against Dean's back that he put the pieces together.
Now, any time he wants to fuck with Sam - or get Sam to fuck him - Dean touches his hands. Fingertips on the back of one when Sam's talking too much, and his mouth stops making words that don't sound like Dean and yes. Thumb across the inside of Sam's palm while Dean's driving and he has to pull over or risk wrecking his baby, Sam's going down on him so fast.
The best way, though, is to take Sam's hand and twine their fingers together, hold it just like he would with a girl on a date. It's probably where most of the gay comments come from, him holding Sam's hand and Sam looking one-part lovesick puppy and one-part hunting wolf. Dean doesn't care most of the time. Sam's all he's got in this life anyway, and it's worth it for the way Sam comes apart the minute they're alone. It's worth it to be pressed between Sam's huge body and the bed, fucked into, nearly through the mattress.
The last one's a little harder for him, but every bit as worthwhile and, if he doesn't think too much about it, damned good for him too. See, Sammy's got a kink for kissing. It's not all that surprising, considering how they were raised. But a simple kiss to the forehead will reduce Sam to a shameless pleading puppy, eyes so soft it, truth told, tears Dean up a little. If he can bring himself to kiss Sam's mouth, when they're not already in the thick of it, Sam moans like a street-corner ass on rent. Dean knows, but he's not talking about how, not even with a few drinks in him.
He's always known Sam liked kissing, but it wasn't until the fancy dress shindig at the Sea Pines Maritime Museum, that Dean figured out just how much. Gertie was all over Sam's ass from the minute she picked him up. Baby brother did look fine in his tux, you know, but damn that old bat would not let up.
By halfway through the first hour, Sam looked damned near panicked. Dean caught his eye, cocked his head toward the men's room. Sam made whatever excuses he needed to, and two minutes later, Dean found him hanging over the sinks like he wanted to yark.
He put his hand in the middle of Sam's back, and when Sam glanced up, he just looked so damned miserable, it was like every time he'd ever nursed him through a cold or flu or gunshot wound. He couldn't help leaning in to press a kiss to his brow. Sam whimpered, he's not even kidding, then clutched at Dean's lapels like he was the last thing between Sam and the fires of -- like he was the last thing between Sam and the abyss.
Maybe it was just being touched so much by someone he didn't know - Sam's never liked that, not since he was a baby, can you blame him? Maybe Dean looked super-fly in his tux. Bela definitely thought so. But Dean's pretty sure the kiss had everything to do with why Sam needed him right now, wedged up against the inside of a bathroom stall and tuxedo pants only half unzipped.
All he knows is, Sam pulled and he went, and for the next three minutes, there was nothing but his fist slipping messy-hard and fast over Sam's dick. Sam branding his palm with desperate heat and painting it with jizz. His other hand curled around the back of Sam's neck while Sam cried out his release, lips open-pressed to Dean's.
Now when he needs Sam to settle, wants him to come, or just wants to tell him he gets it, Dean shuts down the part of his brain that says it's no harm done so long as they're just messing around. It's nothing, if they don't say the words that way or act like a couple. Dean turns that off, same way Sam turns sex on, and kisses Sam sweet, deep and long. Sam melts into him, and maybe he falls into Sam a little, and everything slows down enough to where they can breathe - before it speeds up again, heats up, and they can't breathe, for the right reasons this time.
Sam has three bulletproof kinks. Dean's hands in his hair, holding hands, and kissing. And, yeah, it's like living a chick flick sometimes. Thing is, Dean's got his own kink, and it's Sam, needing him. So whatever Sam wants, it's worth it.
Author: technosage
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: the usual, and incest, of course
Notes: I fail at porn and paragraphs this morning. I haven't slept, I'm drugged to the gills, but Dean wanted to talk about Sam when I looked at the prompt "discovery" in the porn-paragraph-a-thon. Flashfic, so corrections for typos appreciated.
For: giandujakiss
Summary: Sam has three bulletproof kinks, and Dean has one of his own.
Sam has three absolutely bulletproof kinks. They're just about as girly as you'd expect. But since they make his dick hard, his brain stop, and can cut through any kind of resistance in a heartbeat, Dean really couldn't give a flying fuck how girly they are.
Maybe it's a little weird, okay it is a little weird, that he remembers exactly how he discovered each of them. It's no weirder than Sam remembering random shit about the early Christian church or obscure demon lore from a trip to the Cloisters in New York once a million years ago. If you ask him over a couple of drinks, he'll tell you it says a lot about them, what they have memories for. If you ask him over a few more, he'll tell you it doesn't mean shit, because Sammy never forgets anything they've done together. He just holds the memories different.
Anyway, he remembers he learned the first kink in Guthrie, Oklahoma, where they met Andy, before all hell broke loose. Sam was sitting on the sidewalk staring into the abyss, that's how Dean thinks of it, when you get to feeling like nothing you can do will ever be enough. If you let it get to you, you'll tip over the edge and never stop falling unless someone gives you a hand out.
That's what he meant to do with Sam. Help him out of the abyss with a kind word and a brotherly touch. So he told Sam it wasn't his fault, messed up his hair -- all right, maybe he stroked it a little. The next thing he knew, Sam had his cheek pressed to Dean's hip and was staring up at him, eyes big and dark. Hungry, that's the word he used then and the word he uses now when he remembers. Starving, like he could swallow Dean with his eyes.
Later, when they got back to the hotel, he barely had the door closed and salted before Sam dropped to his knees. Dean probably should've asked him if he was all right, probably should've given him a hug. But that's not how they are together or how they make things right. He just buried his fist in Sam's hair and let Sam suck his dick.
What? He's a dude not some kind of a saint. Except, when Sam's fingers bruise his hips and his throat opens like a highway tunnel, Dean says enough oh gods and holy christs for any six of them.
The hand thing he should've realized a lot sooner than he did. Looking back, he can remember a dozen or more times Sam went zero to sixty in seconds on him, shoving him up against a wall or door or riding his mouth down to the bed. He can't exactly blame himself for not cluing in. Sam's prissy as a fourteen year-old girl in a brand-new white dress, but when the switch flips in his brain, the switch flips.
Boy's downright dirty when it comes to sex, purrs wicked filth in Dean's ears the whole time his dick's worked on up Dean's ass. Possessive little sonuvabitch, too, always sucking bruises in his throat, hips, inside his thigh, pretty much anywhere he can latch on to, including his ass cheeks. Not that Dean minds, he kind of likes being Sam's one true thing. Just don't tell Sam that.
Anyway, the hand thing he didn't actually figure out 'til Rivergrove, after the demon virus didn't kill Sam. When the lady doc came in to get them, to come see the all clear, Dean reached back and grabbed Sam's wrist. Hard. He remembers that like it was yesterday, the feel of Sam's bone, solid and sure under thin-soft skin and more strength than he usually gives Sam credit for. He'd been stronger than Dean wanted that day, ready to die alone, and there's no way, you know? Just no way Dean was going to let that happen. So Sam's pulse racing under his fingertips, it felt like God Himself came and plucked the two of them out of the abyss. It wasn't until Sam made a little mewing sound, like a hungry kitten, and crowded up against Dean's back that he put the pieces together.
Now, any time he wants to fuck with Sam - or get Sam to fuck him - Dean touches his hands. Fingertips on the back of one when Sam's talking too much, and his mouth stops making words that don't sound like Dean and yes. Thumb across the inside of Sam's palm while Dean's driving and he has to pull over or risk wrecking his baby, Sam's going down on him so fast.
The best way, though, is to take Sam's hand and twine their fingers together, hold it just like he would with a girl on a date. It's probably where most of the gay comments come from, him holding Sam's hand and Sam looking one-part lovesick puppy and one-part hunting wolf. Dean doesn't care most of the time. Sam's all he's got in this life anyway, and it's worth it for the way Sam comes apart the minute they're alone. It's worth it to be pressed between Sam's huge body and the bed, fucked into, nearly through the mattress.
The last one's a little harder for him, but every bit as worthwhile and, if he doesn't think too much about it, damned good for him too. See, Sammy's got a kink for kissing. It's not all that surprising, considering how they were raised. But a simple kiss to the forehead will reduce Sam to a shameless pleading puppy, eyes so soft it, truth told, tears Dean up a little. If he can bring himself to kiss Sam's mouth, when they're not already in the thick of it, Sam moans like a street-corner ass on rent. Dean knows, but he's not talking about how, not even with a few drinks in him.
He's always known Sam liked kissing, but it wasn't until the fancy dress shindig at the Sea Pines Maritime Museum, that Dean figured out just how much. Gertie was all over Sam's ass from the minute she picked him up. Baby brother did look fine in his tux, you know, but damn that old bat would not let up.
By halfway through the first hour, Sam looked damned near panicked. Dean caught his eye, cocked his head toward the men's room. Sam made whatever excuses he needed to, and two minutes later, Dean found him hanging over the sinks like he wanted to yark.
He put his hand in the middle of Sam's back, and when Sam glanced up, he just looked so damned miserable, it was like every time he'd ever nursed him through a cold or flu or gunshot wound. He couldn't help leaning in to press a kiss to his brow. Sam whimpered, he's not even kidding, then clutched at Dean's lapels like he was the last thing between Sam and the fires of -- like he was the last thing between Sam and the abyss.
Maybe it was just being touched so much by someone he didn't know - Sam's never liked that, not since he was a baby, can you blame him? Maybe Dean looked super-fly in his tux. Bela definitely thought so. But Dean's pretty sure the kiss had everything to do with why Sam needed him right now, wedged up against the inside of a bathroom stall and tuxedo pants only half unzipped.
All he knows is, Sam pulled and he went, and for the next three minutes, there was nothing but his fist slipping messy-hard and fast over Sam's dick. Sam branding his palm with desperate heat and painting it with jizz. His other hand curled around the back of Sam's neck while Sam cried out his release, lips open-pressed to Dean's.
Now when he needs Sam to settle, wants him to come, or just wants to tell him he gets it, Dean shuts down the part of his brain that says it's no harm done so long as they're just messing around. It's nothing, if they don't say the words that way or act like a couple. Dean turns that off, same way Sam turns sex on, and kisses Sam sweet, deep and long. Sam melts into him, and maybe he falls into Sam a little, and everything slows down enough to where they can breathe - before it speeds up again, heats up, and they can't breathe, for the right reasons this time.
Sam has three bulletproof kinks. Dean's hands in his hair, holding hands, and kissing. And, yeah, it's like living a chick flick sometimes. Thing is, Dean's got his own kink, and it's Sam, needing him. So whatever Sam wants, it's worth it.