Exchange Fic: "Adapt + Improvise = Awesome (Who's the King?)" (Sam/Dean, R)
Title: Adapt + Improvise = Awesome (Who's the King?)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R (lots of innuendo but alas, no actual sex)
Warnings: Teenchesters
Notes: For mickeym in the spn-j2-xmas fic exchange, with the prompts of teenaged Sam/Dean, confident Dean, and playfulness.
Dean's frying sausage patties, thick-cut and greasy, in the middle of turning them over in the pan when the bedroom door opens and Sam stumbles out. Sam, bangs trailing over his face, rubbing his eyes, yawning, sweatpants barely hanging on by the cut of his hipbones. Half-hard beneath them, not like that's unusual these days. Puberty's sunk its teeth in Sam and Dean remembers what it's like, getting stiff when the breeze blows the right way.
Then again, he didn't have anything near as good to motivate his chronic hard-on back in the day as Sam does, heh-heh.
"Morning, sunshine!" he bellows for the fun of watching Sam grimace. Not often he's awake before Sam and he's gonna make the most of it.
Speaking of which, when Sam's legal they've gotta do some serious work on his tolerance because damn, the Winchesters have a reputation to maintain. His fault for getting so involved in the game he didn't notice Sam sneaking sips of his beer before the bottle was mostly gone and he'd only had one good satisfying swig. He'd had other plans for Sam, too, ones involving illegal fireworks at midnight and something else really wicked outside that they could get arrested for. Maybe rimming. He hasn't tried that one yet with Sam but damn, he's a kinky little sonofabitch. Dean bets he'd love it.
Instead, he got a Sam that giggled like a loon, swore his undying love for Lance Bass--which is an insult to Dean's honor when Dean's the one Sam's fucking--and fell down, snoring before he hit the floor. He drooled on Dean's shoulder until Dean considered smothering him with a pillow, then figured that'd be a turn-off.
Payback is not only fair, it's fun. Dean wafts the pan in Sam's general direction. "Want some? Mmm-mmm good."
Sam goes pale and otherwise looks like he's tempted to clock Dean one. "I hate you so much."
"I know you do." Dean presses the tines of a fork in to test the sausage for doneness. Almost there. "Gonna make some eggs, too. Fry 'em up in the grease here so they're all salty and fatty, with the yolks that go pop like yellow grapes when you poke 'em."
"Oh, God. Hate you." Sam's there at his back, taller than him (and that is so not fair) and heavier, draped over his back. His hair tickles Dean's neck when he drops his forehead to Dean's shoulder. "Gonna be sick," he mumbles.
"If you're gonna yarf, better do it somewhere else, 'cause I for one am eating this. Move your ass and let the master work. Sausage and eggs go together like, uh… bacon and eggs. With a side of pancakes."
"You're twisted." Sam chuckles, small puffs of warm morning-breath air curling down the collar of Dean's shirt. "And, you're a dork."
"You love it and you know it."
"Mmm." Sam's fingers walk across Dean's waist and tickle at the elastic waist of his boxers. He's reminded that Sam's much harder than he is hungover when Sam pulls him closer, snugs his groin to Dean's ass; he freakin' hates being the little spoon but then again it's not so easy to complain when there's a good stiff cock to appreciate instead. He starts to turn, to tangle his fingers in the mess of Sam's hair--
Grease spatters his hand in little stinging drops when his fork slips and bounces off the skillet. "Ow, ow, ow, fuck, ow!"
Sam, the bastard, is not sympathetic. "Wuss."
"Screw you, I'm not the one who couldn't make it through one beer." Dean shakes his hand.
Sam, who is more persistent than he is nice when he wakes up, comes right back and drapes over Dean like an affectionate, hairy quilt. He catches Dean by the wrist and holds his hand up for inspection. "You're not burned. It's barely even red."
"Still hurts. Get back, dude, or I'll use a spatula on your backside."
"Promise?" Sam sneaks two fingers under Dean's waistband. Almost at ground zero but just far away enough for Dean to feel the heat radiating from him. "Want me to kiss it better?"
And hey, look at that. Hell of a way to forget your troubles. "Depends." Dean moves with Sam's touch, a sweet, slow burn kindling in his belly. "That's not what got burned."
"Nope, but it's hot." Sam nuzzles his neck. "Come back to bed?"
"Uh-uh," Dean says, wanting to make it last. Besides, he's freakin' hungry. Sex or food? It's the question that's dictated most of his life since he figured out his dick was good for more than pissing. Before that, it was all food. Now, it's food-for-Sam or sex-with-Sam. Dean's not usually one for complicating his thought processes before breakfast, but to tell the truth this isn't so bad.
Sam's not stronger than Dean, not yet, but he's getting there fast and he's got one hell of a grip. "Come back to bed," he says, lips warm and soft against Dean's ear. He reaches over Dean's shoulder and switches off the stove burners.
"Dude!" Dean flips them back on.
Sam switches them off.
"You're so asking for it," Dean grumbles, trying not to grin.
"I know." Sam presses his cock to Dean's ass. "I really am, and I'm being patient, too."
"Screw you."
"That's the idea." Sam swats Dean's hand away from the stove. "Don't even think about it."
And maybe it's a little messed up that when the grown-up timbre seeps into Sam's voice and deepens his tenor into a growl of a bass, it's a sure-fire way to make Dean nuts. He gets damn near wobbly-kneed. Something about it makes him want to go down and stay down. He might have if Sam wasn't holding him up, rubbing his ass. Sam's hand-me-down sweatpants are so thin they're one good stiff breeze away from disintegrating and Dean can feel a small but widening circle of wetness seeping through. Kid leaks like a fire hose when he's wound up.
Fucking versus sausage. Kind of a no-brainer at this point.
But because it's the principle of the thing, Dean snags a patty from the pan and stuffs in a huge bite. His cheeks bulge when he wriggles around to face Sam, chomping noisily, saying through his mouthful, "Shtayin' rish here. Sure you don't want some? I'sh gooooooood."
Sam winces. "Gross, man."
Dean chews and swallows. He licks his lips and knows they're slick-shiny. "Energy boost," he says, clearly this time.
Sam cops a feel of his ass, distracted. "Huh?"
"You might wanna eat something too. If you fall over when I'm doing this I'm so not cleaning up the mess."
Sam rumbles, getting the idea and okay, that's it, Dean's done. He goes to his knees the way his body tells him he should.
"Rather do this." Sam kneads Dean's shoulders, rolling him forward.
Dean mouths Sam's cock through his sweats. He fondles Sam, rubbing the wetness of his spit through the threadbare gray terry to Sam's cock beneath.
And because he really loves to get the last word in and the most awesome times are when Sam's rendered speechless, Dean says, "Not exactly what I'd planned on, but at least I still got some decent pork to eat."
Sam's squawk of revulsion changes nicely to a strangled groan when Dean tugs the sweats over Sam's hips with the drawstring in his teeth and sucks him in good and proper, going to work.
So maybe he couldn't rim in the New Year. Dean's awesome when it comes to adapting and improvising. Who's the king, huh? Dean preens. Yeah, that's right.
Breakfast can wait.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R (lots of innuendo but alas, no actual sex)
Warnings: Teenchesters
Notes: For mickeym in the spn-j2-xmas fic exchange, with the prompts of teenaged Sam/Dean, confident Dean, and playfulness.
Dean's frying sausage patties, thick-cut and greasy, in the middle of turning them over in the pan when the bedroom door opens and Sam stumbles out. Sam, bangs trailing over his face, rubbing his eyes, yawning, sweatpants barely hanging on by the cut of his hipbones. Half-hard beneath them, not like that's unusual these days. Puberty's sunk its teeth in Sam and Dean remembers what it's like, getting stiff when the breeze blows the right way.
Then again, he didn't have anything near as good to motivate his chronic hard-on back in the day as Sam does, heh-heh.
"Morning, sunshine!" he bellows for the fun of watching Sam grimace. Not often he's awake before Sam and he's gonna make the most of it.
Speaking of which, when Sam's legal they've gotta do some serious work on his tolerance because damn, the Winchesters have a reputation to maintain. His fault for getting so involved in the game he didn't notice Sam sneaking sips of his beer before the bottle was mostly gone and he'd only had one good satisfying swig. He'd had other plans for Sam, too, ones involving illegal fireworks at midnight and something else really wicked outside that they could get arrested for. Maybe rimming. He hasn't tried that one yet with Sam but damn, he's a kinky little sonofabitch. Dean bets he'd love it.
Instead, he got a Sam that giggled like a loon, swore his undying love for Lance Bass--which is an insult to Dean's honor when Dean's the one Sam's fucking--and fell down, snoring before he hit the floor. He drooled on Dean's shoulder until Dean considered smothering him with a pillow, then figured that'd be a turn-off.
Payback is not only fair, it's fun. Dean wafts the pan in Sam's general direction. "Want some? Mmm-mmm good."
Sam goes pale and otherwise looks like he's tempted to clock Dean one. "I hate you so much."
"I know you do." Dean presses the tines of a fork in to test the sausage for doneness. Almost there. "Gonna make some eggs, too. Fry 'em up in the grease here so they're all salty and fatty, with the yolks that go pop like yellow grapes when you poke 'em."
"Oh, God. Hate you." Sam's there at his back, taller than him (and that is so not fair) and heavier, draped over his back. His hair tickles Dean's neck when he drops his forehead to Dean's shoulder. "Gonna be sick," he mumbles.
"If you're gonna yarf, better do it somewhere else, 'cause I for one am eating this. Move your ass and let the master work. Sausage and eggs go together like, uh… bacon and eggs. With a side of pancakes."
"You're twisted." Sam chuckles, small puffs of warm morning-breath air curling down the collar of Dean's shirt. "And, you're a dork."
"You love it and you know it."
"Mmm." Sam's fingers walk across Dean's waist and tickle at the elastic waist of his boxers. He's reminded that Sam's much harder than he is hungover when Sam pulls him closer, snugs his groin to Dean's ass; he freakin' hates being the little spoon but then again it's not so easy to complain when there's a good stiff cock to appreciate instead. He starts to turn, to tangle his fingers in the mess of Sam's hair--
Grease spatters his hand in little stinging drops when his fork slips and bounces off the skillet. "Ow, ow, ow, fuck, ow!"
Sam, the bastard, is not sympathetic. "Wuss."
"Screw you, I'm not the one who couldn't make it through one beer." Dean shakes his hand.
Sam, who is more persistent than he is nice when he wakes up, comes right back and drapes over Dean like an affectionate, hairy quilt. He catches Dean by the wrist and holds his hand up for inspection. "You're not burned. It's barely even red."
"Still hurts. Get back, dude, or I'll use a spatula on your backside."
"Promise?" Sam sneaks two fingers under Dean's waistband. Almost at ground zero but just far away enough for Dean to feel the heat radiating from him. "Want me to kiss it better?"
And hey, look at that. Hell of a way to forget your troubles. "Depends." Dean moves with Sam's touch, a sweet, slow burn kindling in his belly. "That's not what got burned."
"Nope, but it's hot." Sam nuzzles his neck. "Come back to bed?"
"Uh-uh," Dean says, wanting to make it last. Besides, he's freakin' hungry. Sex or food? It's the question that's dictated most of his life since he figured out his dick was good for more than pissing. Before that, it was all food. Now, it's food-for-Sam or sex-with-Sam. Dean's not usually one for complicating his thought processes before breakfast, but to tell the truth this isn't so bad.
Sam's not stronger than Dean, not yet, but he's getting there fast and he's got one hell of a grip. "Come back to bed," he says, lips warm and soft against Dean's ear. He reaches over Dean's shoulder and switches off the stove burners.
"Dude!" Dean flips them back on.
Sam switches them off.
"You're so asking for it," Dean grumbles, trying not to grin.
"I know." Sam presses his cock to Dean's ass. "I really am, and I'm being patient, too."
"Screw you."
"That's the idea." Sam swats Dean's hand away from the stove. "Don't even think about it."
And maybe it's a little messed up that when the grown-up timbre seeps into Sam's voice and deepens his tenor into a growl of a bass, it's a sure-fire way to make Dean nuts. He gets damn near wobbly-kneed. Something about it makes him want to go down and stay down. He might have if Sam wasn't holding him up, rubbing his ass. Sam's hand-me-down sweatpants are so thin they're one good stiff breeze away from disintegrating and Dean can feel a small but widening circle of wetness seeping through. Kid leaks like a fire hose when he's wound up.
Fucking versus sausage. Kind of a no-brainer at this point.
But because it's the principle of the thing, Dean snags a patty from the pan and stuffs in a huge bite. His cheeks bulge when he wriggles around to face Sam, chomping noisily, saying through his mouthful, "Shtayin' rish here. Sure you don't want some? I'sh gooooooood."
Sam winces. "Gross, man."
Dean chews and swallows. He licks his lips and knows they're slick-shiny. "Energy boost," he says, clearly this time.
Sam cops a feel of his ass, distracted. "Huh?"
"You might wanna eat something too. If you fall over when I'm doing this I'm so not cleaning up the mess."
Sam rumbles, getting the idea and okay, that's it, Dean's done. He goes to his knees the way his body tells him he should.
"Rather do this." Sam kneads Dean's shoulders, rolling him forward.
Dean mouths Sam's cock through his sweats. He fondles Sam, rubbing the wetness of his spit through the threadbare gray terry to Sam's cock beneath.
And because he really loves to get the last word in and the most awesome times are when Sam's rendered speechless, Dean says, "Not exactly what I'd planned on, but at least I still got some decent pork to eat."
Sam's squawk of revulsion changes nicely to a strangled groan when Dean tugs the sweats over Sam's hips with the drawstring in his teeth and sucks him in good and proper, going to work.
So maybe he couldn't rim in the New Year. Dean's awesome when it comes to adapting and improvising. Who's the king, huh? Dean preens. Yeah, that's right.
Breakfast can wait.