Supernatural Slash Fiction: Smoking Gun
Title: Smoking Gun
Author: HalfshellVenus
Characters: Sam/Dean (Wincest)
Rating: R
Summary: For particlesofgale, who wanted Sam/Dean slash. Longer than a drabble, but worth every extra word. :)
x-x-x-x-x
Something about the Southwest always prompts Dean to clean his guns.
He lays them out on the motel room’s table or bed, arrayed by type and caliber. Disassembling them in pieces, he has rows of chambers, pins and shafts all waiting for stripping, polishing and oiling. Piece by piece he examines and rubs and caresses, feeling for flaws with his fingertips, for hitches and gouges and pieces of grit. He swipes and sights and pushes and rechecks, lavishing all his attention on-
“Hey. A guy could die of frustration watching you feel up all your damn guns.”
Dean’s eyes flick over to the bed, where Sam lies waiting in his underwear and a tight white T-shirt. His brother is half-hard, straining toward the opening of his boxers, while his hand strokes lazily-mimicking Dean’s handiwork with the guns.
Dean smiles then, wiping his hands off with a towel and making his way over to the bed. Easing onto it, he moves in next to Sam-his eyes never leaving Sam’s hand. He reaches forward and takes over, rubbing and counterchecking the heft of Sam’s erection underneath the cloth. He pulls the fly open, pushing it down with one hand while the other coaxes Sam out into the open air. Dean’s fingers roll carefully along the shaft, both thumbs moving up under the front of the head and sweeping upward in tandem as Sam’s hips lift up off the bed. He works with a long, pulling rhythm, palming over the head and angling it upward and back at the top of each deliberate stroke. These are the mechanics he knows as well as his own, as well as his guns and the strategies of the hunt.
He tends to Sam with careful devotion, fingers tracing the fluid build of pleasure as his own heartbeat quickens and Sam leans toward him and puts his arm around Dean’s back. Dean is attuned to every moan and bitten-off cry, every tremor and push against his hand that highlight his brother’s response.
Moving faster, harder, a swirl of interwoven sensations, he brings Sam closer, closer and sweeps him over the breathless edge of completion.
Then he brushes his fingers gently over and around, drifting down Sam’s legs and belly and arms. He watches Sam slow and ease and relax, feels those large hands covering and caressing his own with such infinite tenderness.
Sam’s smile is all for him, his eyes full of every answer Dean has ever sought.
This is still his favorite pastime, whether it is both of them or the one who wants it most.
He is as skilled in this as anything… but his guns will never be so irresistibly beautiful or grateful.
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Author: HalfshellVenus
Characters: Sam/Dean (Wincest)
Rating: R
Summary: For particlesofgale, who wanted Sam/Dean slash. Longer than a drabble, but worth every extra word. :)
x-x-x-x-x
Something about the Southwest always prompts Dean to clean his guns.
He lays them out on the motel room’s table or bed, arrayed by type and caliber. Disassembling them in pieces, he has rows of chambers, pins and shafts all waiting for stripping, polishing and oiling. Piece by piece he examines and rubs and caresses, feeling for flaws with his fingertips, for hitches and gouges and pieces of grit. He swipes and sights and pushes and rechecks, lavishing all his attention on-
“Hey. A guy could die of frustration watching you feel up all your damn guns.”
Dean’s eyes flick over to the bed, where Sam lies waiting in his underwear and a tight white T-shirt. His brother is half-hard, straining toward the opening of his boxers, while his hand strokes lazily-mimicking Dean’s handiwork with the guns.
Dean smiles then, wiping his hands off with a towel and making his way over to the bed. Easing onto it, he moves in next to Sam-his eyes never leaving Sam’s hand. He reaches forward and takes over, rubbing and counterchecking the heft of Sam’s erection underneath the cloth. He pulls the fly open, pushing it down with one hand while the other coaxes Sam out into the open air. Dean’s fingers roll carefully along the shaft, both thumbs moving up under the front of the head and sweeping upward in tandem as Sam’s hips lift up off the bed. He works with a long, pulling rhythm, palming over the head and angling it upward and back at the top of each deliberate stroke. These are the mechanics he knows as well as his own, as well as his guns and the strategies of the hunt.
He tends to Sam with careful devotion, fingers tracing the fluid build of pleasure as his own heartbeat quickens and Sam leans toward him and puts his arm around Dean’s back. Dean is attuned to every moan and bitten-off cry, every tremor and push against his hand that highlight his brother’s response.
Moving faster, harder, a swirl of interwoven sensations, he brings Sam closer, closer and sweeps him over the breathless edge of completion.
Then he brushes his fingers gently over and around, drifting down Sam’s legs and belly and arms. He watches Sam slow and ease and relax, feels those large hands covering and caressing his own with such infinite tenderness.
Sam’s smile is all for him, his eyes full of every answer Dean has ever sought.
This is still his favorite pastime, whether it is both of them or the one who wants it most.
He is as skilled in this as anything… but his guns will never be so irresistibly beautiful or grateful.
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