FIC: anywhere except the mouth (Supernatural)
I just stumbled across this bit of half-written Wincest and decided to shine it up a tad and post it instead of doing my homework. (The Word file was named, inexplicably, "dwb1". I couldn't figure out what that stood for, despite the fact that I obviously named it. Dumb White Boys, maybe? I really don't recall.)
Oh, and uh, hi, new fandom! I think I mainly started writing this to see if I could write Wincest... and possibly because Sam Winchester stole my soul a little. So I must warn you this is rather pointless, and mainly exists as an experiment with new characters and narrative tone. Porn with a side of angst? Feedback, comments and constructive criticism always adored.
anywhere except the mouth
Sam/Dean. Explicit. 1,196 words. No spoilers; is tentatively set in early-to-mid-season one.
Sam's hair is sweaty and thick at the nape of his neck. Dean twists his fingers into the soggy strands of it, gives a tug, thinks Sammy needs a fucking haircut even as he's shuddering out his orgasm into Sam's tight grip.
"Mmph -" and Sam is breaking away from Dean's mouth, giving his head a shake. "You're pulling my hair. Get off me, dude."
"What, get off you before you get off?" Dean leers. He's wrung out from the handjob, his jizz smeared all over Sam's palm, but that doesn't stop him from sticking his own hands down Sam's pants. He ignores Sam's sudden inhale and muttered sonofabitch and gropes until he gets a good hold of Sammy Jr.
Sam bangs his head against the wall, and Dean grins sharply against Sam's neck. He's always been skilled at making his brother squirm.
Dean runs a hand over Sam's chest, pushing a little against his ribs and the hard edge of his collarbone. Sam's t-shirt is faded and belly-soft against Dean's fingers, the sweat in the fabric making the shirt stutter and skip across Sam's chest as Dean pushes it up, exposing the skin below. The t-shirt is loose and makes Sam look about fifteen, only adding to the look he's got set with the floppy hair.
For a moment, Dean remembers Sammy at fifteen, and it takes a glimpse of scarred skin and a well-muscled stomach for Dean to convince himself that any time has passed at all.
Sam grips Dean's forearms, not to stop him or direct him but just to have something to grasp. Dean knows where he's coming from, knows Sam's probably feeling that same tugging in his chest that drives Dean crazy, the kind that creeps up on you and pulls your heart out through your dick. Everything's too clear all of a sudden, means too much, and all Dean can do is keep pulling at Sam's cock and refuse to look him in the eye.
Sam lets out a strangled noise and folds forward, his mouth resting hot and open on Dean's forehead. Not really a kiss, but the exhalation of air makes Dean shiver, makes him light-headed. It's another couple seconds before he realizes his hand is wet with Sam's come. Sam is gripping his arms so tightly Dean knows he'll find bruises later.
"Easy," says Dean, and his voice doesn't come out in the tone he expects; it sounds gentle, and a little awestruck, and Jesus, that's not a 'just got laid' voice coming out of his mouth at all. That's something else entirely. That's something Sammy doesn't need to hear. Dean clears his throat, adds, "Dude, ease up, you're cutting off my circulation here."
"Yeah," Sam breathes, his voice gone ragged. "Yeah, man, sorry." It seems like Sam has to make a conscious effort to let go of Dean's arms, and Dean's skin tingles where the bloodflow comes running back.
Sam sags against the wall a little, leaning heavily, his long legs sticking out and knocking against Dean's ankles. His breath is still hot in Dean's face, making Dean wonder if he should back up a step, give his brother some room, but he can't really make himself move.
That doesn't stop Dean from jumping when Sam's hand finds its way to his neck. Sam's big long fingers tuck up under Dean's chin, his thumbnail resting against the bottom of Dean's lip. Sam's touch is gentle, like he's trying to make up for the handprints he's just left on Dean's skin. Dean blinks slowly at him.
"Dean," says Sam, and whoa, Dean can already tell from Sam's voice that this is going nowhere good. He jerks away from Sam's grasp and looks away, scanning the bland motel room for another point of interest. He tucks himself back into his jeans and tries to ignore Sam's annoyed, almost-hurt expression.
"Dean," Sam says again, his exasperation seeming to shine from every pore. "Jesus. I was just going to ask if you wanted to shower first."
Dean calls 'bullshit', but lets it slide. "I'll go first," he says instead, "I stink pretty bad."
Sam doesn't say anything, just gives him this weird look. Dean fights down the urge to pace. This is why they don't do this very often, this thing they do; every single time, Sam always gets really fucking weird for hours afterward. He always looks at Dean like he's expecting flowers, or like he's waiting for Dean to sprout horns or do the Macarena or something.
Dean hesitates a moment, then strips off his T-shirt, starting toward the shower. Sam makes a little huff of a noise and pushes off from the wall. He's right behind Dean in four long steps, reaching out to run a hand down Dean's spine. Dean stops dead and shivers.
"I'm covered in salt and ghost guts, man," says Sam, his voice just a little too casual. "I'm not gonna sit around and wait for your lazy ass to get out of the shower. I'm coming in with you."
Dean ducks his head, sends the floor a small, reluctant smile. "Ghosts don't have guts, Sammy."
"Sure they do," Sam says, and presses himself up against Dean's back. Dean reaches back automatically, his hand brushing that sweat-sweet cotton again before settling on Sam's hip.
"I," says Dean, and god, he doesn't know why this is so hard, it's just a fucking shower, except that Sam hasn't been around for four years and now Dean doesn't know where he is anymore, doesn't know where Sam's head is at, doesn't know why his own stomach is churning or why, after so long, he needs this so much.
Sam's hands grip his waist, large and solid on Dean's skin. Dean wonders if Sam will be up for another round in a few minutes. He wonders if Sam will leave more handprints, or if Sam will look at him too closely, or if Sam'll kiss him so deep that it'll make Dean want to die. Or throw up. Dean doesn’t know if he cares.
"Yeah?" says Sam, and Dean realizes that Sam's still waiting for an answer. There's really only one answer he can give.
"Yeah," says Dean. "I could share."
It's just a shower, but Dean feels like he's just served himself up on a huge silver platter, given himself over to Sam and whatever Sam wants (doesn't want), and his skin itches like he needs to scratch it all off. He closes his eyes and feels Sam's fingers hard and unrelenting on his hips.
Then Sam lets go; he steps around and dips Dean's head back with a light brush of lips to his forehead, unexpectedly gentle. Another light, playful kiss to Dean's mouth, a passing grope to Dean's crotch, and Dean blinks his eyes open just in time to catch a flash of Sam's wide grin as Sam breezes past him to the bathroom.
"You coming?" Sam calls over his shoulder.
Dean just stands there for a few good seconds. Then he shakes his head, calls himself ten kinds of idiot for more reasons than he can count, and goes to join his brother.
*
Oh, and uh, hi, new fandom! I think I mainly started writing this to see if I could write Wincest... and possibly because Sam Winchester stole my soul a little. So I must warn you this is rather pointless, and mainly exists as an experiment with new characters and narrative tone. Porn with a side of angst? Feedback, comments and constructive criticism always adored.
anywhere except the mouth
Sam/Dean. Explicit. 1,196 words. No spoilers; is tentatively set in early-to-mid-season one.
Sam's hair is sweaty and thick at the nape of his neck. Dean twists his fingers into the soggy strands of it, gives a tug, thinks Sammy needs a fucking haircut even as he's shuddering out his orgasm into Sam's tight grip.
"Mmph -" and Sam is breaking away from Dean's mouth, giving his head a shake. "You're pulling my hair. Get off me, dude."
"What, get off you before you get off?" Dean leers. He's wrung out from the handjob, his jizz smeared all over Sam's palm, but that doesn't stop him from sticking his own hands down Sam's pants. He ignores Sam's sudden inhale and muttered sonofabitch and gropes until he gets a good hold of Sammy Jr.
Sam bangs his head against the wall, and Dean grins sharply against Sam's neck. He's always been skilled at making his brother squirm.
Dean runs a hand over Sam's chest, pushing a little against his ribs and the hard edge of his collarbone. Sam's t-shirt is faded and belly-soft against Dean's fingers, the sweat in the fabric making the shirt stutter and skip across Sam's chest as Dean pushes it up, exposing the skin below. The t-shirt is loose and makes Sam look about fifteen, only adding to the look he's got set with the floppy hair.
For a moment, Dean remembers Sammy at fifteen, and it takes a glimpse of scarred skin and a well-muscled stomach for Dean to convince himself that any time has passed at all.
Sam grips Dean's forearms, not to stop him or direct him but just to have something to grasp. Dean knows where he's coming from, knows Sam's probably feeling that same tugging in his chest that drives Dean crazy, the kind that creeps up on you and pulls your heart out through your dick. Everything's too clear all of a sudden, means too much, and all Dean can do is keep pulling at Sam's cock and refuse to look him in the eye.
Sam lets out a strangled noise and folds forward, his mouth resting hot and open on Dean's forehead. Not really a kiss, but the exhalation of air makes Dean shiver, makes him light-headed. It's another couple seconds before he realizes his hand is wet with Sam's come. Sam is gripping his arms so tightly Dean knows he'll find bruises later.
"Easy," says Dean, and his voice doesn't come out in the tone he expects; it sounds gentle, and a little awestruck, and Jesus, that's not a 'just got laid' voice coming out of his mouth at all. That's something else entirely. That's something Sammy doesn't need to hear. Dean clears his throat, adds, "Dude, ease up, you're cutting off my circulation here."
"Yeah," Sam breathes, his voice gone ragged. "Yeah, man, sorry." It seems like Sam has to make a conscious effort to let go of Dean's arms, and Dean's skin tingles where the bloodflow comes running back.
Sam sags against the wall a little, leaning heavily, his long legs sticking out and knocking against Dean's ankles. His breath is still hot in Dean's face, making Dean wonder if he should back up a step, give his brother some room, but he can't really make himself move.
That doesn't stop Dean from jumping when Sam's hand finds its way to his neck. Sam's big long fingers tuck up under Dean's chin, his thumbnail resting against the bottom of Dean's lip. Sam's touch is gentle, like he's trying to make up for the handprints he's just left on Dean's skin. Dean blinks slowly at him.
"Dean," says Sam, and whoa, Dean can already tell from Sam's voice that this is going nowhere good. He jerks away from Sam's grasp and looks away, scanning the bland motel room for another point of interest. He tucks himself back into his jeans and tries to ignore Sam's annoyed, almost-hurt expression.
"Dean," Sam says again, his exasperation seeming to shine from every pore. "Jesus. I was just going to ask if you wanted to shower first."
Dean calls 'bullshit', but lets it slide. "I'll go first," he says instead, "I stink pretty bad."
Sam doesn't say anything, just gives him this weird look. Dean fights down the urge to pace. This is why they don't do this very often, this thing they do; every single time, Sam always gets really fucking weird for hours afterward. He always looks at Dean like he's expecting flowers, or like he's waiting for Dean to sprout horns or do the Macarena or something.
Dean hesitates a moment, then strips off his T-shirt, starting toward the shower. Sam makes a little huff of a noise and pushes off from the wall. He's right behind Dean in four long steps, reaching out to run a hand down Dean's spine. Dean stops dead and shivers.
"I'm covered in salt and ghost guts, man," says Sam, his voice just a little too casual. "I'm not gonna sit around and wait for your lazy ass to get out of the shower. I'm coming in with you."
Dean ducks his head, sends the floor a small, reluctant smile. "Ghosts don't have guts, Sammy."
"Sure they do," Sam says, and presses himself up against Dean's back. Dean reaches back automatically, his hand brushing that sweat-sweet cotton again before settling on Sam's hip.
"I," says Dean, and god, he doesn't know why this is so hard, it's just a fucking shower, except that Sam hasn't been around for four years and now Dean doesn't know where he is anymore, doesn't know where Sam's head is at, doesn't know why his own stomach is churning or why, after so long, he needs this so much.
Sam's hands grip his waist, large and solid on Dean's skin. Dean wonders if Sam will be up for another round in a few minutes. He wonders if Sam will leave more handprints, or if Sam will look at him too closely, or if Sam'll kiss him so deep that it'll make Dean want to die. Or throw up. Dean doesn’t know if he cares.
"Yeah?" says Sam, and Dean realizes that Sam's still waiting for an answer. There's really only one answer he can give.
"Yeah," says Dean. "I could share."
It's just a shower, but Dean feels like he's just served himself up on a huge silver platter, given himself over to Sam and whatever Sam wants (doesn't want), and his skin itches like he needs to scratch it all off. He closes his eyes and feels Sam's fingers hard and unrelenting on his hips.
Then Sam lets go; he steps around and dips Dean's head back with a light brush of lips to his forehead, unexpectedly gentle. Another light, playful kiss to Dean's mouth, a passing grope to Dean's crotch, and Dean blinks his eyes open just in time to catch a flash of Sam's wide grin as Sam breezes past him to the bathroom.
"You coming?" Sam calls over his shoulder.
Dean just stands there for a few good seconds. Then he shakes his head, calls himself ten kinds of idiot for more reasons than he can count, and goes to join his brother.
*