Fic: "Shhh" (Sam/Dean, NC-17) (angst-free)
Holy cow. It's fic. o_O Smutty fic, even!
Title: Shhh
Rating: NC-17. Quite so.
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Word Count: 2500
Setting: Pre-series
A/N/Warnings: Teenchesters, come play, boys being boys.
Summary: Shhh. Don't make a sound.
Every now and then Dean gets in these moods where everything changes. Usually he's the one looking over his shoulder, telling him to keep it down, Sammy, jeez and checking to make sure doors are locked and neither floors nor beds squeak.
Makes Sam want to roll his eyes clear out of his head, because seriously, Dean knows better. Easiest way to rouse suspicions is to act like you're doing something wrong.
Sam wakes to the tiniest of sounds fraying away his dreams and bringing him groggily to the surface. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. It's irritating, like a fly buzzing around his face, and too persistent, like an over-full bladder, to let him ignore it and go back to sleep. He flops on his side to squint at the bright digital numbers on the clock and groans when he sees it's three-thirty in the morning. He and Dean have to get up anyway in an hour and a half to run PT drills and it's fucking freezing outside and it's not fair. He huffs and thumps his pillow with one skinny fist.
And as he's trying to stuff the pillow double under his head, he sees Dean across the way in the other twin bed, tapping the wall with his thumbnail. Tap-tap-tap, watching Sam, a flash of white grin in the darkness.
Sam grimaces at him. "Real funny, Dean."
Dean smirks and raises one shoulder. He doesn't stop tapping.
"Cut it out, asshole!"
Tap. Tap. Tap. Dean's eyebrow quirks to match the lift of his shoulder and the tilt of his grin. Cocky, cocksure, the way he still looks at pretty waitresses and hotel clerks so they don't blow their cover, but never -- almost never -- at Sam.
Sam's not dumb. He knows a dare when he sees one. He also knows Bobby has ears like a bloodhound and Dad's not asleep; he can hear both of them rumbling over old books and maps and a sundial sort of thing older than either of them can be sure of.
Dean snorted his Pepsi when he heard the name for the weird bronze contraption and Sam had wanted to die a little.
"Astrolabe, not labia," he'd hissed, embarrassed half to death by Dean snickering, and then doubly so when Dad and Bobby tried not to chuckle. Dean knuckled Sam's head and called him a geek. Jerk.
Sam points in the direction of the quiet conversation, not three doors down, wafting its way down to them on the smells of beer and whiskey and dog. A curl of want has already taken sharp hold and made his stomach ache, his dick hardening against his leg, but damn it, no way. Too risky. He shakes his head.
Chicken? Dean mouths, Sam's eyes adjusted just well enough to the darkness to be able to read his lips. Dean licks those lips and ups the ante by sweeping back the wash-worn Army blanket tangled up around him, and scoots back so there's enough room for Sam to join him. He pats the empty span of sheets as if Sam's slow and needs it spelled out for him.
Sam's hesitantly reaching for the edge of his blanket to pull it off and slip across the empty space when Dad laughs over something, Bobby joining in. "Always did know more than was good for you," Dad rumbles.
Sam snaps back in place. NO.
C'mon, Sammy. Do it for me. Dean props himself on his elbow -- at least he's stopped that tapping -- and skims his hand up his chest, pushing his faded concert T-shirt out of the way. The black cotton moving forms shadows on his skin, so pale underneath, soft and hard and ridged with muscles from sit-ups and scars both old and new.
Sam's lips part on a whimper. I hate you.
Dean chuckles, no louder a sound than the tapping of his nail. Yeah, I know you do. He strokes the bed the way he does Sam's ass, when he's in this mood, slow and hot and like he's got all night long if he wants. There's a dark light in him that Sam never hardly ever sees even when it's them, naked and sweaty together hiding in the secret places and where no one else would think to go. It's scary and it's awesome and Sam's hard enough that he thinks he might actually burst if he even moves an inch.
Dean looks at him, eats Sam up with his eyes. Sam didn't wear a T-shirt to bed, his cut-off gray sweats worn almost thin enough to be underwear, and he knows they don't hide a thing.
Sam hesitates. He'll embarrass himself if he goes but he'll die if he stays and there go Dad and Bobby again, cracking up over some stupid grownup joke, probably astrolabia again. They're walking around, or one of them is, heavy boots going thump-thump-thump on the floorboards.
Dean hears them too. He tilts his head in the direction of the noises, runs his tongue over his teeth, and leans back, displaying himself like a feast. One finger over his lips. Shhh.
He's hard, his faded jockeys don't hide it any better than Sam's sweats do, and he's proud like he always is, like he knows his cock is the best thing on earth. He cups himself, rolling his balls slow and lazy, and when the jostling makes the dark head of his dick poke out above the elastic waist of his jockeys that's it, that's all Sam can take, and fuck anyone who could blame him.
Gonna get you back for this, he mouths, moving awkwardly as he wriggles out of bed and takes careful steps, testing each foothold for a creak or a squeak before he puts his weight down.
Dean waits until Sam's sliding into bed with him, under the blanket that's warm and smells of Dean, before he whispers hot and moist in Sam's ear, "Looking forward to it."
Sam shudders. Dean's everywhere, arm around his waist, then his shoulders, then tipping Sam's head up so he can slant their mouths together. Good, oh God, it's good. Sam's heart hammers in his chest so loud he thinks he knows someone can hear them, and he's sure they will when he whines. Sam can't keep quiet when Dean does that thing with his tongue, curling it up to tickle the roof of Sam's mouth, and Dean knows it too, the jerk--
"Shhh," Dean breathes, his lips on Sam's lips, passing the word in on the tip of his tongue. "Don't want them to hear, do you?"
Sam bites Dean's lip too hard as payback. He sort of does and sort of doesn't regret it when Dean's eyes light up with a dark kind of fire and he rolls, Sam underneath him now, pinned down by strong arms and legs.
"Let me go," Sam whispers, to see what Dean'll do.
Dean doesn't bother answering. He's too hungry, something urging him on, maybe he's just horny or maybe it's Sam who does this to him, and it makes Sam feel dizzy and ten feet tall and so much older than he is now that it's crazy. Dean's breath is too warm, burning the thin, sensitive skin over Sam's throat as he moves down, down, down.
When Sam locks his ankles around Dean's back and lifts up, rubbing his cock against Dean's, the sound of Dean's stifled swearword is a sweet one. "Payback," he says, no louder than a sigh, pinching Dean in the side.
"Yeah, you think so." Dean takes Sam by the hips, practiced and easy; he already knew how to do this before he and Sam started one hot Georgia night because it'd been too much for too long and fuck it all, it was just them and they weren't hurting anyone. He lifts Sam up as he rises, settling on his haunches and balancing Sam on his lap, his arm around Sam and his hand splayed between Sam's shoulder blades to keep him steady. "Who's boss now?"
Sam bristles. "Like hell you--oh, God--" Dean's rolled his hips, Sam rising and falling with him, their stiff dicks rubbing tight together between their bellies. He's so hard, so crazy for it that he can't see straight, can barely see at all through his hair in his eyes and Dean's mouth close enough to his to kiss.
"Shhh," Dean says. He hooks Sam's dick out, and his own, and teases him by just barely rubbing them together, too light a stroke to do more good than make him go wild. He licks Sam's small noises that he can't keep back out of his mouth, kneads his back and rises and falls. It's like being on the ocean, better than, lifting with a breath in and falling with a breath out.
Sam's whimpering, can't stop, and Dean's hand is across his lips then instead of his mouth. Dean's fist is wrapped around both Sam's dick and his own, grinding them together and jerking them hard, no mercy. Harder than Sam's used to, bringing all his strength to bear and his calluses into play and it hurts so good Sam never wants it to stop.
Sam's head falls forward, butting Dean's shoulder. He sinks his teeth into flesh, breaking the skin and tasting blood; blood's flavor is iron, like nails, not copper, and the rest of him is salty sweat and Dean. Dean hisses, arching up. He likes going slow, loves tormenting Sam until Sam's going insane for it, but Sam doesn't beg. Dean always gives in. He did when they started, when Sam wriggled between Dean's legs to lick Dean's hard-on while they were waiting in the dark for a stolen midnight fill-up at a country gas station. He can still feel Dean's yank at his hair, sharp-prickling pain, then the push on his shoulders that didn't work, and then the way he thrust up, gagging Sam.
He wants to do that again and tries to fight his way out but Dean's stronger than him and using it now. Dean loosens his grip and drags Sam up to kiss him, their teeth clicking together. Now it's Sam's own blood he tastes and Dean licks it off, out, curling around his tongue.
Outside, Bobby says something about letting the dogs out before they get to bed. Dad says he ought to check on the boys, and Sam's thumping heart is tinny in his ears. His cock jumps, slippery enough in Dean's grip to slide forward and trail sticky streaks over Dean's stomach.
Quiet for me, Dean says, soundless in a kiss that goes on forever, pumping their cocks slippery-wet together. Shhh.
"Can't," Sam says with a gasp. He grinds his teeth together and humps Dean's hand for all he's worth. So close, God, he's so close, and he doesn't care if it's no time at all because he can go again, and again if he wants, and he does. Dean can make him, if Dean wants, or he can take what he wants because when Dean's not bossing him around. Dean loves it, eats it up the way he slurps down Sam's come when Sam fucks his mouth and Sam wants that next, he wants his dick in Dean's ass and he's grunting down, unh, unh, unh noises that Dean swallows.
It's relief and it's torture for him when Sam goes stiff, rising higher than he can come back from and he doesn't want to. Dean's tapping-nail presses his piss-slit open and catches the spunk spilling over his palm, what he can of it, too much not to run over the sides and drip down over them.
Dean rubs Sam's back through it, Sam spurting like he'll never stop, his balls wrung-dry and hurting sharp and his breath ragged gasps. He still can't think -- can't see -- can't move -- but Dean fumbles Sam to his dick one-handed, the other cupping a palmful of Sam's jizz, and sucks up a mark on Sam's collarbone, worrying his teeth hard enough to leave a mark that'll be dark purple, nearly black by this time tomorrow. He rides his cock down through the clench of Sam's thighs, friction-burning through Sam's sweats. The heavy tread of boots passes by the door to the room where they're supposed to be sleeping and Dean jerks and shudders and comes in thicker, creamier ropes that take Sam from soaked to sodden.
Sam falls forward like a puppet with the strings cut, drawing air in through his nose because it's quieter. He hurts in stinging places from throat to groin and he's half-hard again, his dick squelching in the come.
"Shhh," Dean murmurs as the boots pass by once more. He lifts his hand to Sam's mouth and smears Sam's come and his own, mixed together and already cool but salty-sweet, over Sam's lips. Sam sticks out his tongue and licks Dean's palm, taking in a mouthful and rolling it across his tongue. Dean jerks like he wants to come again and feeds Sam the rest. Sam swallows down every drop he can clean off with his tongue, sucks Dean's fingers, and they're hard again, forehead pressed to forehead, shaking apart one next to the other.
He's back in his bed, eyes shut, turned on his side away from the door when it opens a crack and he smells Bobby's books rather than Dad's gun oil. "Damn," Bobby says.
Dad's right behind him, cordite and metal. "They up to no good?"
"Naw," Bobby says, shutting the door soundless as he can. "Smells kinda ripe, is all. Boys will be boys."
"Ripe, how?" Dad's tone sharpens. "Dean doesn't have a girl in there, does he? Wring his neck if he does. Sam's too damn young to see that kind of--"
"Like Dean'd do such a thing," Bobby scoffs. "Like he don't think the sun rises and sets on Sam. Naw. You remember what it was like, John, getting worked up when the breeze hit you right."
Sam wants to die all over again.
"Leave 'em be, it's just natural. Go on now and get some sleep."
Dad mumbles something, Sam can't tell what. Then he's gone, and so is Bobby, though Bobby lingers longer than Dad. Sam's not sure why but he thinks Bobby might suspect something. If he did then he lied, and Sam doesn't get it, but he's relieved. Bobby gets stuff, the why and how of it, more than Dad, and not for the first time Sam wishes they could stay instead of go but it'd kill Dean to stay, so.
He waits for the house to fall quiet save for the sounds of dogs' whuffling snores, then cracks his eyes open a slit.
Dean's watching him from the other bed, a spit-and-come sticky finger pressed to his lips, his teeth white and his grin wicked. That's my boy, he mouths in the darkness.
Sam pushes back the blanket and shows Dean the empty stretch of bed where there's lots of room. Again.
This time, Dean comes to him.
Title: Shhh
Rating: NC-17. Quite so.
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Word Count: 2500
Setting: Pre-series
A/N/Warnings: Teenchesters, come play, boys being boys.
Summary: Shhh. Don't make a sound.
Every now and then Dean gets in these moods where everything changes. Usually he's the one looking over his shoulder, telling him to keep it down, Sammy, jeez and checking to make sure doors are locked and neither floors nor beds squeak.
Makes Sam want to roll his eyes clear out of his head, because seriously, Dean knows better. Easiest way to rouse suspicions is to act like you're doing something wrong.
Sam wakes to the tiniest of sounds fraying away his dreams and bringing him groggily to the surface. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. It's irritating, like a fly buzzing around his face, and too persistent, like an over-full bladder, to let him ignore it and go back to sleep. He flops on his side to squint at the bright digital numbers on the clock and groans when he sees it's three-thirty in the morning. He and Dean have to get up anyway in an hour and a half to run PT drills and it's fucking freezing outside and it's not fair. He huffs and thumps his pillow with one skinny fist.
And as he's trying to stuff the pillow double under his head, he sees Dean across the way in the other twin bed, tapping the wall with his thumbnail. Tap-tap-tap, watching Sam, a flash of white grin in the darkness.
Sam grimaces at him. "Real funny, Dean."
Dean smirks and raises one shoulder. He doesn't stop tapping.
"Cut it out, asshole!"
Tap. Tap. Tap. Dean's eyebrow quirks to match the lift of his shoulder and the tilt of his grin. Cocky, cocksure, the way he still looks at pretty waitresses and hotel clerks so they don't blow their cover, but never -- almost never -- at Sam.
Sam's not dumb. He knows a dare when he sees one. He also knows Bobby has ears like a bloodhound and Dad's not asleep; he can hear both of them rumbling over old books and maps and a sundial sort of thing older than either of them can be sure of.
Dean snorted his Pepsi when he heard the name for the weird bronze contraption and Sam had wanted to die a little.
"Astrolabe, not labia," he'd hissed, embarrassed half to death by Dean snickering, and then doubly so when Dad and Bobby tried not to chuckle. Dean knuckled Sam's head and called him a geek. Jerk.
Sam points in the direction of the quiet conversation, not three doors down, wafting its way down to them on the smells of beer and whiskey and dog. A curl of want has already taken sharp hold and made his stomach ache, his dick hardening against his leg, but damn it, no way. Too risky. He shakes his head.
Chicken? Dean mouths, Sam's eyes adjusted just well enough to the darkness to be able to read his lips. Dean licks those lips and ups the ante by sweeping back the wash-worn Army blanket tangled up around him, and scoots back so there's enough room for Sam to join him. He pats the empty span of sheets as if Sam's slow and needs it spelled out for him.
Sam's hesitantly reaching for the edge of his blanket to pull it off and slip across the empty space when Dad laughs over something, Bobby joining in. "Always did know more than was good for you," Dad rumbles.
Sam snaps back in place. NO.
C'mon, Sammy. Do it for me. Dean props himself on his elbow -- at least he's stopped that tapping -- and skims his hand up his chest, pushing his faded concert T-shirt out of the way. The black cotton moving forms shadows on his skin, so pale underneath, soft and hard and ridged with muscles from sit-ups and scars both old and new.
Sam's lips part on a whimper. I hate you.
Dean chuckles, no louder a sound than the tapping of his nail. Yeah, I know you do. He strokes the bed the way he does Sam's ass, when he's in this mood, slow and hot and like he's got all night long if he wants. There's a dark light in him that Sam never hardly ever sees even when it's them, naked and sweaty together hiding in the secret places and where no one else would think to go. It's scary and it's awesome and Sam's hard enough that he thinks he might actually burst if he even moves an inch.
Dean looks at him, eats Sam up with his eyes. Sam didn't wear a T-shirt to bed, his cut-off gray sweats worn almost thin enough to be underwear, and he knows they don't hide a thing.
Sam hesitates. He'll embarrass himself if he goes but he'll die if he stays and there go Dad and Bobby again, cracking up over some stupid grownup joke, probably astrolabia again. They're walking around, or one of them is, heavy boots going thump-thump-thump on the floorboards.
Dean hears them too. He tilts his head in the direction of the noises, runs his tongue over his teeth, and leans back, displaying himself like a feast. One finger over his lips. Shhh.
He's hard, his faded jockeys don't hide it any better than Sam's sweats do, and he's proud like he always is, like he knows his cock is the best thing on earth. He cups himself, rolling his balls slow and lazy, and when the jostling makes the dark head of his dick poke out above the elastic waist of his jockeys that's it, that's all Sam can take, and fuck anyone who could blame him.
Gonna get you back for this, he mouths, moving awkwardly as he wriggles out of bed and takes careful steps, testing each foothold for a creak or a squeak before he puts his weight down.
Dean waits until Sam's sliding into bed with him, under the blanket that's warm and smells of Dean, before he whispers hot and moist in Sam's ear, "Looking forward to it."
Sam shudders. Dean's everywhere, arm around his waist, then his shoulders, then tipping Sam's head up so he can slant their mouths together. Good, oh God, it's good. Sam's heart hammers in his chest so loud he thinks he knows someone can hear them, and he's sure they will when he whines. Sam can't keep quiet when Dean does that thing with his tongue, curling it up to tickle the roof of Sam's mouth, and Dean knows it too, the jerk--
"Shhh," Dean breathes, his lips on Sam's lips, passing the word in on the tip of his tongue. "Don't want them to hear, do you?"
Sam bites Dean's lip too hard as payback. He sort of does and sort of doesn't regret it when Dean's eyes light up with a dark kind of fire and he rolls, Sam underneath him now, pinned down by strong arms and legs.
"Let me go," Sam whispers, to see what Dean'll do.
Dean doesn't bother answering. He's too hungry, something urging him on, maybe he's just horny or maybe it's Sam who does this to him, and it makes Sam feel dizzy and ten feet tall and so much older than he is now that it's crazy. Dean's breath is too warm, burning the thin, sensitive skin over Sam's throat as he moves down, down, down.
When Sam locks his ankles around Dean's back and lifts up, rubbing his cock against Dean's, the sound of Dean's stifled swearword is a sweet one. "Payback," he says, no louder than a sigh, pinching Dean in the side.
"Yeah, you think so." Dean takes Sam by the hips, practiced and easy; he already knew how to do this before he and Sam started one hot Georgia night because it'd been too much for too long and fuck it all, it was just them and they weren't hurting anyone. He lifts Sam up as he rises, settling on his haunches and balancing Sam on his lap, his arm around Sam and his hand splayed between Sam's shoulder blades to keep him steady. "Who's boss now?"
Sam bristles. "Like hell you--oh, God--" Dean's rolled his hips, Sam rising and falling with him, their stiff dicks rubbing tight together between their bellies. He's so hard, so crazy for it that he can't see straight, can barely see at all through his hair in his eyes and Dean's mouth close enough to his to kiss.
"Shhh," Dean says. He hooks Sam's dick out, and his own, and teases him by just barely rubbing them together, too light a stroke to do more good than make him go wild. He licks Sam's small noises that he can't keep back out of his mouth, kneads his back and rises and falls. It's like being on the ocean, better than, lifting with a breath in and falling with a breath out.
Sam's whimpering, can't stop, and Dean's hand is across his lips then instead of his mouth. Dean's fist is wrapped around both Sam's dick and his own, grinding them together and jerking them hard, no mercy. Harder than Sam's used to, bringing all his strength to bear and his calluses into play and it hurts so good Sam never wants it to stop.
Sam's head falls forward, butting Dean's shoulder. He sinks his teeth into flesh, breaking the skin and tasting blood; blood's flavor is iron, like nails, not copper, and the rest of him is salty sweat and Dean. Dean hisses, arching up. He likes going slow, loves tormenting Sam until Sam's going insane for it, but Sam doesn't beg. Dean always gives in. He did when they started, when Sam wriggled between Dean's legs to lick Dean's hard-on while they were waiting in the dark for a stolen midnight fill-up at a country gas station. He can still feel Dean's yank at his hair, sharp-prickling pain, then the push on his shoulders that didn't work, and then the way he thrust up, gagging Sam.
He wants to do that again and tries to fight his way out but Dean's stronger than him and using it now. Dean loosens his grip and drags Sam up to kiss him, their teeth clicking together. Now it's Sam's own blood he tastes and Dean licks it off, out, curling around his tongue.
Outside, Bobby says something about letting the dogs out before they get to bed. Dad says he ought to check on the boys, and Sam's thumping heart is tinny in his ears. His cock jumps, slippery enough in Dean's grip to slide forward and trail sticky streaks over Dean's stomach.
Quiet for me, Dean says, soundless in a kiss that goes on forever, pumping their cocks slippery-wet together. Shhh.
"Can't," Sam says with a gasp. He grinds his teeth together and humps Dean's hand for all he's worth. So close, God, he's so close, and he doesn't care if it's no time at all because he can go again, and again if he wants, and he does. Dean can make him, if Dean wants, or he can take what he wants because when Dean's not bossing him around. Dean loves it, eats it up the way he slurps down Sam's come when Sam fucks his mouth and Sam wants that next, he wants his dick in Dean's ass and he's grunting down, unh, unh, unh noises that Dean swallows.
It's relief and it's torture for him when Sam goes stiff, rising higher than he can come back from and he doesn't want to. Dean's tapping-nail presses his piss-slit open and catches the spunk spilling over his palm, what he can of it, too much not to run over the sides and drip down over them.
Dean rubs Sam's back through it, Sam spurting like he'll never stop, his balls wrung-dry and hurting sharp and his breath ragged gasps. He still can't think -- can't see -- can't move -- but Dean fumbles Sam to his dick one-handed, the other cupping a palmful of Sam's jizz, and sucks up a mark on Sam's collarbone, worrying his teeth hard enough to leave a mark that'll be dark purple, nearly black by this time tomorrow. He rides his cock down through the clench of Sam's thighs, friction-burning through Sam's sweats. The heavy tread of boots passes by the door to the room where they're supposed to be sleeping and Dean jerks and shudders and comes in thicker, creamier ropes that take Sam from soaked to sodden.
Sam falls forward like a puppet with the strings cut, drawing air in through his nose because it's quieter. He hurts in stinging places from throat to groin and he's half-hard again, his dick squelching in the come.
"Shhh," Dean murmurs as the boots pass by once more. He lifts his hand to Sam's mouth and smears Sam's come and his own, mixed together and already cool but salty-sweet, over Sam's lips. Sam sticks out his tongue and licks Dean's palm, taking in a mouthful and rolling it across his tongue. Dean jerks like he wants to come again and feeds Sam the rest. Sam swallows down every drop he can clean off with his tongue, sucks Dean's fingers, and they're hard again, forehead pressed to forehead, shaking apart one next to the other.
He's back in his bed, eyes shut, turned on his side away from the door when it opens a crack and he smells Bobby's books rather than Dad's gun oil. "Damn," Bobby says.
Dad's right behind him, cordite and metal. "They up to no good?"
"Naw," Bobby says, shutting the door soundless as he can. "Smells kinda ripe, is all. Boys will be boys."
"Ripe, how?" Dad's tone sharpens. "Dean doesn't have a girl in there, does he? Wring his neck if he does. Sam's too damn young to see that kind of--"
"Like Dean'd do such a thing," Bobby scoffs. "Like he don't think the sun rises and sets on Sam. Naw. You remember what it was like, John, getting worked up when the breeze hit you right."
Sam wants to die all over again.
"Leave 'em be, it's just natural. Go on now and get some sleep."
Dad mumbles something, Sam can't tell what. Then he's gone, and so is Bobby, though Bobby lingers longer than Dad. Sam's not sure why but he thinks Bobby might suspect something. If he did then he lied, and Sam doesn't get it, but he's relieved. Bobby gets stuff, the why and how of it, more than Dad, and not for the first time Sam wishes they could stay instead of go but it'd kill Dean to stay, so.
He waits for the house to fall quiet save for the sounds of dogs' whuffling snores, then cracks his eyes open a slit.
Dean's watching him from the other bed, a spit-and-come sticky finger pressed to his lips, his teeth white and his grin wicked. That's my boy, he mouths in the darkness.
Sam pushes back the blanket and shows Dean the empty stretch of bed where there's lots of room. Again.
This time, Dean comes to him.