(no subject)
Title:Hey Dad Speaking of Driving
Author: hansbekhart
Rating: NC-17 (Sam/Dean)
Summary: The Impala shakes a little as Sam slams Dean into the side of it, his fist wrapped around the front of Dean’s t-shirt.
Notes: This would probably have been more appropriate three weeks ago, but life sorta interfered. Takes place immediately after 2x02, Everybody Loves a Clown; spoilers up to that episode. The ending of the story was inspired by this post, but you might wanna wait until to read to click (linked to with permission). Contains violence. Thanks to shored, who wheezes and mocks me and lets me porn at her. Title taken from The Violent Femmes, "Gimme the Car."
The Impala shakes a little as Sam slams Dean into the side of it, his fist wrapped around the front of Dean’s t-shirt. “What the hell do you mean, nothing?” he hisses.
Dean only shrugs. His eyes are dead, blank holes in his face. His chin tilts up towards Sam. “Nothing happened,” he says again. He offers up the crowbar as proof. One of his fingernails is torn halfway off, the blood already crusted on his fingers. Sam makes a move towards it and Dean yanks his hand away, the crowbar thumping into the car beside his head. With his hand up and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, Sam can see the scratches along Dean’s arm, the bruises from the IV.
When he saw the Impala’s trunk, all that he could think about was coffee spilling across white tile. The first nurse that turned the corner had slipped in the puddle and had to grab the doorframe before she went to her knees next to Dad. The next morning, Bobby put a cup of coffee in front of Sam and all it had taken was one whiff before Sam was bolting for the toilet, his breakfast still recognizable as bacon and eggs when it came up.
He’d spotted Dean a second later, knees drawn up to his chest, back against the Impala’s flank, crowbar held loosely in one hand. Dean hadn’t even glanced up when Sam slammed both hands on the hood of the Impala. Had barely reacted until Sam grabbed him by the loose collar of his buttonup shirt and yanked him to his feet. And then just that flat, dead gaze, his head lolling on his neck.
And Sam was ready to forgive Dean, ready not to be angry at him anymore. He had gone inside and fallen asleep with Wolfowitz, the new puppy, drooling contendedly on his lap and hadn’t woken up until hours after Bobby turned the floodlights on in the yard. He had been waiting for Dean to wake him up, to punch him in the shoulder and just admit that Sam was right and he was shaking apart.
The crowbar drops out of Dean’s hands and thunks against the ground, one end landing heavily on the edge of Sam’s sneakers. He kicks it away, barely feeling the throb in his toes.
“Don’t you give me that,” Sam grinds out, “Don’t you fucking lie to me, Dean, don’t.”
Dean huffs laughter, his eyes trained on Sam’s collarbone. His mouth parts and for a second Sam thinks that he’s going to speak (Dad’s dead and I don’t know what to do) but then the tip of his tongue drags along the curve of his bottom lip, edging around the bruise at the corner of his mouth.
Sam sways close instinctively, his hands clenching. The edge of his thumb finds hot skin underneath Dean’s shirt, the little dip between his collarbones. He licks his own lips and then does it again, nervously this time. “Don’t,” he says.
“Why not?” Dean asks. It isn’t really a question. Sam answers it anyway.
“All you’ve been doing since we - since Dad’s funeral is working on the fucking car. You hardly eat, you hardly sleep, you never stop. It’s gonna kill you, man -” He falters, gropes for the words, the gentle voice that was so easy to imagine using when Dean wasn’t in front of him. “Look. This - it’s not gonna help. It’s not gonna make you hurt any less. It’s not gonna bring him back.”
Dean’s face goes slack, his eyes widening. His chin dips and trembles and Sam has enough time to realize that he never, ever wanted to see his big brother crack no matter what he's said. All that he wants is for Dean to hoist Sam up on his lap and tell him it was all a bad dream. And then he realizes that Dean is laughing, his lips pulled back over his teeth in what should be a grin. Sam takes a step back hesitantly, and Dean’s hands shoot up.
Dean pushes him backwards, fingers clenching hard on Sam’s biceps. He swings Sam around almost effortlessly and Sam goes stumbling hard into the backseat of the Impala. It’s the only part of the car that’s still in place and it smells of gasoline and, faintly, vomit. Dean’s on him almost before Sam’s ass hits leather, yanking at Sam’s belt.
“Stop,” Sam manages. Dean doesn’t even look at him, uses both hands at Sam’s waistband to pull open the zipper. He leans forward even as his fingers grip the hem of Sam’s boxers, mouthing along the line of Sam’s dick, the callouses on his fingers catching the sensitive hairs on Sam’s thigh.
Dean’s mouth is almost hot around Sam’s cock, teeth scraping almost enough to be scary. He’s soft, can barely remember the last time he thought about sex. It’s been weeks since he pushed Dean against the wall of a motel room so cheap that the plaster crumbled under Dean’s back, before Dad showed up, maybe not since New York. For a second, he thinks he could come immediately, the shock, the heat of Dean’s lips and tongue sliding around his cock more than he’s felt for a week.
His hips push forward, thrust up hard against the back of Dean’s throat and Dean just takes it, closes his eyes and doesn’t even try to stop Sam from fucking his mouth. Sam can feel him gagging, can feel that column of muscle convulse around his cock but it’s only when Sam tries to pull away that Dean’s hands come up. One hand spreads across his stomach, holding him against the seat and the other circles Sam’s cock, jacking him. It’s one smooth motion, Dean’s mouth following his hand all the way down and then back up again, the twist of Dean’s wrist just under the head almost unbearable.
“Dean, Dean,” Sam groans, his hands scrabbling along torn leather and finally giving up and grabbing at the hair at the back of Dean’s skull, barely long enough to wind his fingers into, faintly oily. Dean snuffles a bit as if it’s a response, slowing his movements just long enough for his eyes to flick up and catch Sam’s gaze.
“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, and pulls away. Sam’s cry is immediate, instinctive, pulling hard at Dean’s hair even though his brother’s only moved far enough away to pop the button on his jeans and drag the zipper down. He winces as he pushes his pants over his hips, his cock bobbing free and Sam’s hands go to it immediately, wrap around it, his fingers already sliding behind Dean’s balls and rubbing at the soft skin there. Dean’s pants bunch around his knees, both of their hands shoving at the worn denim and they get a single leg free before Dean’s moving again, awkward in the cramped space. They’re too big to do this, have been for years and Dean crabwalks halfway across the seat to swing that free leg over Sam.
He hisses as Dean’s weight settles on his lap. Dean’s skin is blisteringly hot, damp with sweat. The front seat is halfway across the yard and Sam can stretch his legs out for the first time since he’s been able to touch the cars floor without slouching, but Dean is bent nearly in half, his shoulders brushing the roof. The floodlights wash out the freckles on his skin, make his eyes into hard, colorless things.
One hand pins Sam’s hands above his head, the other is sucked between Dean’s lips. The wet slide of his fingers in and out of his mouth is hypnotizing and Sam’s hips buck helplessly. “Gonna make me come,” he says, waits for Dean to laugh at him but his brother’s eyes have gone flat and narrow again and Dean draws his fingers down his chest and between his legs without a word. He flinches when he takes them but their eyes stay locked, focused, Dean’s attention finally, entirely on him and Sam could cry with relief if he wasn’t so fucking hard. He can’t see Dean fingering himself but he can see the strain on Dean’s face, the rush of blood in his cheeks.
Dean gets one foot flat on the seat of the car, spreading his legs wider, tilting his hips forward. His knee knocks against Sam’s shoulder and he drops Sam’s wrists at the same time Sam moves to steady him. Sam's fingers clench too hard on Dean’s bicep, his hip when the tip of his cock nudges against Dean’s asshole.
And god, he wants Dean to laugh at him. To pat him on the chest or knock him on the head or anything. Dean’s head tips back and to the side and Sam would lean forward and bite and suck his way down the line of his brother’s throat if they weren’t so precariously balanced, if Dean weren't holding his cock steady and slowly pushing down.
“Ffffffffuck,” Sam whispers and that finally gets some semblance of laughter out of Dean, a little huff of breath as his teeth sink into his lower lip.
He can tell it hurts Dean but it hurts him too; Dean’s so tight that it’s actually painful, their only lubrication a bit of of spit and the slick off Sam’s dick. Dean rocks against Sam harder and harder, riding him, sweat beading on his forehead and his shoulders and the pain easing into something else. His hands curl around Dean’s shoulders and try to pull him closer but Dean’s free arm is stiff and locked where it’s braced along the backseat and the best Sam can get is his fingers bitten.
Dean’s jeans are still hooked around one ankle and they brush against Sam’s shin. He’s still got his pants on, Dean’s still got his shirt on and it’s ridiculous and unbearably hot. Sam’s fingers tighten. He’s fisting Dean’s shirt and it finally gives him the leverage to bring Dean close until momentum takes over and Dean’s elbows hit the backseat, their chests pressed together, Dean’s ass not pounding against his thighs anymore but sliding over them, too deep to get any friction but the thrust of Dean’s hips. His mouth presses against the worn fabric of Dean’s shirt and he catches it between his teeth without thinking, grazing the hard line of muscle underneath Dean’s nipple.
Once, after Fitchburg, Wisconsin, Dean let Sam tie him to the headboard of a craphole motel room and pound him into the craphole mattress and Sam has an idea of doing it again, of pulling Dean’s buttonup off and binding his arms behind his back with it, but then the smell of the shirt is in his nose and against his tongue and Sam is coming hard. His head jerks back and hits the seat hard and Dean curses him and fuck, he can’t even see.
He comes back to himself slowly. He can feel the motion of Dean’s hand on his own dick, slow, unhurried, almost incidental. He can feel his cock softening, come and sweat wetting his pubic hair. He opens his eyes. He meets Dean’s gaze, flat again, mouth open and wet-looking. Dean tenses only a little when he comes, his eyes squeezing shut and his other hand cupping over his dick, catching his own come. His shoulders stay tight even as he breathes in, out, coming down, but Sam hardly even notices. His eyes skate over Dean’s shirt, the shape of the pockets, the way it hangs on Dean’s shoulders. The smell of Old Spice that still lingers.
The last time Sam saw that shirt it had been rucked up on a tile floor and hot coffee had sent a nurse grabbing for the doorframe. He reaches out, his fingers trembling with the aftershocks of orgasm, and lays his palm flat across the shirt, fingertips against Dean’s collarbone.
Dean's eyes follow the movement and he brushes Sam's hand away, rolling off with a wince and settling back against the backseat. His shoulder presses against Sam's for the heartbeat it takes for Dean to feel the touch and then he resettles himself, a little further away. He doesn't look at Sam. Sam doesn't look at him. He can still smell Old Spice and his dick gives a little halfhearted twitch. Sam covers his face with his hands. They smell like Dean, like motor oil and dirty laundry and sex and Sam wants to cry. He just came from smelling his dad on his brother and he doesn't even have the words for it.
Dean laughs and Sam looks over. There's blood on Dean's fingers, and Sam's eyes move from the blood to between Dean's legs. There's more of it on his inner thigh, slick and almost black in the car's shadows. "Shit," Sam breathes, and Dean laughs again.
"Next couple days'll be fun," he says.
"Shit, Dean," Sam says again, his eyes wide. "You should've told me you -"
"It's fine, Sam," Dean says, cutting him off. His head rests against the backseat, his eyes staring up at nothing. "I'm fine."
Author: hansbekhart
Rating: NC-17 (Sam/Dean)
Summary: The Impala shakes a little as Sam slams Dean into the side of it, his fist wrapped around the front of Dean’s t-shirt.
Notes: This would probably have been more appropriate three weeks ago, but life sorta interfered. Takes place immediately after 2x02, Everybody Loves a Clown; spoilers up to that episode. The ending of the story was inspired by this post, but you might wanna wait until to read to click (linked to with permission). Contains violence. Thanks to shored, who wheezes and mocks me and lets me porn at her. Title taken from The Violent Femmes, "Gimme the Car."
The Impala shakes a little as Sam slams Dean into the side of it, his fist wrapped around the front of Dean’s t-shirt. “What the hell do you mean, nothing?” he hisses.
Dean only shrugs. His eyes are dead, blank holes in his face. His chin tilts up towards Sam. “Nothing happened,” he says again. He offers up the crowbar as proof. One of his fingernails is torn halfway off, the blood already crusted on his fingers. Sam makes a move towards it and Dean yanks his hand away, the crowbar thumping into the car beside his head. With his hand up and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, Sam can see the scratches along Dean’s arm, the bruises from the IV.
When he saw the Impala’s trunk, all that he could think about was coffee spilling across white tile. The first nurse that turned the corner had slipped in the puddle and had to grab the doorframe before she went to her knees next to Dad. The next morning, Bobby put a cup of coffee in front of Sam and all it had taken was one whiff before Sam was bolting for the toilet, his breakfast still recognizable as bacon and eggs when it came up.
He’d spotted Dean a second later, knees drawn up to his chest, back against the Impala’s flank, crowbar held loosely in one hand. Dean hadn’t even glanced up when Sam slammed both hands on the hood of the Impala. Had barely reacted until Sam grabbed him by the loose collar of his buttonup shirt and yanked him to his feet. And then just that flat, dead gaze, his head lolling on his neck.
And Sam was ready to forgive Dean, ready not to be angry at him anymore. He had gone inside and fallen asleep with Wolfowitz, the new puppy, drooling contendedly on his lap and hadn’t woken up until hours after Bobby turned the floodlights on in the yard. He had been waiting for Dean to wake him up, to punch him in the shoulder and just admit that Sam was right and he was shaking apart.
The crowbar drops out of Dean’s hands and thunks against the ground, one end landing heavily on the edge of Sam’s sneakers. He kicks it away, barely feeling the throb in his toes.
“Don’t you give me that,” Sam grinds out, “Don’t you fucking lie to me, Dean, don’t.”
Dean huffs laughter, his eyes trained on Sam’s collarbone. His mouth parts and for a second Sam thinks that he’s going to speak (Dad’s dead and I don’t know what to do) but then the tip of his tongue drags along the curve of his bottom lip, edging around the bruise at the corner of his mouth.
Sam sways close instinctively, his hands clenching. The edge of his thumb finds hot skin underneath Dean’s shirt, the little dip between his collarbones. He licks his own lips and then does it again, nervously this time. “Don’t,” he says.
“Why not?” Dean asks. It isn’t really a question. Sam answers it anyway.
“All you’ve been doing since we - since Dad’s funeral is working on the fucking car. You hardly eat, you hardly sleep, you never stop. It’s gonna kill you, man -” He falters, gropes for the words, the gentle voice that was so easy to imagine using when Dean wasn’t in front of him. “Look. This - it’s not gonna help. It’s not gonna make you hurt any less. It’s not gonna bring him back.”
Dean’s face goes slack, his eyes widening. His chin dips and trembles and Sam has enough time to realize that he never, ever wanted to see his big brother crack no matter what he's said. All that he wants is for Dean to hoist Sam up on his lap and tell him it was all a bad dream. And then he realizes that Dean is laughing, his lips pulled back over his teeth in what should be a grin. Sam takes a step back hesitantly, and Dean’s hands shoot up.
Dean pushes him backwards, fingers clenching hard on Sam’s biceps. He swings Sam around almost effortlessly and Sam goes stumbling hard into the backseat of the Impala. It’s the only part of the car that’s still in place and it smells of gasoline and, faintly, vomit. Dean’s on him almost before Sam’s ass hits leather, yanking at Sam’s belt.
“Stop,” Sam manages. Dean doesn’t even look at him, uses both hands at Sam’s waistband to pull open the zipper. He leans forward even as his fingers grip the hem of Sam’s boxers, mouthing along the line of Sam’s dick, the callouses on his fingers catching the sensitive hairs on Sam’s thigh.
Dean’s mouth is almost hot around Sam’s cock, teeth scraping almost enough to be scary. He’s soft, can barely remember the last time he thought about sex. It’s been weeks since he pushed Dean against the wall of a motel room so cheap that the plaster crumbled under Dean’s back, before Dad showed up, maybe not since New York. For a second, he thinks he could come immediately, the shock, the heat of Dean’s lips and tongue sliding around his cock more than he’s felt for a week.
His hips push forward, thrust up hard against the back of Dean’s throat and Dean just takes it, closes his eyes and doesn’t even try to stop Sam from fucking his mouth. Sam can feel him gagging, can feel that column of muscle convulse around his cock but it’s only when Sam tries to pull away that Dean’s hands come up. One hand spreads across his stomach, holding him against the seat and the other circles Sam’s cock, jacking him. It’s one smooth motion, Dean’s mouth following his hand all the way down and then back up again, the twist of Dean’s wrist just under the head almost unbearable.
“Dean, Dean,” Sam groans, his hands scrabbling along torn leather and finally giving up and grabbing at the hair at the back of Dean’s skull, barely long enough to wind his fingers into, faintly oily. Dean snuffles a bit as if it’s a response, slowing his movements just long enough for his eyes to flick up and catch Sam’s gaze.
“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, and pulls away. Sam’s cry is immediate, instinctive, pulling hard at Dean’s hair even though his brother’s only moved far enough away to pop the button on his jeans and drag the zipper down. He winces as he pushes his pants over his hips, his cock bobbing free and Sam’s hands go to it immediately, wrap around it, his fingers already sliding behind Dean’s balls and rubbing at the soft skin there. Dean’s pants bunch around his knees, both of their hands shoving at the worn denim and they get a single leg free before Dean’s moving again, awkward in the cramped space. They’re too big to do this, have been for years and Dean crabwalks halfway across the seat to swing that free leg over Sam.
He hisses as Dean’s weight settles on his lap. Dean’s skin is blisteringly hot, damp with sweat. The front seat is halfway across the yard and Sam can stretch his legs out for the first time since he’s been able to touch the cars floor without slouching, but Dean is bent nearly in half, his shoulders brushing the roof. The floodlights wash out the freckles on his skin, make his eyes into hard, colorless things.
One hand pins Sam’s hands above his head, the other is sucked between Dean’s lips. The wet slide of his fingers in and out of his mouth is hypnotizing and Sam’s hips buck helplessly. “Gonna make me come,” he says, waits for Dean to laugh at him but his brother’s eyes have gone flat and narrow again and Dean draws his fingers down his chest and between his legs without a word. He flinches when he takes them but their eyes stay locked, focused, Dean’s attention finally, entirely on him and Sam could cry with relief if he wasn’t so fucking hard. He can’t see Dean fingering himself but he can see the strain on Dean’s face, the rush of blood in his cheeks.
Dean gets one foot flat on the seat of the car, spreading his legs wider, tilting his hips forward. His knee knocks against Sam’s shoulder and he drops Sam’s wrists at the same time Sam moves to steady him. Sam's fingers clench too hard on Dean’s bicep, his hip when the tip of his cock nudges against Dean’s asshole.
And god, he wants Dean to laugh at him. To pat him on the chest or knock him on the head or anything. Dean’s head tips back and to the side and Sam would lean forward and bite and suck his way down the line of his brother’s throat if they weren’t so precariously balanced, if Dean weren't holding his cock steady and slowly pushing down.
“Ffffffffuck,” Sam whispers and that finally gets some semblance of laughter out of Dean, a little huff of breath as his teeth sink into his lower lip.
He can tell it hurts Dean but it hurts him too; Dean’s so tight that it’s actually painful, their only lubrication a bit of of spit and the slick off Sam’s dick. Dean rocks against Sam harder and harder, riding him, sweat beading on his forehead and his shoulders and the pain easing into something else. His hands curl around Dean’s shoulders and try to pull him closer but Dean’s free arm is stiff and locked where it’s braced along the backseat and the best Sam can get is his fingers bitten.
Dean’s jeans are still hooked around one ankle and they brush against Sam’s shin. He’s still got his pants on, Dean’s still got his shirt on and it’s ridiculous and unbearably hot. Sam’s fingers tighten. He’s fisting Dean’s shirt and it finally gives him the leverage to bring Dean close until momentum takes over and Dean’s elbows hit the backseat, their chests pressed together, Dean’s ass not pounding against his thighs anymore but sliding over them, too deep to get any friction but the thrust of Dean’s hips. His mouth presses against the worn fabric of Dean’s shirt and he catches it between his teeth without thinking, grazing the hard line of muscle underneath Dean’s nipple.
Once, after Fitchburg, Wisconsin, Dean let Sam tie him to the headboard of a craphole motel room and pound him into the craphole mattress and Sam has an idea of doing it again, of pulling Dean’s buttonup off and binding his arms behind his back with it, but then the smell of the shirt is in his nose and against his tongue and Sam is coming hard. His head jerks back and hits the seat hard and Dean curses him and fuck, he can’t even see.
He comes back to himself slowly. He can feel the motion of Dean’s hand on his own dick, slow, unhurried, almost incidental. He can feel his cock softening, come and sweat wetting his pubic hair. He opens his eyes. He meets Dean’s gaze, flat again, mouth open and wet-looking. Dean tenses only a little when he comes, his eyes squeezing shut and his other hand cupping over his dick, catching his own come. His shoulders stay tight even as he breathes in, out, coming down, but Sam hardly even notices. His eyes skate over Dean’s shirt, the shape of the pockets, the way it hangs on Dean’s shoulders. The smell of Old Spice that still lingers.
The last time Sam saw that shirt it had been rucked up on a tile floor and hot coffee had sent a nurse grabbing for the doorframe. He reaches out, his fingers trembling with the aftershocks of orgasm, and lays his palm flat across the shirt, fingertips against Dean’s collarbone.
Dean's eyes follow the movement and he brushes Sam's hand away, rolling off with a wince and settling back against the backseat. His shoulder presses against Sam's for the heartbeat it takes for Dean to feel the touch and then he resettles himself, a little further away. He doesn't look at Sam. Sam doesn't look at him. He can still smell Old Spice and his dick gives a little halfhearted twitch. Sam covers his face with his hands. They smell like Dean, like motor oil and dirty laundry and sex and Sam wants to cry. He just came from smelling his dad on his brother and he doesn't even have the words for it.
Dean laughs and Sam looks over. There's blood on Dean's fingers, and Sam's eyes move from the blood to between Dean's legs. There's more of it on his inner thigh, slick and almost black in the car's shadows. "Shit," Sam breathes, and Dean laughs again.
"Next couple days'll be fun," he says.
"Shit, Dean," Sam says again, his eyes wide. "You should've told me you -"
"It's fine, Sam," Dean says, cutting him off. His head rests against the backseat, his eyes staring up at nothing. "I'm fine."