Prompt 168 - Supernatural
Author: Steph
Fic title: Two Guys Run Out of a Bar...
Fandom: Supernatural
Prompt: 168. Sam/Dean, hood of the Impala, except Dean bitches at Sam for coming on his car.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: “What would Dad say if he found out that we died and it wasn’t at the hands of some freak-ass demon, but a group of rednecks that hurt Little Sammy’s feelings?” Dean and Sam deal with the aftermath of an altercation. Thanks to storydivagirl for the beta.
“You…!” Dean yells when they finally stop running, pointing a shaking finger in Sam’s face.
Sam crosses his arms over his chest and scowls in the angry, indignant way that Dean has learned to loathe, because it always means that one of them has fucked up.
“It’s not right, Dean!” Sam says, expression mulish and young as he uses his long legs to keep up with Dean’s furious strides. His right eye is purpling and there’s a thin line of blood dripping down his chin that he wipes away impatiently with the back of his hand.
“It’s not right, Dean!” Dean mimics in his unflattering, high-pitched Sam-voice.
“Three teenage boys have been killed and those men were celebrating, for god’s sake. It’s sick.”
Dean stops walking and rounds on his brother, eyes wide. “We’re in the middle of Bumblefuck, Alabama, Sam! What, did you expect to show up during the Pride Parade?”
“Just because it’s accepted doesn’t make it ok, Dean. Who’s going to advocate for those kids if not us, huh? Not their parents, since every one of them has conveniently forgotten that they ever even had a son.”
“’Advocate,’ Jesus…” Dean groans. Sometimes he fucking resents Sam going away to college. He didn’t raise the kid to be such a bleeding heart. “You couldn’t have written a letter to the local newspaper?”
“Dean…“
“We are advocating for them, Sam,” Dean interrupts, trying not to roll his eyes. “By figuring out what kind of Jerry Falwell-loving poltergeist is doing this and killing the son of a bitch. That’s our job. Besides, what would Dad say if…”
“Oh, don’t pull the Dad card,” Sam warns, but Dean talks over him.
“What would Dad say if he found out that we died and it wasn’t at the hands of some freak-ass demon, but a group of rednecks that hurt Little Sammy’s feelings?”
“Hey, you’re the one who threw the first punch,” Sam argues.
Dean gives him his best fuck-off glare and stomps through the field back to the Impala, because he can’t deny that. The nine men had surrounded him and Sam in the bar and Dean initially thought, No gun, gotta play nice. Then one of them, a guy who looked like the uncivilized cousin of those human-hunters they went up against in Minnesota, leered at Sammy, gripped his own dick through his overalls and slurred, “You so interested in faggots, boy? Why don’t you get on your knees and show me how it’s done?”
And since Dean pretty much invented the concept of “nobody makes fun of my kid brother but me,” he had his fist rammed into the guy’s teeth with a satisfying crunch and the squelch of blood before he was even conscious of moving. After that was a blur of ow, ow, ow until Sam smashed a barstool into one of the building’s large windows and they both made a break for it.
“Well,” Dean says finally, “my first instinct was to ask for a peer mediator, but I thought maybe it was too short notice.”
Sam doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he studies Dean’s face while Dean stares straight ahead, feeling uncomfortable. After several seconds, a grin breaks out across Sam’s face.
“My knight in shining armor.”
“Shut up,” Dean grits out.
Sam laughs softly under his breath but doesn’t say anything else, making Dean profoundly grateful.
There’s a good five minutes of blissful silence, in which Dean catalogues his various injuries-bloody nose, bruise on his hip that he’d bet money is twice the size of his fist, some twinges in his back, nothing too bad-before Sam speaks again.
“Remind me again why you had to park so far away.”
This time Dean doesn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes. The only things he loves more than the Impala are Sam and his dad. And on some days-when his dad would disappear with only some cryptic message left behind for Dean to decipher, or when Sam would be too busy with his fancy new life to return Dean’s phone calls-all three broke even. He’s not about to leave his spotless, perfectly waxed car filled with a fucking arsenal of weapons in that kind of neighborhood, in front of that kind of bar, gleaming in the dull lamp light like an invitation.
“Remind me again why people call you the smart one,” Dean retorts.
“Haha,” Sam deadpans, and then says, “Finally” as the Impala comes into view.
“Now could you stop bitching?” Dean grunts, curling his hand into a fist at his side to avoid clutching his bruised hip and calling attention to it, because the only thing worse than a whining Sam is a guilty Sam.
“It’s not right,” Sam repeats again, but this time it’s soft, sad. “No one cares about those boys. No parent or neighbor or teacher. Even if we catch this thing, it won’t fix that.”
Dean glances at Sam out of the corner of his eye and then looks away. “Yeah.”
Despite his pain and exhaustion, Dean knows he’ll be awake all night poring over his father’s journal and trolling the Internet, looking for any information that will wipe the haunted look off of Sam’s face.
“It’s bullshit! What’s wrong with these people?” Sam yells.
Dean feels his eyebrows rise in concern and bemusement at the outburst. “Dude, chill.”
“I’m not gonna chill,” Sam argues. “What about you, Dean? You fuck guys, so why aren’t you more upset about this?”
“We see heinous shit happen every day, Sam. I think the question is why you’re making this so personal.”
Dean stuffs his hand into his pocket to retrieve his keys when Sam surprises him by pivoting on his heel, grabbing the back of Dean’s neck and crashing their mouths together. Dean flails a moment and then places his hands in Sam’s hair on either side of his head. He leans into the kiss a moment, tasting beer and the metallic tinge of blood, before pulling away.
“I don’t think now is the best time for this,” Dean suggests, looking cautiously around at the empty expanse of field they're standing in.
“Why not?” Sam asks, dipping down to capture Dean’s mouth again.
Dean steps out of range and cocks his head. “Maybe because of the sexually repressed poltergeist terrorizing the populace or the dozen or so men with shotguns who are probably looking for us?”
“The risk makes it exciting,” Sam counters, stepping forward to invade Dean’s space.
“Yeah, and I know how you’re so big on risks and excitement,” Dean retorts, his words thick with sarcasm.
“Are you seriously turning me down?” Sam asks, his fingers working at undoing the buttons of his shirt.
“Yes…ok, no,” Dean amends as Sam’s shirt hits the ground.
Fuck it, Dean thinks, grabbing onto Sam’s hips and dragging him forward. They shuffle back until Dean’s legs hit the front of the Impala. He rips his mouth away from Sam’s and closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against Sam’s naked shoulder.
“Not on the car,” Dean warns.
“Wherever I want,” Sam argues, and a fission of heat races through Dean. Sam’s hands fumble with the bottom of Dean’s shirt a moment and then drag it up and over Dean’s head. “Yeah, come on.”
Sam feels hot pressed against him, hard and wild and desperate. His hands don’t stop moving, going from Dean’s hair to his back down to his ass as Sam presses his dick against Dean’s thigh.
Dean puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders and runs them slowly down Sam’s biceps, feeling them flex and shift beneath his fingers. Dean can feel how out of control Sam is, his usual lanky grace gone and replaced with a restlessness and impatience that worries Dean. He lowers the intensity of their kiss, gentles it, and forces Sam to slow down. When Sam’s hands clutch at his hips, he ignores the hot pain that blooms from his bruise and licks a trail from Sam’s mouth to his ear.
Sam’s breath comes out in uneven pants that coast along the back of Dean’s neck. “Please, Dean.”
“Ok, ok,” Dean says. “Let me do this.” He brings his hands down to unbutton Sammy’s jeans. An extra push has them and his boxers pooling around Sam’s ankles, and Sam steps out of them awkwardly, the shoes still on his feet making it difficult, but Dean holds on, waiting until Sam kicks the jeans aside.
Dean turns him around until Sam’s facing the Impala with his hands on the hood. Taking a moment to wince at the thought of what he is about to do to his car, Dean presses his chest against Sam’s back. He reaches around and grips Sam’s cock in his hand.
The first strong pull has Sam groaning and losing his balance, crashing his elbows down on the hood with an ominous thump.
“If there’s a dent in my car, I’m never touching your cock again,” Dean warns.
Sam has the audacity to snort at this before Dean runs his thumb firmly over his balls. “Yeah, right there,” Sam gasps.
“Come on. Come on, Sammy,” Dean coaxes, hand stroking in the hard, unrelenting rhythm that Sam prefers. He kisses Sam’s shoulder and then hooks his chin over it so he can watch what he’s doing.
Sam’s head lulls down and his hips join in, canting in counter-rhythm to Dean’s movements, every thrust rubbing against Dean’s hardness.
Dean fumbles with the hand not on Sam’s cock to undo his pants and fist his own dick in a tight grip. He shuts his eyes against the sensation and tries to focus on getting them both off as fast as possible.
It’s not long before Sam is coming with a grunt of relief that sets off Dean’s orgasm right behind him. Sam’s arms give out entirely, and Dean falls on top of him, groaning when their hips meet, sending a sharp pain through him. He rolls away from the car and to his feet and tries to assess the damage they’ve done.
“Move outta the way,” Dean commands, giving Sam’s ass a slap. When Sam pushes off of the car and stands, Dean winces at the state of his hood. “Look at this! That’s just fucking great.”
He picks up Sam’s abandoned shirt and scrubs at the come smeared against the black sheen of the car.
“Hey, not my shirt!” Sam argues.
“This is your fault,” Dean says. “So don’t be a bitch about it. Anyway, there’re extra clothes in the back seat.”
Sam huffs and rolls his eyes. Dean fishes through his pockets and tosses Sam the keys. “Are you done freaking out?” he asks as Sam unlocks the doors and roots around in the back seat.
He emerges with one of Dean’s black t-shirts halfway on. When his head pokes through, he looks sheepish. “Yeah, I’m done. Sorry about that. This case is just driving me crazy. I can’t understand how an entire town can be so close-minded. There was nothing wrong with those boys. There’s nothing wrong with this,” Sam declares, indicating him and Dean with his hand, face full of righteous indignation.
Dean raises an eyebrow and smirks at the way Sam’s face flushes.
“You know, except for…”
“…the fact that we’re brothers?” Dean finishes.
“Yeah, except that,” Sam says in a small voice, all of his bluster gone, and retreats into the car.
Dean snickers, amused at Sam’s discomfort, and gives the Impala one more ineffectual swipe with the shirt. Sam has always been the one worried about being normal. He’s gotten better about it since coming back to Dean, but occasionally he still lets the morals of his WASPy, upper middleclass college friends dictate how he lives his life.
Dean knows better, knows he’s different. He’s a dead man, almost literally, as much of a ghost as the things they fight every day. He could give a fuck about societal taboos, especially when they try to tell him what he can and can’t do with Sammy.
Tossing the shirt in the back, Dean climbs into the driver’s seat. Sam hands him the keys and he starts the ignition, luxuriating in the purr of the engine beneath him.
“Come on, Sam. Let’s finish this and get the fuck out of here.”
Fic title: Two Guys Run Out of a Bar...
Fandom: Supernatural
Prompt: 168. Sam/Dean, hood of the Impala, except Dean bitches at Sam for coming on his car.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: “What would Dad say if he found out that we died and it wasn’t at the hands of some freak-ass demon, but a group of rednecks that hurt Little Sammy’s feelings?” Dean and Sam deal with the aftermath of an altercation. Thanks to storydivagirl for the beta.
“You…!” Dean yells when they finally stop running, pointing a shaking finger in Sam’s face.
Sam crosses his arms over his chest and scowls in the angry, indignant way that Dean has learned to loathe, because it always means that one of them has fucked up.
“It’s not right, Dean!” Sam says, expression mulish and young as he uses his long legs to keep up with Dean’s furious strides. His right eye is purpling and there’s a thin line of blood dripping down his chin that he wipes away impatiently with the back of his hand.
“It’s not right, Dean!” Dean mimics in his unflattering, high-pitched Sam-voice.
“Three teenage boys have been killed and those men were celebrating, for god’s sake. It’s sick.”
Dean stops walking and rounds on his brother, eyes wide. “We’re in the middle of Bumblefuck, Alabama, Sam! What, did you expect to show up during the Pride Parade?”
“Just because it’s accepted doesn’t make it ok, Dean. Who’s going to advocate for those kids if not us, huh? Not their parents, since every one of them has conveniently forgotten that they ever even had a son.”
“’Advocate,’ Jesus…” Dean groans. Sometimes he fucking resents Sam going away to college. He didn’t raise the kid to be such a bleeding heart. “You couldn’t have written a letter to the local newspaper?”
“Dean…“
“We are advocating for them, Sam,” Dean interrupts, trying not to roll his eyes. “By figuring out what kind of Jerry Falwell-loving poltergeist is doing this and killing the son of a bitch. That’s our job. Besides, what would Dad say if…”
“Oh, don’t pull the Dad card,” Sam warns, but Dean talks over him.
“What would Dad say if he found out that we died and it wasn’t at the hands of some freak-ass demon, but a group of rednecks that hurt Little Sammy’s feelings?”
“Hey, you’re the one who threw the first punch,” Sam argues.
Dean gives him his best fuck-off glare and stomps through the field back to the Impala, because he can’t deny that. The nine men had surrounded him and Sam in the bar and Dean initially thought, No gun, gotta play nice. Then one of them, a guy who looked like the uncivilized cousin of those human-hunters they went up against in Minnesota, leered at Sammy, gripped his own dick through his overalls and slurred, “You so interested in faggots, boy? Why don’t you get on your knees and show me how it’s done?”
And since Dean pretty much invented the concept of “nobody makes fun of my kid brother but me,” he had his fist rammed into the guy’s teeth with a satisfying crunch and the squelch of blood before he was even conscious of moving. After that was a blur of ow, ow, ow until Sam smashed a barstool into one of the building’s large windows and they both made a break for it.
“Well,” Dean says finally, “my first instinct was to ask for a peer mediator, but I thought maybe it was too short notice.”
Sam doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he studies Dean’s face while Dean stares straight ahead, feeling uncomfortable. After several seconds, a grin breaks out across Sam’s face.
“My knight in shining armor.”
“Shut up,” Dean grits out.
Sam laughs softly under his breath but doesn’t say anything else, making Dean profoundly grateful.
There’s a good five minutes of blissful silence, in which Dean catalogues his various injuries-bloody nose, bruise on his hip that he’d bet money is twice the size of his fist, some twinges in his back, nothing too bad-before Sam speaks again.
“Remind me again why you had to park so far away.”
This time Dean doesn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes. The only things he loves more than the Impala are Sam and his dad. And on some days-when his dad would disappear with only some cryptic message left behind for Dean to decipher, or when Sam would be too busy with his fancy new life to return Dean’s phone calls-all three broke even. He’s not about to leave his spotless, perfectly waxed car filled with a fucking arsenal of weapons in that kind of neighborhood, in front of that kind of bar, gleaming in the dull lamp light like an invitation.
“Remind me again why people call you the smart one,” Dean retorts.
“Haha,” Sam deadpans, and then says, “Finally” as the Impala comes into view.
“Now could you stop bitching?” Dean grunts, curling his hand into a fist at his side to avoid clutching his bruised hip and calling attention to it, because the only thing worse than a whining Sam is a guilty Sam.
“It’s not right,” Sam repeats again, but this time it’s soft, sad. “No one cares about those boys. No parent or neighbor or teacher. Even if we catch this thing, it won’t fix that.”
Dean glances at Sam out of the corner of his eye and then looks away. “Yeah.”
Despite his pain and exhaustion, Dean knows he’ll be awake all night poring over his father’s journal and trolling the Internet, looking for any information that will wipe the haunted look off of Sam’s face.
“It’s bullshit! What’s wrong with these people?” Sam yells.
Dean feels his eyebrows rise in concern and bemusement at the outburst. “Dude, chill.”
“I’m not gonna chill,” Sam argues. “What about you, Dean? You fuck guys, so why aren’t you more upset about this?”
“We see heinous shit happen every day, Sam. I think the question is why you’re making this so personal.”
Dean stuffs his hand into his pocket to retrieve his keys when Sam surprises him by pivoting on his heel, grabbing the back of Dean’s neck and crashing their mouths together. Dean flails a moment and then places his hands in Sam’s hair on either side of his head. He leans into the kiss a moment, tasting beer and the metallic tinge of blood, before pulling away.
“I don’t think now is the best time for this,” Dean suggests, looking cautiously around at the empty expanse of field they're standing in.
“Why not?” Sam asks, dipping down to capture Dean’s mouth again.
Dean steps out of range and cocks his head. “Maybe because of the sexually repressed poltergeist terrorizing the populace or the dozen or so men with shotguns who are probably looking for us?”
“The risk makes it exciting,” Sam counters, stepping forward to invade Dean’s space.
“Yeah, and I know how you’re so big on risks and excitement,” Dean retorts, his words thick with sarcasm.
“Are you seriously turning me down?” Sam asks, his fingers working at undoing the buttons of his shirt.
“Yes…ok, no,” Dean amends as Sam’s shirt hits the ground.
Fuck it, Dean thinks, grabbing onto Sam’s hips and dragging him forward. They shuffle back until Dean’s legs hit the front of the Impala. He rips his mouth away from Sam’s and closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against Sam’s naked shoulder.
“Not on the car,” Dean warns.
“Wherever I want,” Sam argues, and a fission of heat races through Dean. Sam’s hands fumble with the bottom of Dean’s shirt a moment and then drag it up and over Dean’s head. “Yeah, come on.”
Sam feels hot pressed against him, hard and wild and desperate. His hands don’t stop moving, going from Dean’s hair to his back down to his ass as Sam presses his dick against Dean’s thigh.
Dean puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders and runs them slowly down Sam’s biceps, feeling them flex and shift beneath his fingers. Dean can feel how out of control Sam is, his usual lanky grace gone and replaced with a restlessness and impatience that worries Dean. He lowers the intensity of their kiss, gentles it, and forces Sam to slow down. When Sam’s hands clutch at his hips, he ignores the hot pain that blooms from his bruise and licks a trail from Sam’s mouth to his ear.
Sam’s breath comes out in uneven pants that coast along the back of Dean’s neck. “Please, Dean.”
“Ok, ok,” Dean says. “Let me do this.” He brings his hands down to unbutton Sammy’s jeans. An extra push has them and his boxers pooling around Sam’s ankles, and Sam steps out of them awkwardly, the shoes still on his feet making it difficult, but Dean holds on, waiting until Sam kicks the jeans aside.
Dean turns him around until Sam’s facing the Impala with his hands on the hood. Taking a moment to wince at the thought of what he is about to do to his car, Dean presses his chest against Sam’s back. He reaches around and grips Sam’s cock in his hand.
The first strong pull has Sam groaning and losing his balance, crashing his elbows down on the hood with an ominous thump.
“If there’s a dent in my car, I’m never touching your cock again,” Dean warns.
Sam has the audacity to snort at this before Dean runs his thumb firmly over his balls. “Yeah, right there,” Sam gasps.
“Come on. Come on, Sammy,” Dean coaxes, hand stroking in the hard, unrelenting rhythm that Sam prefers. He kisses Sam’s shoulder and then hooks his chin over it so he can watch what he’s doing.
Sam’s head lulls down and his hips join in, canting in counter-rhythm to Dean’s movements, every thrust rubbing against Dean’s hardness.
Dean fumbles with the hand not on Sam’s cock to undo his pants and fist his own dick in a tight grip. He shuts his eyes against the sensation and tries to focus on getting them both off as fast as possible.
It’s not long before Sam is coming with a grunt of relief that sets off Dean’s orgasm right behind him. Sam’s arms give out entirely, and Dean falls on top of him, groaning when their hips meet, sending a sharp pain through him. He rolls away from the car and to his feet and tries to assess the damage they’ve done.
“Move outta the way,” Dean commands, giving Sam’s ass a slap. When Sam pushes off of the car and stands, Dean winces at the state of his hood. “Look at this! That’s just fucking great.”
He picks up Sam’s abandoned shirt and scrubs at the come smeared against the black sheen of the car.
“Hey, not my shirt!” Sam argues.
“This is your fault,” Dean says. “So don’t be a bitch about it. Anyway, there’re extra clothes in the back seat.”
Sam huffs and rolls his eyes. Dean fishes through his pockets and tosses Sam the keys. “Are you done freaking out?” he asks as Sam unlocks the doors and roots around in the back seat.
He emerges with one of Dean’s black t-shirts halfway on. When his head pokes through, he looks sheepish. “Yeah, I’m done. Sorry about that. This case is just driving me crazy. I can’t understand how an entire town can be so close-minded. There was nothing wrong with those boys. There’s nothing wrong with this,” Sam declares, indicating him and Dean with his hand, face full of righteous indignation.
Dean raises an eyebrow and smirks at the way Sam’s face flushes.
“You know, except for…”
“…the fact that we’re brothers?” Dean finishes.
“Yeah, except that,” Sam says in a small voice, all of his bluster gone, and retreats into the car.
Dean snickers, amused at Sam’s discomfort, and gives the Impala one more ineffectual swipe with the shirt. Sam has always been the one worried about being normal. He’s gotten better about it since coming back to Dean, but occasionally he still lets the morals of his WASPy, upper middleclass college friends dictate how he lives his life.
Dean knows better, knows he’s different. He’s a dead man, almost literally, as much of a ghost as the things they fight every day. He could give a fuck about societal taboos, especially when they try to tell him what he can and can’t do with Sammy.
Tossing the shirt in the back, Dean climbs into the driver’s seat. Sam hands him the keys and he starts the ignition, luxuriating in the purr of the engine beneath him.
“Come on, Sam. Let’s finish this and get the fuck out of here.”