FIC: Long Live the Homonym: Oral/Aural | Sam/Dean | NC17
Title: Long Live the Homonym: Oral/Aural
Author:
girlguidejones
Pairing/Rating: Sam/Dean | NC 17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no infringement intended. All characters property of the CW and Kripke Kringle.
Summary: Written for salt_burn_porn. Prompt: out of gas.
“Dean.” No response. Sam wasn’t really all that eager for Dean to wake up, but he reached across the Impala’s seat to shake him awake anyway. Waiting only delayed the inevitable.
“Dean! Wake up, man.” Dean’s head was smashed against the passenger side window, short hair bristle-fanned out against it with his breath fogging a little patch of glass. Sam could see the frost on the outside, and momentarily wondered if Dean’s lips would get stuck, like that kid in the Christmas Story. Another jostle and Dean started to come around.
“Sammy? Why’re we not moving?” Dean shifted upright, rubbing sleep from his eyes like a kid while Sam blew onto his hands. The car had cooled off pretty quickly; Sam could see his breath…and so could Dean. “Sam…”
Sammy had changed to Sam in the space of a few seconds. That was always a bad sign.
“We uh…sorta have a predicament,” Sam tried for the calm-yet-humorous approach.
“What did you do to the car, Sam?” Dean growled. Said approach never worked when the car’s involved, of course.
“Do? Do? I didn’t do anything to the car, jerk. Why do you always have to accuse me of things instead of just asking what’s going on?” Sam shot back.
“You must have, seein’ as how it’s negative ass degrees below zero and she isn’t running like she was when I handed her over to you three hours ago!” Sam could see the little vein popping out at Dean’s temple. Secretly, Sam thought of it as Dean’s double-bacon-cheeseburger vein, and wheedled Dean into eating a salad at the next available opportunity whenever it appeared.
“You handed it over with half the gas already gone, Dean. In the middle of nowhere. And told me to stay on this road. Which I did-“
“So you just drove and drove until you ran out of gas? And that’s my fault?” Dean slammed his palm down on the seat in frustration. “For fuck’s sake, why didn’t you wake me up when you saw we were in trouble?”
Because you’re exhausted. Because there are coal-colored circles under your eyes. Because I wanted to take care of you for once. “Look, can we just… just…can we not do this tonight? Okay? Can we just figure this out and not fight?” Sam pleaded, and Dean grumbled something under his breath but let it go. They’d steamed up the windows half-a-dozen times that Sam could remember-in detail. But fogging them with angry words on Christmas night wasn’t one he wanted to add to the list.
“Where’s that fancy phone of yours, genius?” Dean asked, rooting around in the crack of the seat.
“Here,” Sam answered, retrieving it from the pocket of his Carharts. “You calling Santa? He’s the only one who’s going to be willing to come out here tonight.” But Dean just snorted in reply. His hair was still flattened where he’d been smashed against the window, and his freckles stood out from the flush of anger now dissolved. He looked all of ten years old, sleepy-eyed kid playing with a shiny new toy. Sam fought to keep from smiling at him like an idiot, watching silently as Dean pushed buttons with a familiarity that confirmed Sam’s suspicions about where his overages were coming from.
“Grab the map, Sammy,” Dean directed, and then compared it to the GPS coordinates on the smartphone, clapping Sam on the shoulder. “Ha! You ran us out of gas only a mile from town, little brother. Merry Christmas to all!” Dean smirked, reaching over the seat for his coat.
The first home they came upon was still alight with family festivities, so at least they didn’t have to wake anyone up. The Ritter household was very welcoming, and soon Sam and Dean were warming up with whiskey-laced coffee and turning down offers of floor-space under the tree.
The Ritters didn’t have any gas, but they did have an empty gas can. A semi-drunk uncle was dispatched to the outbuilding with them to cut a section out of the family garden hose. Dean waved him back to the party and he went cheerfully, wishing them a Merry Christmas as Sam unscrewed the gas cap from Uncle Roger’s ’99 Buick Le Sabre.
“I like the look of you, there, Samuel,” Dean drawled. Sam looked up, pausing with his fingers wrapped around the green vinyl hose, mouth poised at the open end of it. Dean had his hand down his unzipped pants, bulge clearly visible.
“D-do you?” Sam stuttered, dropping slowly to his knees next to the salt-caked fender, mouthing the hose for effect and shifting his grip on it. “Too bad we need to get back to the car,” he replied, giving the hose a test huff as Dean groaned audibly.
“No hurry, Sammy. Besides,” Dean stepped closer, motioning to where the hose entered the car beside the dangling gas cap, “you haven’t done that in a while. You oughta practice first, dontcha think?”
“Pretty sure I…practiced…back in Mankato three days ago, didn’t I?” Sam laughed. But Dean was determined, hand fisting himself and stepping so close that his knuckles brushed Sam’s cheekbone.
“Wasn’t all that great. Think you should try again,” Dean breathed, heavy belt buckle clinking against Sam’s collarbone as he smeared himself along Sam’s jaw line and over the shell of his ear. One of Sam’s hands dropped the hose in favor of grinding in his own crotch, the other reaching for Dean’s hip, but Dean was too quick. He gripped the top of Sam’s head, holding him where Dean wanted him, and trailed the head of his cock across Sam’s ear again, the slick of him cooling a chill on the whorls of it.
“You like that, dontcha, Sammy?” Dean whispered, “get so hot…so hard in a flash if I so much as breathe on it. Always wondered what you’d be like if I fucked you there-“
“Dean. Fuck.” Sam kept trying to tuck his ear against his shoulder, to shield it from the maddening tease of velvety wet skin, but Dean had him pinned against the old sedan with his legs and there was no where for Sam to go.
He was in serious danger of coming in his pants.
“You want me to come like this, Sammy?” Dean’s grip tightened even further, fingers tangling in Sam’s hair, tugging him to prompt for an answer.
“No-no…Dean, please, Jesus just let me…”
“Let you what, Sammy? Huh?” His cock pushed insistently against Sam’s ear now, tease replaced by intent. “What do you want, baby? Want my come on your face?” Sam moaned. “Maybe in your ear, you kinky little bitch?”
But Sam didn’t know. Anything-hell, everything sounded amazing. He couldn’t even coordinate himself enough to get his pants open, just kept on grinding a palm against himself, whining every time Dean’s fisted cock slid again and again along his jaw…his ear…his face. Suddenly Sam felt his head shoved against the dirty silver metal, Dean’s hand pinning him there as he cupped himself and raised up to rub the underside of his balls over the side of Sam’s face. Sam smelled the tang of salt and didn’t know if it was Dean’s or the car’s, and the idea that he couldn’t tell the difference…that Dean’s own essence was universally bound to any car made him start to grind his palm harder between his own legs.
“Dean…c’mere…wanna…” Sam didn’t finish, couldn’t formulate words like he wanted to. But when he stuck his tongue out Dean got his meaning, again raising himself to drag his balls along Sam’s tongue, hand still crushing Sam against the car as he swiped himself against Sam’s mouth. Sam moaned, scrabbling his stiffening knees against the cold concrete as he licked.
“F-fuck, Sammy. That’s…that’s good…shit…” Dean shifted back and a moment later Sam cried out when Dean’s slick-wet skin-the balls that Sam just begged for-brushed his ear again, and Sam was gone.
“Oh…oh god, gonna…coming Dean, fucK….” and just like that, Sam did, came hard in his pants while Dean groaned and jerked his cock so close to Sam’s ear that the slish, slish sounded like the ocean in a shell.
“Gonna…gonna m-mess your pretty face now, Sammy…” Dean kept groaning filthy things as he came, different kind of salt on Sam’s face then, behind his ear, at his mouth-corner. Dean finally relinquished his grip on Sam’s head and Sam shifted them, turning Dean’s ass against the cold metal as Sam smeared his face between Dean’s legs, nose full of the scent of him.
“That counts as your Christmas present, you know,” Sam said later as they pulled into the Blue Skies Motel, but Dean just chuckled.
“Whatever. You owed me,” Dean said.
“What? Running out of gas equals a...really weird pseudo-blow job?” Sam huffed, laughing despite his uncomfortably damp pants.
“Damn straight, Sammy,” Dean grinned, cuffing Sam behind the ear as he headed into the motel office. Sam popped the trunk to get their duffels, smiling upon seeing the five-foot section of hose and tucking it under the other gear.
What got siphoned in could just as easily get siphoned out. But not until the next time Dean was behind the wheel, of course.
Author's note...Written on Christmas night (obv., me=going to hell), so please forgive the lack of a beta. Or, you know, good judgment.
Author:
girlguidejones
Pairing/Rating: Sam/Dean | NC 17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no infringement intended. All characters property of the CW and Kripke Kringle.
Summary: Written for salt_burn_porn. Prompt: out of gas.
“Dean.” No response. Sam wasn’t really all that eager for Dean to wake up, but he reached across the Impala’s seat to shake him awake anyway. Waiting only delayed the inevitable.
“Dean! Wake up, man.” Dean’s head was smashed against the passenger side window, short hair bristle-fanned out against it with his breath fogging a little patch of glass. Sam could see the frost on the outside, and momentarily wondered if Dean’s lips would get stuck, like that kid in the Christmas Story. Another jostle and Dean started to come around.
“Sammy? Why’re we not moving?” Dean shifted upright, rubbing sleep from his eyes like a kid while Sam blew onto his hands. The car had cooled off pretty quickly; Sam could see his breath…and so could Dean. “Sam…”
Sammy had changed to Sam in the space of a few seconds. That was always a bad sign.
“We uh…sorta have a predicament,” Sam tried for the calm-yet-humorous approach.
“What did you do to the car, Sam?” Dean growled. Said approach never worked when the car’s involved, of course.
“Do? Do? I didn’t do anything to the car, jerk. Why do you always have to accuse me of things instead of just asking what’s going on?” Sam shot back.
“You must have, seein’ as how it’s negative ass degrees below zero and she isn’t running like she was when I handed her over to you three hours ago!” Sam could see the little vein popping out at Dean’s temple. Secretly, Sam thought of it as Dean’s double-bacon-cheeseburger vein, and wheedled Dean into eating a salad at the next available opportunity whenever it appeared.
“You handed it over with half the gas already gone, Dean. In the middle of nowhere. And told me to stay on this road. Which I did-“
“So you just drove and drove until you ran out of gas? And that’s my fault?” Dean slammed his palm down on the seat in frustration. “For fuck’s sake, why didn’t you wake me up when you saw we were in trouble?”
Because you’re exhausted. Because there are coal-colored circles under your eyes. Because I wanted to take care of you for once. “Look, can we just… just…can we not do this tonight? Okay? Can we just figure this out and not fight?” Sam pleaded, and Dean grumbled something under his breath but let it go. They’d steamed up the windows half-a-dozen times that Sam could remember-in detail. But fogging them with angry words on Christmas night wasn’t one he wanted to add to the list.
“Where’s that fancy phone of yours, genius?” Dean asked, rooting around in the crack of the seat.
“Here,” Sam answered, retrieving it from the pocket of his Carharts. “You calling Santa? He’s the only one who’s going to be willing to come out here tonight.” But Dean just snorted in reply. His hair was still flattened where he’d been smashed against the window, and his freckles stood out from the flush of anger now dissolved. He looked all of ten years old, sleepy-eyed kid playing with a shiny new toy. Sam fought to keep from smiling at him like an idiot, watching silently as Dean pushed buttons with a familiarity that confirmed Sam’s suspicions about where his overages were coming from.
“Grab the map, Sammy,” Dean directed, and then compared it to the GPS coordinates on the smartphone, clapping Sam on the shoulder. “Ha! You ran us out of gas only a mile from town, little brother. Merry Christmas to all!” Dean smirked, reaching over the seat for his coat.
The first home they came upon was still alight with family festivities, so at least they didn’t have to wake anyone up. The Ritter household was very welcoming, and soon Sam and Dean were warming up with whiskey-laced coffee and turning down offers of floor-space under the tree.
The Ritters didn’t have any gas, but they did have an empty gas can. A semi-drunk uncle was dispatched to the outbuilding with them to cut a section out of the family garden hose. Dean waved him back to the party and he went cheerfully, wishing them a Merry Christmas as Sam unscrewed the gas cap from Uncle Roger’s ’99 Buick Le Sabre.
“I like the look of you, there, Samuel,” Dean drawled. Sam looked up, pausing with his fingers wrapped around the green vinyl hose, mouth poised at the open end of it. Dean had his hand down his unzipped pants, bulge clearly visible.
“D-do you?” Sam stuttered, dropping slowly to his knees next to the salt-caked fender, mouthing the hose for effect and shifting his grip on it. “Too bad we need to get back to the car,” he replied, giving the hose a test huff as Dean groaned audibly.
“No hurry, Sammy. Besides,” Dean stepped closer, motioning to where the hose entered the car beside the dangling gas cap, “you haven’t done that in a while. You oughta practice first, dontcha think?”
“Pretty sure I…practiced…back in Mankato three days ago, didn’t I?” Sam laughed. But Dean was determined, hand fisting himself and stepping so close that his knuckles brushed Sam’s cheekbone.
“Wasn’t all that great. Think you should try again,” Dean breathed, heavy belt buckle clinking against Sam’s collarbone as he smeared himself along Sam’s jaw line and over the shell of his ear. One of Sam’s hands dropped the hose in favor of grinding in his own crotch, the other reaching for Dean’s hip, but Dean was too quick. He gripped the top of Sam’s head, holding him where Dean wanted him, and trailed the head of his cock across Sam’s ear again, the slick of him cooling a chill on the whorls of it.
“You like that, dontcha, Sammy?” Dean whispered, “get so hot…so hard in a flash if I so much as breathe on it. Always wondered what you’d be like if I fucked you there-“
“Dean. Fuck.” Sam kept trying to tuck his ear against his shoulder, to shield it from the maddening tease of velvety wet skin, but Dean had him pinned against the old sedan with his legs and there was no where for Sam to go.
He was in serious danger of coming in his pants.
“You want me to come like this, Sammy?” Dean’s grip tightened even further, fingers tangling in Sam’s hair, tugging him to prompt for an answer.
“No-no…Dean, please, Jesus just let me…”
“Let you what, Sammy? Huh?” His cock pushed insistently against Sam’s ear now, tease replaced by intent. “What do you want, baby? Want my come on your face?” Sam moaned. “Maybe in your ear, you kinky little bitch?”
But Sam didn’t know. Anything-hell, everything sounded amazing. He couldn’t even coordinate himself enough to get his pants open, just kept on grinding a palm against himself, whining every time Dean’s fisted cock slid again and again along his jaw…his ear…his face. Suddenly Sam felt his head shoved against the dirty silver metal, Dean’s hand pinning him there as he cupped himself and raised up to rub the underside of his balls over the side of Sam’s face. Sam smelled the tang of salt and didn’t know if it was Dean’s or the car’s, and the idea that he couldn’t tell the difference…that Dean’s own essence was universally bound to any car made him start to grind his palm harder between his own legs.
“Dean…c’mere…wanna…” Sam didn’t finish, couldn’t formulate words like he wanted to. But when he stuck his tongue out Dean got his meaning, again raising himself to drag his balls along Sam’s tongue, hand still crushing Sam against the car as he swiped himself against Sam’s mouth. Sam moaned, scrabbling his stiffening knees against the cold concrete as he licked.
“F-fuck, Sammy. That’s…that’s good…shit…” Dean shifted back and a moment later Sam cried out when Dean’s slick-wet skin-the balls that Sam just begged for-brushed his ear again, and Sam was gone.
“Oh…oh god, gonna…coming Dean, fucK….” and just like that, Sam did, came hard in his pants while Dean groaned and jerked his cock so close to Sam’s ear that the slish, slish sounded like the ocean in a shell.
“Gonna…gonna m-mess your pretty face now, Sammy…” Dean kept groaning filthy things as he came, different kind of salt on Sam’s face then, behind his ear, at his mouth-corner. Dean finally relinquished his grip on Sam’s head and Sam shifted them, turning Dean’s ass against the cold metal as Sam smeared his face between Dean’s legs, nose full of the scent of him.
“That counts as your Christmas present, you know,” Sam said later as they pulled into the Blue Skies Motel, but Dean just chuckled.
“Whatever. You owed me,” Dean said.
“What? Running out of gas equals a...really weird pseudo-blow job?” Sam huffed, laughing despite his uncomfortably damp pants.
“Damn straight, Sammy,” Dean grinned, cuffing Sam behind the ear as he headed into the motel office. Sam popped the trunk to get their duffels, smiling upon seeing the five-foot section of hose and tucking it under the other gear.
What got siphoned in could just as easily get siphoned out. But not until the next time Dean was behind the wheel, of course.
Author's note...Written on Christmas night (obv., me=going to hell), so please forgive the lack of a beta. Or, you know, good judgment.