(no subject)
So tvm was drunk and voiceposting about Sam and Dean blowjobs and sandwiches and hey, I was charmed. Under the cut is a little over 500 words of pure, unadulterated porn and sandwiches, although not together. Pee is one thing, food is another, guys.
Dean’s lips slide over his cock and for a moment Sam can’t even breathe. His fingers clench around the steering wheel, his head tipped back against the seat, staring blindly up at the ceiling. Dean’s mouth is unbearably hot, slick and tight around his cock, moving slowly up and down, his hand circling around to cover what he can’t take down his throat.
He’s been teasing Sam for hours, sprawled loose across the passenger seat, legs spread, one hand palming his own cock through his jeans or just filthy words spilling out of his mouth, goading Sam on until it was all Sam could do to find the nearest back road and park before yanking his jeans open and pushing Dean’s head down. He’s so wound up that he can feel the calluses on Dean’s fingers, the rough brush of his knuckles against Sam’s belly.
Dean’s tucked awkwardly across the seat, one knee drawn up against the back of it to steady himself, Sam’s hands on his shoulder and in his hair keeping him from sliding down into the footwell. It wouldn’t work with Sam; it barely works with Dean. His boots slide across the worn leather and brace against the doorframe. “You’re flexible,” Sam pants out. Dean doesn’t even pause in what he’s doing, just slides his other hand up between Sam’s legs and finds Sam’s balls, rolling them between three fingers, stroking the soft skin behind them.
Headlights flash across the road, blinding him, and Sam groans out loud. The trucker’s head turns as he passes them, an ashy blur in the darkness of his cab, his mouth open in a silent ‘o.’ Sam’s hips buck hard at that and Dean’s hand leaves his shaft long enough to push his hips back down against the seat, warningly.
Want you to fuck my mouth, Dean had said, the car racing along the I-5, the needle climbing towards 90. Want you to use me. Want you to bend me over the seat and fuck me, god Sammy, come on, Sammy, look over. I know you wanna see what I’m doing.
And he’d fucking love that, fucking love to shove Dean out of the car and shove him down over the hood, take him with nothing more than the thick spit and precome drooling out of Dean’s mouth as he takes Sam’s cock all the way down to the root. But Sam’s body is already seizing up, his hands fisting too hard in Dean’s hair and it’s all he can do to gasp, “Gonna come,” before he does, not easing up until his cock is twitching weakly with the aftershocks, Dean’s throat swallowing him down easily.
Dean sits up, back set against the door and pulls his own cock out, strokes twice and comes, chest heaving. His hand covers the head, catching his come before it can get on his shirt, or worse, the car, and after a moment he digs around for a napkin.
Dean shifts in his seat, humming quietly to himself. Sam answers him much the same way, a long, drawn out, agreeable mmmmm, waits for Dean to say something like, “I totally own you at cocksucking,” or even, “Fuck, that was hot,” but all Dean says is, “Man, I could really go for a sandwich.”
For some reason I feel like all I do lately is porn. Not that that's a bad thing, but man. Seriously. And now I gotta skedaddle off to work!
Dean’s lips slide over his cock and for a moment Sam can’t even breathe. His fingers clench around the steering wheel, his head tipped back against the seat, staring blindly up at the ceiling. Dean’s mouth is unbearably hot, slick and tight around his cock, moving slowly up and down, his hand circling around to cover what he can’t take down his throat.
He’s been teasing Sam for hours, sprawled loose across the passenger seat, legs spread, one hand palming his own cock through his jeans or just filthy words spilling out of his mouth, goading Sam on until it was all Sam could do to find the nearest back road and park before yanking his jeans open and pushing Dean’s head down. He’s so wound up that he can feel the calluses on Dean’s fingers, the rough brush of his knuckles against Sam’s belly.
Dean’s tucked awkwardly across the seat, one knee drawn up against the back of it to steady himself, Sam’s hands on his shoulder and in his hair keeping him from sliding down into the footwell. It wouldn’t work with Sam; it barely works with Dean. His boots slide across the worn leather and brace against the doorframe. “You’re flexible,” Sam pants out. Dean doesn’t even pause in what he’s doing, just slides his other hand up between Sam’s legs and finds Sam’s balls, rolling them between three fingers, stroking the soft skin behind them.
Headlights flash across the road, blinding him, and Sam groans out loud. The trucker’s head turns as he passes them, an ashy blur in the darkness of his cab, his mouth open in a silent ‘o.’ Sam’s hips buck hard at that and Dean’s hand leaves his shaft long enough to push his hips back down against the seat, warningly.
Want you to fuck my mouth, Dean had said, the car racing along the I-5, the needle climbing towards 90. Want you to use me. Want you to bend me over the seat and fuck me, god Sammy, come on, Sammy, look over. I know you wanna see what I’m doing.
And he’d fucking love that, fucking love to shove Dean out of the car and shove him down over the hood, take him with nothing more than the thick spit and precome drooling out of Dean’s mouth as he takes Sam’s cock all the way down to the root. But Sam’s body is already seizing up, his hands fisting too hard in Dean’s hair and it’s all he can do to gasp, “Gonna come,” before he does, not easing up until his cock is twitching weakly with the aftershocks, Dean’s throat swallowing him down easily.
Dean sits up, back set against the door and pulls his own cock out, strokes twice and comes, chest heaving. His hand covers the head, catching his come before it can get on his shirt, or worse, the car, and after a moment he digs around for a napkin.
Dean shifts in his seat, humming quietly to himself. Sam answers him much the same way, a long, drawn out, agreeable mmmmm, waits for Dean to say something like, “I totally own you at cocksucking,” or even, “Fuck, that was hot,” but all Dean says is, “Man, I could really go for a sandwich.”
For some reason I feel like all I do lately is porn. Not that that's a bad thing, but man. Seriously. And now I gotta skedaddle off to work!