World Turning [Sam/Dean, NC-17]
I wish I had some kind of eloquent introduction to this fic, but I haven't yet found a way to move gracefully around the subject of WATERSPORTS INCEST PORN. (OMFG, btw.)
World Turning [Sam/Dean, NC-17]
Dean's been chasing this particular horizon for hours now, miles marked more by the ever-dipping level of the thermos than by county lines and signposts. (In case you missed it up above: WATERSPORTS INCEST PORN.)
Originally posted at spnkink_meme. Title stolen from Fleetwood Mac's "World Turning" and beta by the phenomenal deirdre_c.
World Turning
Late bleeds into early somewhere around four a.m., shallow flip of night to day that restructures the world into something that'll still make sense after sunrise: today becomes yesterday, tomorrow becomes today.
The destination doesn't change, though: away. Anywhere, just away.
Dean's been chasing this particular horizon for hours now, miles marked more by the ever-dipping level of the thermos than by county lines and signposts. Forty-eight ounces of bitter-black gas station caffeine guzzled down to dregs while the globe turned itself around, offered the Old World some time in the sun.
He can feel it, now. Hot, heavy pressure emerging in the wake of a dying caffeine buzz, steady thrum of tension following behind. He curves his back, lets his hips slide forward and keeps his foot steady on the gas.
It's been bad lately. Nights made of denim and twisted cotton, boots like dead weight on a pulley, threading lines over circles, upward stretch to the muscles that keep his eyelids drawn, watching Sam's face for signs of sleep that never come. Mornings are worse; Sam's expression abraded by the lingering night, so raw sometimes that Dean has to look away.
Sammy's asleep in the passenger seat now, though-really, finally asleep-deep dragging breaths that cut the silence, wash over Dean like relief.
The tension in his chest melts into seeping, spreading warmth, sinks down and settles heavy against his bladder, solid pressure that advances with the insistent roll of the odometer, but he doesn't even fucking care because Sammy's going to be okay.
He sneaks a glance at the passenger seat; quick, unfocused, like the weight of his gaze might be enough to wake Sam, then he lets out a slow stream of air, allows his hand to settle between his thighs. Not touching, just there.
The highway wanders like any other, blacktop under black sky, oblivious to the minor miracle it's performed, to anything above the point where rubber meets road, but Dean feels absurdly grateful. Sammy's resting, finally, and even if Dean has to trade in the rest of his nights for coffee-fueled commutes-they’ll get through this.
He chances another look at Sam, split second image of eyelashes cradled neatly in a hollow of purpled skin, streetlight snapshot of insomnia exchanged for sleep.
He sighs, achingly deep release of breath, air that hasn't seen the outside world in weeks, then hisses when his body responds to his sinking diaphragm, hot throb of pressure on his bladder.
There's no ignoring it now, heavy fullness burning taut at the edges, rolling wave of need pulsing outward, and his hand moves on its own, in toward his body; the side of his thumb drags a hard line against his cock, momentary relief like a band-aid on a bullet wound.
He settles back in his seat, rocks stiffly against the upward slope of leather, back and forth press, but he can't find a position that eases the urgency for more than a moment. His left leg starts up an ungoverned pulse; incessant shake that degenerates into rigid vibration, tight spasms that echo in the choke of his fingers on the wheel, the rhythmic clench of his jaw.
Sam's still asleep; there's an empty bottle nudged up against his leg, exoskeleton of a Snapple, wide-mouthed and tempting.
Dean grips the wheel tighter, doesn't let go.
He counts the mile markers, takes the night two-tenths of a mile at a time and breathes against the need that's still building, intensifying with every uneven patch of road. The hot, heavy rush of letting go is swirling agonizingly in his mind, sharp surge of release he can almost taste, and he exhales in a trembling burst, palms his cock through his jeans, feels it jerk, heavy and urgent.
Sam doesn't move when Dean rolls the bottle away from his leg with a shaking fingertip, and Dean settles it beside himself, just-god, just in case.
There's a sign for a rest area up ahead, and Dean blows by it, speed limit plus ten. He's rocking, slow and deliberate, massaging his cock, stroking over the head, palming the whole of it through thick denim, and it only gets worse when he flicks open the button on his jeans; less painful, but more urgent.
He bites back a curse for fear of waking Sam, swings his left knee back and forth, trembling clutch of tight-pressed thighs, as he twists the metal lid off the bottle. He sets it between his knees and squeezes, clenches his eyes shut for a split second because he can't fucking do this-god, can't let his body do it for him, either, fucking river of piss all over the car, so he nudges his zipper down, searing pressure against his bladder that has him hissing in a breath, and he pulls his cock out, squeezes to keep some semblance of control, and-
"No." It's a sleep-rough whisper from the passenger seat. "No, Dean."
Dean freezes, exposed and so desperate, focuses on twin points of red in the distance. He can't turn his head, can't handle seeing Sam's eyes open at this time of night again-god, again-flicks his gaze up to the rear view mirror instead and catches a glimpse of the betrayal he’s afraid to search for in Sam’s eyes, his fault Sam’s awake right now. When he tries to speak, he nearly chokes on his own spit, fumbles the head of his cock against the mouth of the bottle.
"Have to," he says, whispered, voice just as rough as Sam’s because he can't stop now, can't-
"Pull over," Sam says, reaches for the bottle and tosses it into the back seat, and when he ducks down, says, "Jesus, pull the fuck over," the words ghost lightly over the head of Dean's cock, over Dean's fingers where they squeeze along the ridge.
He presses a kiss to Dean's knuckles, scraped up against the metal teeth of his zipper, another right over his swollen bladder and says, "So fucking hot, Dean, all desperate for it. Should make you wait all night."
There’s no blame in Sam’s voice; relief hits Dean in a sudden rush, saturates his muscles with an easy warmth that weakens the wall of tension he’s using to hold himself together, and he grits his teeth, clutches himself harder.
"Fucking-already have," he answers, choked; volatile combination of urgency and relief at Sam's reaction and now arousal making his head swim. He jerks the car onto the shoulder, desperate to get a hand in Sam's hair-pull him closer or push him away, he's got no fucking clue-but he can't release his grip on his cock, can't let go of the wheel, just eases the car onto dirt-smudged grass.
"How long?" Sam asks, nudges at Dean's clenched fingers with his nose, dips down to suck Dean's balls into his mouth one at a time without waiting for an answer, and it's all Dean can do to hold on, huff out a hitched, whining breath. Sam chuckles at the sound, drags his tongue up Dean's sac and over his knuckles, one by one, says, "Since the gas station? The whole fucking thermos?" He teases his tongue over Dean’s slit and asks, quieter, "Just 'cause I was sleeping?"
Dean swallows, nods. He's almost panting in-god, pleasure, pain, anticipation, he doesn't even know, but it steals his breath, leaves him winded and tingling with a kind of all over desperation that he can't put a name to. He tips his head back against the seat, squeezes his eyes shut while Sam tongues over the head of his cock, long, slow licks that drive him fucking crazy, the coarse drag of Sam's taste buds against oversensitive skin. His cock starts to fill, heavy with the need to piss, and surging up underneath, the aching need to come.
Sam groans, long and low, when Dean's fingers slip down below the ridge, takes every inch into his mouth as Dean gives it away until Dean's shifting his hips up, feeding his cock to Sam with his hand circled around the base of it, fingers cupping his own balls.
"Yeah," he says, "fucking-Sammy," because Sam's mouth is like fire, spreads sparks that vibrate pleasure through his entire body, tremors that surround the electric, aching pressure of his bladder and sharpen into something he's never felt before, pain-laced pleasure that makes his body tremble, makes him jerk up hard into Sam's mouth.
Sammy just fucking takes it, little desperate moans that say he'll take more, take whatever Dean has to give him, maybe even-someday, maybe, god-and Dean's fucking done, the world just draws in, narrows down to the wet heat of Sam's mouth, the pressure of Sam's forehead against his bladder, pauses on a moment so still and silent that Dean feels like he can hear the fluttering brush of eyelashes as Sam blinks, and then-just explodes out in a violent, trembling rush; long, achingly deep pulses that feel like they're drawn from the core of him, fucking deeper than anything's got a right to go.
Their sloppy breathing fills the silence that follows; long, shivering waves of pleasure snake up his body and warmth follows in their wake, a tingling that builds, slow and stealthy, sticky-sweet aftermath of release that he can’t stop, can't-
"Fuck," Dean grunts, grabs at the door handle and stumbles out onto the ground, and he can't hold back anymore; piss is leaking out of his cock before he's even standing upright, soft slow spurt that arcs out from his half hard cock, feels fucking-"God," he groans, because it's almost better than coming.
"Don't," Sam says, when Dean reaches down to grab his cock.
Sammy's kneeling in the driver's seat; he licks his lips and rubs his hand up and down the outline of his dick in his jeans, so slow. "Just let go," he whispers, eyes shadowed, sparkling. "C'mon, Dean, let it go."
Dean hisses in a long breath, tips his head back, shudders as he lets his muscles go warm and loose again. It comes in spurts at first, arcs out from his body in pulses that echo through his balls, weaken his knees, and then the stream starts, wet rush of it, and Sam echoes his groan of pleasure.
"Fuck yeah, Dean."
Sam strokes himself, gasps in a hitched breath when Dean spreads his legs, leans back and clasps his arms behind him, cock still pissing freely, stream glittering, lit by the Impala's weak yellow dome light.
Dean closes his eyes, lets the feel of it rush through him; tingling, all over pleasure, and he startles when he feels Sam's hand on his hip.
When he opens his eyes, Sam leans forward and presses a kiss against his stomach, just inches above where the stream is dying out, and then he rests his forehead against Dean's hip and strokes himself hard, groans as he comes.
"Jesus," Sam says, flutter of breath against the jut of Dean's hipbone.
"Yeah," Dean agrees.
When they stop for gas, Sam fills the thermos again while Dean pumps. The world's turned another half circle; the sky is pink behind them, and Dean pulls out of the station, points the car at the horizon and drives.
###
World Turning [Sam/Dean, NC-17]
Dean's been chasing this particular horizon for hours now, miles marked more by the ever-dipping level of the thermos than by county lines and signposts. (In case you missed it up above: WATERSPORTS INCEST PORN.)
Originally posted at spnkink_meme. Title stolen from Fleetwood Mac's "World Turning" and beta by the phenomenal deirdre_c.
World Turning
Late bleeds into early somewhere around four a.m., shallow flip of night to day that restructures the world into something that'll still make sense after sunrise: today becomes yesterday, tomorrow becomes today.
The destination doesn't change, though: away. Anywhere, just away.
Dean's been chasing this particular horizon for hours now, miles marked more by the ever-dipping level of the thermos than by county lines and signposts. Forty-eight ounces of bitter-black gas station caffeine guzzled down to dregs while the globe turned itself around, offered the Old World some time in the sun.
He can feel it, now. Hot, heavy pressure emerging in the wake of a dying caffeine buzz, steady thrum of tension following behind. He curves his back, lets his hips slide forward and keeps his foot steady on the gas.
It's been bad lately. Nights made of denim and twisted cotton, boots like dead weight on a pulley, threading lines over circles, upward stretch to the muscles that keep his eyelids drawn, watching Sam's face for signs of sleep that never come. Mornings are worse; Sam's expression abraded by the lingering night, so raw sometimes that Dean has to look away.
Sammy's asleep in the passenger seat now, though-really, finally asleep-deep dragging breaths that cut the silence, wash over Dean like relief.
The tension in his chest melts into seeping, spreading warmth, sinks down and settles heavy against his bladder, solid pressure that advances with the insistent roll of the odometer, but he doesn't even fucking care because Sammy's going to be okay.
He sneaks a glance at the passenger seat; quick, unfocused, like the weight of his gaze might be enough to wake Sam, then he lets out a slow stream of air, allows his hand to settle between his thighs. Not touching, just there.
The highway wanders like any other, blacktop under black sky, oblivious to the minor miracle it's performed, to anything above the point where rubber meets road, but Dean feels absurdly grateful. Sammy's resting, finally, and even if Dean has to trade in the rest of his nights for coffee-fueled commutes-they’ll get through this.
He chances another look at Sam, split second image of eyelashes cradled neatly in a hollow of purpled skin, streetlight snapshot of insomnia exchanged for sleep.
He sighs, achingly deep release of breath, air that hasn't seen the outside world in weeks, then hisses when his body responds to his sinking diaphragm, hot throb of pressure on his bladder.
There's no ignoring it now, heavy fullness burning taut at the edges, rolling wave of need pulsing outward, and his hand moves on its own, in toward his body; the side of his thumb drags a hard line against his cock, momentary relief like a band-aid on a bullet wound.
He settles back in his seat, rocks stiffly against the upward slope of leather, back and forth press, but he can't find a position that eases the urgency for more than a moment. His left leg starts up an ungoverned pulse; incessant shake that degenerates into rigid vibration, tight spasms that echo in the choke of his fingers on the wheel, the rhythmic clench of his jaw.
Sam's still asleep; there's an empty bottle nudged up against his leg, exoskeleton of a Snapple, wide-mouthed and tempting.
Dean grips the wheel tighter, doesn't let go.
He counts the mile markers, takes the night two-tenths of a mile at a time and breathes against the need that's still building, intensifying with every uneven patch of road. The hot, heavy rush of letting go is swirling agonizingly in his mind, sharp surge of release he can almost taste, and he exhales in a trembling burst, palms his cock through his jeans, feels it jerk, heavy and urgent.
Sam doesn't move when Dean rolls the bottle away from his leg with a shaking fingertip, and Dean settles it beside himself, just-god, just in case.
There's a sign for a rest area up ahead, and Dean blows by it, speed limit plus ten. He's rocking, slow and deliberate, massaging his cock, stroking over the head, palming the whole of it through thick denim, and it only gets worse when he flicks open the button on his jeans; less painful, but more urgent.
He bites back a curse for fear of waking Sam, swings his left knee back and forth, trembling clutch of tight-pressed thighs, as he twists the metal lid off the bottle. He sets it between his knees and squeezes, clenches his eyes shut for a split second because he can't fucking do this-god, can't let his body do it for him, either, fucking river of piss all over the car, so he nudges his zipper down, searing pressure against his bladder that has him hissing in a breath, and he pulls his cock out, squeezes to keep some semblance of control, and-
"No." It's a sleep-rough whisper from the passenger seat. "No, Dean."
Dean freezes, exposed and so desperate, focuses on twin points of red in the distance. He can't turn his head, can't handle seeing Sam's eyes open at this time of night again-god, again-flicks his gaze up to the rear view mirror instead and catches a glimpse of the betrayal he’s afraid to search for in Sam’s eyes, his fault Sam’s awake right now. When he tries to speak, he nearly chokes on his own spit, fumbles the head of his cock against the mouth of the bottle.
"Have to," he says, whispered, voice just as rough as Sam’s because he can't stop now, can't-
"Pull over," Sam says, reaches for the bottle and tosses it into the back seat, and when he ducks down, says, "Jesus, pull the fuck over," the words ghost lightly over the head of Dean's cock, over Dean's fingers where they squeeze along the ridge.
He presses a kiss to Dean's knuckles, scraped up against the metal teeth of his zipper, another right over his swollen bladder and says, "So fucking hot, Dean, all desperate for it. Should make you wait all night."
There’s no blame in Sam’s voice; relief hits Dean in a sudden rush, saturates his muscles with an easy warmth that weakens the wall of tension he’s using to hold himself together, and he grits his teeth, clutches himself harder.
"Fucking-already have," he answers, choked; volatile combination of urgency and relief at Sam's reaction and now arousal making his head swim. He jerks the car onto the shoulder, desperate to get a hand in Sam's hair-pull him closer or push him away, he's got no fucking clue-but he can't release his grip on his cock, can't let go of the wheel, just eases the car onto dirt-smudged grass.
"How long?" Sam asks, nudges at Dean's clenched fingers with his nose, dips down to suck Dean's balls into his mouth one at a time without waiting for an answer, and it's all Dean can do to hold on, huff out a hitched, whining breath. Sam chuckles at the sound, drags his tongue up Dean's sac and over his knuckles, one by one, says, "Since the gas station? The whole fucking thermos?" He teases his tongue over Dean’s slit and asks, quieter, "Just 'cause I was sleeping?"
Dean swallows, nods. He's almost panting in-god, pleasure, pain, anticipation, he doesn't even know, but it steals his breath, leaves him winded and tingling with a kind of all over desperation that he can't put a name to. He tips his head back against the seat, squeezes his eyes shut while Sam tongues over the head of his cock, long, slow licks that drive him fucking crazy, the coarse drag of Sam's taste buds against oversensitive skin. His cock starts to fill, heavy with the need to piss, and surging up underneath, the aching need to come.
Sam groans, long and low, when Dean's fingers slip down below the ridge, takes every inch into his mouth as Dean gives it away until Dean's shifting his hips up, feeding his cock to Sam with his hand circled around the base of it, fingers cupping his own balls.
"Yeah," he says, "fucking-Sammy," because Sam's mouth is like fire, spreads sparks that vibrate pleasure through his entire body, tremors that surround the electric, aching pressure of his bladder and sharpen into something he's never felt before, pain-laced pleasure that makes his body tremble, makes him jerk up hard into Sam's mouth.
Sammy just fucking takes it, little desperate moans that say he'll take more, take whatever Dean has to give him, maybe even-someday, maybe, god-and Dean's fucking done, the world just draws in, narrows down to the wet heat of Sam's mouth, the pressure of Sam's forehead against his bladder, pauses on a moment so still and silent that Dean feels like he can hear the fluttering brush of eyelashes as Sam blinks, and then-just explodes out in a violent, trembling rush; long, achingly deep pulses that feel like they're drawn from the core of him, fucking deeper than anything's got a right to go.
Their sloppy breathing fills the silence that follows; long, shivering waves of pleasure snake up his body and warmth follows in their wake, a tingling that builds, slow and stealthy, sticky-sweet aftermath of release that he can’t stop, can't-
"Fuck," Dean grunts, grabs at the door handle and stumbles out onto the ground, and he can't hold back anymore; piss is leaking out of his cock before he's even standing upright, soft slow spurt that arcs out from his half hard cock, feels fucking-"God," he groans, because it's almost better than coming.
"Don't," Sam says, when Dean reaches down to grab his cock.
Sammy's kneeling in the driver's seat; he licks his lips and rubs his hand up and down the outline of his dick in his jeans, so slow. "Just let go," he whispers, eyes shadowed, sparkling. "C'mon, Dean, let it go."
Dean hisses in a long breath, tips his head back, shudders as he lets his muscles go warm and loose again. It comes in spurts at first, arcs out from his body in pulses that echo through his balls, weaken his knees, and then the stream starts, wet rush of it, and Sam echoes his groan of pleasure.
"Fuck yeah, Dean."
Sam strokes himself, gasps in a hitched breath when Dean spreads his legs, leans back and clasps his arms behind him, cock still pissing freely, stream glittering, lit by the Impala's weak yellow dome light.
Dean closes his eyes, lets the feel of it rush through him; tingling, all over pleasure, and he startles when he feels Sam's hand on his hip.
When he opens his eyes, Sam leans forward and presses a kiss against his stomach, just inches above where the stream is dying out, and then he rests his forehead against Dean's hip and strokes himself hard, groans as he comes.
"Jesus," Sam says, flutter of breath against the jut of Dean's hipbone.
"Yeah," Dean agrees.
When they stop for gas, Sam fills the thermos again while Dean pumps. The world's turned another half circle; the sky is pink behind them, and Dean pulls out of the station, points the car at the horizon and drives.
###