Brad Pitt fic

[bigmamag]

Yep, finally finished this thing.  I still refer to this as the Brad Pitt fic and not by its proper title.  :D

Title: Sunny (Afternoon) Delight
Author: bigmamag
Rating: NC-17
Length: 4000
Warnings: wincest, slash
Spoilers: Dream a Little Dream of Me
Summary: Sam is having some interesting dreams lately. 
Notes: Beta by ssstevie , except for the last part, since I couldn’t wait to post.  I was inspired by this picture, mostly.


The motel room du jour was disturbingly orange. Burnt orange couch, red-orange drapes, dreamsicle bed linens, even a white kitchenette table with orange polka dots. Sam was barely paying attention to it, engrossed in translating some ancient Arabic texts for a case. He was called back to his surroundings when he heard a sharp knock on the door, and he swiveled in his seat, eyes falling on the tangerine door. Sam went to open it with a healthy amount of caution, as one tends not to get unexpected visitors at random motels.

When he opened the door a crack and saw someone that looked a lot like Brad Pitt standing in the apricot hallway with a leather jacket slung casually over one shoulder and a sultry little grin, Sam just stared for a few seconds, the assessing stare of one who was trying to decide if omg is this actually THE Brad Pitt standing right in front of me looking oh so hot with Hollywood sunglasses and slight five o’clock shadow??

Or it would have been, had Sam been twelve years old and a girl who was attracted to boys. Because he was twenty five and straight.

"Hi Sam," the man said, his voice casually seductive.

"Hi. Who the hell are you?" Sam asked, easing the door another inch closed so only a little sliver of the man’s face could be seen.

It was a smug sliver.

"I’m Brad Pitt, and I’m here to rock your world."

Sam arched his eyebrow until it threatened to fall of his head entirely. "Uh huh. Well, nice meeting you."

The door clicked with finality. Shaking his head, Sam began to walk back to the table. His senses instantly pricked up when he heard a key slide into the lock. It opened and Brad Pitt breezed in, tossing his coat on the back of the small couch and smoothly positioning his sunglasses at the top of his head.

"How in the hell did you get a key?" Sam asked, his voice about fifty degrees below the actual room temperature.

"Your brother said it was all right, said it would be awesome if we could meet."

Perhaps demons were stepping up their game when it came to possession and his brother was an idiot when it came to celebrities. He had, after all, banged that mediocre-at-best actress while they were in Hollywood. Not that Sam cared, even though it scarred some vital place inside, the place where brothers don’t go a knockin’ when something’s a rockin’.

Sam edged backwards, making it look casual, going for his bag where his vial of holy water was kept. Brad Pitt stepped a little closer as well.

"So you’re telling me that my brother just handed you the key so you could rock my world?"

"Well, he let me have the key, but I’m the one who came up with that part of the deal." Sam reached the bed and deftly snatched the holy water and slung it on Brad Pitt. A funny expression came over the man’s face and a wicked smile followed shortly after. "If you wanted to get wet, we can just take a shower."

That’s when he attacked. Brad Pitt, that is. Sam was up against the wall, breathing harshly, his arms pinned to his sides and Brad Pitt was pressed flush against Sam’s body, every muscle under his white button-down brushing along Sam’s, their hips lined up and locked in place like the parts of one of Dean’s guns.

And Sam was hard, looking down at his attacker, who was looking up at him, eyes calm and blue like the pricey artisan water Jess would drink after having sex, some of it pouring down between her heaving breasts, shining in the late afternoon sun.

"Come on, Sam. Your brother told me that you wanted to be me when you watched Se7en for the first time." Brad Pitt leaned close to Sam’s ear, his breath hot and moist. "Now you get to be in me."

And Sam kind of lost it at that point, especially since Brad Pitt punctuated his point by licking Sam’s earlobe. Sam groaned, his head twitching, trying to decide if it wanted to stay or go.

The wet heat left a moment later and Sam almost to god whimpered before he heard the sound of metal clicking and realized Brad Pitt was taking off his belt.

"Oh god," he moaned almost helplessly, like he wanted it to stop but couldn’t figure out how to quite make that work.

"That’s my next role," Brad Pitt casually mentioned, yanking down Sam’s zipper. Sam’s head hit the wall as he felt that same heat that was on his ear engulf his cock and oh god, it was all going too damn fast. He could feel sweat begin to prick at his forehead and he looked down to see the hollowed-out cheeks that won over millions upon millions of women and men stretched around his cock, expertly taking most of it like a seasoned porn star who was desperate for cash. His hips began to quiver and he realized that he had been babbling this whole time, too caught up in this impromptu blow job from heaven to notice. But there those words were, still streaming out, getting shriller and shriller as he got closer.

"Oh god, so good, you were fucking made for this, oh god. I’m gonna…you’re gonna…Brad, Brad…"

"Sam, wake up!" Sam jumped, breaking a string of drool that ran from his mouth to the window of the car. Dean was reclined next to him, sunglasses on and voice scraping, obviously just waking up himself. Sam sat up, instantly alert, shifting covertly so that Dean couldn’t see any trace of arousal. Dean looked straight at him, and even though Sam couldn’t see his eyes, he just knew that Dean was giving him the hairy eye.

"Waking up to hear you panting is not my idea of a good morning. Or well, evening," Dean amended, taking off his sunglasses and glancing out the window. "Dude, we seriously need to get you laid."

"It was a nightmare. Clowns," he added, hoping Dean would make fun of that instead.

"Was Bozo blowing you?"

No such luck. "Just drive."

Dean smirked, throwing the car into gear and pulling onto the deserted highway. He stayed blissfully silent for two hundred miles until they got to the first motel they came across. Dean tossed him the key and walked over to the trunk. "You go ahead. Looks like you might have something you need to…work out."

"Jerk." Dean cracked up, picking up weapons to stuff into an empty bag so he could clean them later. Sam scowled and set off to go get a shower and some proper, non-celebrity sleep.

The hallway was cramped and was disturbingly familiar. When Sam saw a familiar tangerine door, he swiftly opened the room, praying that his fear was irrational. It wasn’t. The room was the exact room of carnal gay sex from his dream. Panicking, Sam rushed into the bathroom, still in hellish citrus tones, and sat on the toilet. How in the hell could he dream about a place he had never even seen? I mean sure, he had read a lot of stuff on dream theory, about people who sometimes dreamed things before they happened. Dean had a mild trace of it when he was younger, like when he once dreamed about the three Winchester men playing poker during a black out, and a few months later it had happened the same way Dean dreamed it.

But Sam was not ordinary, and it hadn’t been that long ago that his dreams of the future came true on a regular basis. Of course, none of them had been about being sucked off by Brad Pitt. So whatever, maybe his subconscious somehow remembered this motel from a long time ago and it had randomly come up in the dream. The Brad Pitt part was easy, considering Dean (fucking jerk) had mentioned his name not only a few hours ago. Why couldn’t it have been Angelina Jolie instead?

Finding no answers and realizing that he has been in the bathroom long enough for Dean to ridicule him, Sam left. Dean was on his stomach in the bed nearest the door, remote in hand and a pillow underneath him. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, which was kind of odd since there was an unspoken rule about nakedness. Namely, no point walking around half naked since no one in the room wanted to see it. Because it was unspoken, Sam didn’t question it, just sat on the other bed and unpacked his laptop. Sam looked up to see what Dean was watching and his jaw nearly dropped. Sam must have made a noise, because Dean looked over his shoulder.

"You remember when we snuck in to see this movie?"

"Yeah, I got caught and had to pay. You made off with the girl at the candy counter."

"Shouldn’t have gotten caught, Sam-may," Dean announced, smiling wide, probably remembering candy girl. "You could have had her friend…in a couple of years."

"Very funny. Isn’t that the girl who gave you crabs?"

"No, that was the one in New Orleans. This one told me I was Tyler Durden."

"So, Edward Norton?"

"Said I was like a young Brad Pitt and we should hook up. We totally did it in the back alley. She had the sweetest…"

"Okay Dean, my ears have suffered enough."

"Come on, it’s classic! Besides, you’re the one all hot over Brad Pitt."

"I just said I wanted to be like him when I was older. I was twelve!"

"Whatever dude, you were the one who wanted to sneak into Fight Club and almost cried when I said I wanted to see Sleepy Hollow instead."

"I did not almost cry," Sam said, affronted. "I was sixteen and everyone else had seen it except me."

"Right, keep telling yourself that." Dean turned back to watch the movie. Brad Pitt was now on, showing off his briefcase of soap. He thought of showers and being dirty. He went back to booting up his computer, but found that the motel didn’t have wireless. He repacked it and leaned against the headboard, watching the movie. Halfway into it, Dean got up for a drink and Sam realized he had been staring at Dean’s back instead of the movie. It was definitely time to turn in.

***

Sam was at the table, typing at his laptop, and Dean was cleaning his guns on his bed, shirt still off. Bored, Sam went to sit by Dean.

"Like some help?" he asked. Dean looked over at him, calm and relaxed like he always was when he was surrounded by an arsenal.

"You haven’t asked me that in at least fifteen years."

"I’m asking now."

Dean smirked and handed him a cleaning cloth. They worked silently for a few minutes, shoulder to shoulder, companionable. Sam knew that it probably wasn’t a good idea, but he rarely saw Dean so at peace with the world these days that he felt something had to be said.

"Dean, I gotta tell you…I mean, now that we’re in this together, I just want you to know…" Dean lowered the sawed off he was currently reloading, concerned. "I will get you out of this. Because…Dean, I can’t live without you, I just can’t. I don’t know who I am without you."

"Sam…" Dean rested his hand on top of his. It had been shaking, Dean was very warm, very alive, and very bare-chested.

"I know you don’t want to hear this, but I love you, and you shouldn’t have to go to hell because you love me too."

"I know that, Sam. I want to see this through, see you grow and get a better life…"

"Dean, don’t you get it? I was serious when I said I didn’t want to go back to school. My life is here, with you, saving people so they don’t have to go through what we went through."

"I just want you to be happy, Sammy."

Sam smiled, bringing up a hand to grab Dean’s face. "I am happy," he whispered, pulling Dean toward him. Dean shot forward and kissed Sam first, his mouth open and searing. Sam moved his arms to hold onto Dean’s back, tilting his head to make the kiss deeper. Dean marshaled his arms into action, gripping onto Sam’s shoulder blades. They kissed for a while, eyes closed, Dean’s eyelashes brushing the top of Sam’s cheekbone. Then Dean lowered one of his hands, and Sam almost forgot the kissing as he felt it slide down. Dean slid two fingers past the waistband of Sam’s jeans and Sam gasped.

"SAM!"

A washcloth hit Sam’s face. He jerked awake, reflexively throwing the washcloth onto the floor. Dean was at the foot of his bed, now with t-shirt on. It was morning, and sunlight was filtering in through the thin red-orange drapes.

"Seriously dude, get laid! No one should get more action in their dreams than in real life."

Sam grabbed the sheet he had mostly kicked off during the night and, not caring what in the hell it looked like, locked himself in the bathroom. He slid down to the floor, laughing without humor, feeling like he was going nuts. Fuck Brad Pitt being in his dreams; Brad Pitt was in a lot of people’s dreams. Now Dean doing those kind of things in Sam’s dreams was something to freak out about. Christ, how in hell was he going to explain away this one to himself? Sure, Dean had been strutting around like a peacock yesterday, naked and being all vulnerable when he told Sam he wanted to live, but that was no excuse to have Dean featured in one of Sam’s (now disturbingly frequent) sex dreams. And for Dean to willingly engage in a chick flick, softcore porn moment in said dream was so far out there that Sam worried about his subconscious. He buried his head in his arms, knees drawn up to his chin.

Dean was knocking on the door. "Hey man, I’m getting breakfast at the diner across the street. Maybe I can bag you a waitress to go."

Or maybe a waiter, Sam thought bitterly as he heard Dean grab the keys and leave. Or maybe you can just serve yourself up on a bagel. Apparently I’d like that.

Sam only got up a few minutes later because he didn’t want Dean to kick the door in. Besides, Sam now had something to hide, and he didn’t relish Dean asking him a million questions to find out what. So Sam got dressed. Dean came back, set two to-go boxes on the table and handed Sam a cup of coffee. Dean had gotten them both pancakes with sausage and hash browns. They ate silently, Sam carefully not looking at Dean at all.

"All right, I give," Dean announced loudly, startling Sam. "I was the one who put Brad Pitt in your dream."

"What?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, we had a little dream root left, some that Bela didn’t fuck off with, so I thought I’d screw with you a little, you know, since I had the most perfect opportunity in the history of ever."

Sam sat there for a minute, feeling partly relieved and partly pissed as hell. So it wasn’t Sam at all, just Dean fucking around and putting shit in his head.

"You have a sick mind."

"Yes I do," Dean said, obscenely proud of himself.

"I mean, Brad Pitt was one thing, but did you have to put yourself in there too?"

Dean’s eyebrows furrowed and he flicked his head back like he was dodging a fly. "I didn’t put myself in the dream, just Brad Pitt."

"Oh don’t even give me that," Sam said, shaking his head. Dean was faking a blank expression, he just knew it. "Last night you did the same thing, asshole, and I don’t know how but I am so getting you back for all of this."

"Sam, I only had a little bit left, just enough for one time. I didn’t have any last night." Sam just looked at him with a skeptical expression, waiting for Dean to cave. Dean leaned forward a little, his expression completely serious and when Dean didn’t crack up like he always did, Sam realized that Dean was telling the truth.

So Dean wasn’t pulling his leg and Sam had…Sam had just informed his brother that he had been dreaming of him in a sexual manner.

"Oh god," Sam said fervently, his throat feeling tight.

"Whoa whoa whoa…I was in your dream this morning?"

"Clowns," Sam said delicately, shrugging one shoulder. "You were, with clowns. Clowning."

"Just like you and Brad Pitt were ‘clowning’?"

Sam didn’t even try to bullshit any longer. He left the table to lock himself in the bathroom again, but this time Dean was there, blocking the door before he could. Sam stood up straight and huffed.

"Let me in."

"No Sam, I think we need to have a little caring and sharing right now."

Sam always got more defensive when he was angry. He threw up his hands. "So when it’s me holding shit back or not wanting to talk, you’re all about sharing, but when it’s you I have to shut up and deal with it."

"Exactly. Because I’m the oldest and…"

"Oh don’t even give me that bullshit…"

"You never just stop and you just run off like a little bitch and expect…"

"You are seriously pissing me off and you’re such a hypocrite…"

"Know what, fuck this." Dean hauled Sam against him and shoved his tongue down Sam’s throat.

"Mmmpfh!" Sam bitched, shoving his own tongue down Dean’s throat, determined to win the argument. But then Dean eased up and Sam realized that Dean had kissed him, sort of. Perplexed and still fuming, Sam just let Dean kiss him until Dean grabbed his ass. Sam broke off, panting and dizzy. "What the hell was that?"

Dean was silent for a moment and Sam wondered if they were going to fight again. Then Dean looked up at him and gave Sam a blinding grin. Dean was mentally patting himself on the back for something. Then Sam was being hauled over to the bed and shoved on top of the sheets. Sam had a moment to realize that the swirled orange ceiling reminded him of Sunny Delight being poured before Dean obscured his vision, his body pressed over every inch of Sam’s, legs aligned, hips locked, chest brushing against chest. If Sam could get harder any faster, he could break the zipper of his jeans.

"Welcome to ‘Sex with Dean’. The first rule of Sex with Dean is that you do not compare me to Brad Pitt."

"I dunno, you’re both so dreamy," Sam drawled, the effect of the sarcasm ruined by the small noise he made as Dean slowly pumped his hips into Sam’s.

"Second rule." Dean roughly grabbed Sam through his jeans, causing Sam to gasp loudly. "You do not compare me to Brad Pitt."

Sam tried to thrust into Dean’s grip. Dean pulled his hand away and Sam whined.

"Third rule of Sex with Dean: If you yell stop or go limp, the sex is not over." Dean unzipped Sam’s pants and pulled Sam out. If Dean thought he was going to pay attention to this while he was doing that, then he obviously thought Sam was a more attentive student than he actually was. Dean began to slowly pump Sam’s cock, bracing his other hand above Sam’s head so he could look down and watch what he was doing. It was fucking bliss, Dean’s ring cold against the vein under his cock, Dean’s breath catching as he watched, and Sam feeling so open and exposed when Dean looked straight into his flushed, sweating face. Dean’s expression softened fractionally, his eyes wide and serious.

"Fourth rule: only two guys to a bed."

Sam managed to arch an eyebrow and breathe out, "Sounds like that rule was made for you." God, he didn’t even know how he had managed to actually come up with a sentence. He reached down to unzip Dean’s jeans. Dean abruptly let go of Sam’s cock and grabbed Sam’s hand, displaying it in front of Sam‘s face.

"Fifth rule," Dean said, panting. "One person having sex at a time."

"Fuck rules, Dean, just me," Sam panted, tearing his hand out of Dean’s grip. Dean pulled his shirt over his head and Sam breathed harshly through his nose, part of him wanting to watch and the other, more insistent part wanting to just hump Dean’s leg to completion. Dean pulled off Sam’s shirt.

"Sixth rule: no clothing. Seventh rule," Dean said, grabbing Sam’s cock again, but only weakly grasping it as he jerked Sam off, just enough pressure to drive Sam out of his mind with want. It burned, his toes feeling like they had been plugged into a electrical socket. His hips were shivering and that burning feeling was in his palms. He panted weakly, little "ah!" sounds escaping his lips.

"Dean, please, I need…"

"Sex will go on as long as it has to."

Then, yes, Dean grabbed him properly, jerking him fast and rough. Sam called out, one arm thrown above his head, the other gripping the arm Dean was using to work him over. The afternoon sun warmed his face further, nothing but red light behind his eyelids.

"And the eighth and final rule of Sex with Dean is," Dean said brokenly, bending down to whisper in Sam’s ear. "If this is your first time having sex with me, you have to come."

It was like Dean commanded it. Sam arched up with a drawn out cry, shaking as he spilled over Dean’s fist. He rode out the feeling, slumping down when it was too much. Dean slid down next to him wiping his hand on Sam’s shirt.

"Hey, jerk," Sam said, wrinkling his nose.

"Shaddup," Dean drawled, shoving a hand down his pants. "You got yours, let me get mine."

Sam sat up instantly, staring down at Dean. "You’re serious?"

"Fucking serious," Dean shot back, laughing a little as he started to jerk himself off. Sam batted his hand away.

"Hey!"

"Rule nine, you shut up and let your brother blow you."

Dean gulped and said, weakly, "There’s only eight rules."

"Yeah well, I’m not the nerd who memorized them, so I wouldn’t know."

"Too busy staring at Brad Pitt’s…oh god, Sammy…"

Sam found out rather quickly that he had shown very little respect to women over the years as soon as he put Dean’s cock in his mouth. It was a lot more difficult that he imagined. First he used his teeth, which Dean hit him in the head for while moaning crazily. Then he swallowed too much and gagged, sitting back on his heels and taking a breather. Dean threw up his hands and tried to jerk himself off again, but Sam stopped him and tried again. It was better this time, riding Dean’s cock with his mouth, using his hand where he couldn’t swallow, and it was probably a very shitty blow job. Dean, however, was swearing and groaning as if it was his first one. It didn’t take long, since Dean had endured the sight of Sam getting off, so when Dean came and Sam almost swallowed it all, he felt quite pleased with himself.

He laid next to Dean, turned on his side and waited expectantly. Dean looked at him askance before his face cleared, looking flummoxed and almost wondering. "Oh yeah," he said, moving to kiss Sam. They kissed for about a minute before Dean decided this was gayer than gay sex and broke off, scowling.

"You stink like sex."

Sam laughed. "Only in my wildest dreams."

End