Ficlets (SPN & CW RPS)
Second batch of ficlets. Other ones to come shortly. Shiny inspirational fandom! LOVE YOU SO. Wrote most of these last night in a feverish burst of creativity. That may account for some loopiness.
For kashmir1: Teddy Bear
Jared/Jensen, teddy bears (PG)
I apologize for the utter schmooptasticness but like… *hand gestures!*
It’s a month into hiatus and they’re out shopping. Dressed down, Jared’s cap pulled down low (“like they won’t see you from a mile away, yeah, that’ll really distract ‘em.”), Jensen wearing shades and looking through a cheap DVDs bin, searches for a crappy movie for ten bucks they can watch, later, after dinner.
Jared comes around a corner, nearly bounds right into Jensen, pulls out his iPod earbuds and wags a toy bear in Jensen’s face. It’s about as big as his hand, a bear with sunglasses and a freaking guitar.
“What the hell’s that?” Jensen asks, scratches his neck. He’s grown out his beard and it’s itchy today, doesn’t help that there’s no A/C in this crappy department store.
“Dude! Check this out. You press it here and it sings, I gotta have it, oh, I’m totally buying it,” Jared’s saying, mile a minute, poking the bear’s belly on a well worn sticker, trickle of tinny rock and roll music petering out.
“What do you need that for? It’s a piece of junk.”
Jared frowns, and then he suddenly smiles, like he’s struck with an idea. “You're right. I can poke you instead. You're fuzzy and you'll sing.”
Doesn't waste a second, Jared, already wagging a long finger under the hem of Jensen's shirt, pokes him in the side, causing him to gasp and bat Jared's hand away.
He bites out, terse, “Cut that out!”
Jensen wriggles in Jared’s grasp, all of a sudden pressed against him, arm around his waist, and Jared leans in close to his ear, saying, “Shut up and start singin’.”
They’ll get a movie to buy, sure, but it’s not like they’re gonna watch it-after all, Jensen can’t turn down a challenge.
For regala_electra: Jared/Jensen, chocolate sauce escapades
Feel Your Taste
(Jared/Jensen; NC-17)
Jensen stages an intervention. A healthy one. Jared’s not exactly sure how this qualifies, but he’s not going to complain either.
regala_electra is a pushy whore.
For moveablehistory: The Fort
Sam/Dean, post-AHBL pillow fort (R)
Mmm. Pillow fort. You know, I missed out on the pillow fort fic train in fandom. Huh.
Dean doesn’t really make a list, shouldn’t have to-sex and food, and car, and movies, and Sam-and yet this sneaks on by, a couple months into the last year of his life when he tells Sam “remember that summer-”
Couple hours later, room service scratching their heads, empty beer bottles roll on the floor as Sam’s head pokes out, hair tousled, eyes half-lidded, murmuring, “Where’d you go?”
He gets this cackling from somewhere a few feet behind his ass, so he’s navigating the mess of soft, pillow-y tunnels he-and his brother-constructed between the twin queen-sized beds. The room’s a sea of white and pale blue and little dots and flowery pillows, bags of discarded junk food, duffels open, to the side, TV stuck on some low budget B movie with tits and aliens.
Dean’s laid out in one whole ‘tunnel’, arm behind his head, this lazy grin, taking a sip of beer. Sam crawls on his knees and elbows, starts crawling on top of Dean, makes the top pillow ‘ceiling’ bump up with every movement forward. He bends down and starts to kiss a path right near the waistband of Dean’s boxers up his belly, chest. Moves forward and lowers his waist, erection pressing against Dean’s thigh.
“You’re such a freak,” Sam says, grins. Dean almost pouts before he smiles in response. “What’s next on the childhood fantasies? Boys locker room?”
“Nope. Cave in.”
“Cave in?”
Dean whacks the pillows up and to the sides of them with a clenched fist, flash of white teeth in the dark as the pillows fall and Dean angles his head up to kiss Sam’s mouth.
For glimmerella: Trust
Evil!Dean/Sam (NC-17)
There is NOT ENOUGH Evil!Dean. Unfortunately, I can vaaaguely attempt. Vaguely.
“That’s it, Sammy. That’s it.”
Dean’s fisting Sam, shallow pumps, building it up, this drawn out process, this thing, and he’s breathing against Sam’s ear, says, “Come on, Sammy.”
Sam’s shoulders are hunched forward, this moan tearing from his throat, bangs stiff, sticky with blood on his temple. Dean’s free hand is there, stroking Sam’s forehead, temple, shushes, this low, soft noise. His body angles closer to Sam, knee pushes Sam’s long leg, body scrunched down in the passenger seat. Sam’s just on the edge of orgasm when Dean reaches his free hand towards the empty spot on the driver’s seat, picks up the Colt.
He places it in Sam’s blood streaked hands, murmuring, “Come on, Sammy, get ready. Get ready.”
Then, twist of a snarl to his mouth, closer still, stubble scrapes stubble, going, “Gonna taste you, and then your mouth, your lips, gonna see them wrapped around my cock.”
Sam comes all over Dean’s fist, groaning, clears his throat and he’s shaking, a little, jerks his head, this twitch. Dean says, whiskey-deep voice, “You trust me, Sammy? You know I’ll always take care of you?”
He can’t talk, panting now, shakes the blood stiff hair out of his eyes, responding, “I trust you, Dean.”
“Good boy,” Dean says, and his eyes are green, bright in the dark, no yellow, no black, no holy water, just red, scrape of burned bruises against his temple. He grins, teeth look too bright in the little light available, blurred by rain coated windows. “Hold onto that. We’ll need it when they come.”
Sam zippers up. His boxers and jeans are stained with a mess of come. Blood streaked hands shake from the gun’s weight.
He made the wrong deal.
For katjad: Something Special
Sam/Dean, post-AHBL, Sam brings home a puppy (G)
For this I kept thinking about regala_electra’s The Dog Begging Bone. So um. I can never do Winchesters & dogs justice. Read her story. It’s lovely. :)
“We’re not keeping that.”
“Why not? I thought you’d like a puppy.”
“Sam-”
“You told me you’ve always wanted a puppy.”
“I was drunk. Real drunk.”
“Yeah, but you said you wanted a puppy. We even stopped outside a pet store so you could take a look before you threw up on my sneakers.”
“Whatever.”
But then Sam like, grabs the puppy with one hand, this little mutt, holds him up under his chin and laughs, tickles behind the puppy’s ears. His smile is a rare thing nowadays; something twists in Dean’s gut at the sight of it, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile in response, can’t help it.
“Fine. But you’re cleaning up after him. S’only fair after I had to do that shit with you.”
“Hey!”
“What. You were a mess, Sammy.” Dean throws on his jacket, fixes the collar when he says, “And if that mutt fucks up the Impala’s upholstery, it’s not the only thing that’s gonna be neutered around here.”
Sam stands up, tugging his hoodie closed, balances the soft little furry creature in one hand. He says as he walks by, eyes half-lidded, “It’d be your loss.”
And fuck if Dean’ll admit it, but Sam really does have a point.
“Fine, fine, Sammy. Hey! That’s a good name for a dog, don’t you think? Oww!”
For crazyjoyfulgirl: No Stop Signs
Sam/Dean, impala, middle of nowhere, silent communication (NC-17)
…because this is how it works, yo.
They’re on the side of the highway in Arizona, sky clear as crystal, dust clouds settling. There’s streaks, dust, mud on the Impala’s rims, tires; they need to clean her up.
They will, sure as anything, sure as the way Dean’s teeth scrape, barely, deep throats, licks the underside of Sam’s cock.
His hands clamp onto Sam’s hips, curve of muscle, bone, gazes up, the bare flesh of Sam’s exposed throat. Sam’s back, on the Impala’s car door, burns a little, this warmth from the heated surface. The heat, the humidity in the air make his bangs stick to his temples. Sam’s hips arch into Dean’s mouth.
Grunts a little, palms at Dean’s head, tugs, and Dean goes faster. Doesn’t have to say a word, only sounds are wet, moaning, shuffle of boots and denim clad knees on dirt, gravel.
Shudder of orgasm, Sam fumbling for leverage, and Dean’s hands are already there, holding, steady.
Holding.
For sloane_m: Grass Stains
Sam/Dean, jeans and grass stains (G)
I need to read more teenage!Sam. Teenage!Sam makes me happy.
Sam’s seventeen, this gangly, awkward dork, all laid out on the grass, eyes turn into slits when his face is covered in shadow.
“Go away, Dean.”
He’s twenty four, taller, heavier, broader. That same shadow, different, taller, and Sam says, again:
“Go away, Dean.”
The difference is in his smile, and the day-seventeen, baseball game, rare look or training, bottles of Coke and treasured cold sandwiches Dad brought as a reward for once. Twenty four, no Dad, just them, rare moment of peace, Dean trying to charm his way into getting some food at a family barbeque a couple dozen yards away.
Public place, doesn’t matter how they act around each other. Nobody knows.
A nod or wave that Sam gives, that he gets, and Dean sits on the ground heavily, jeans streaked with dirt, green, hands over a paper plate of barbequed ribs and mashed potatoes. He tears into a sandwich, Sam shaking his head in amusement.
“You’re kidding me. Dean, you can’t just-”
“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Sammy. And eat your food. Or I’ll do it for you.”
Sam sits up fully, plate on one thigh. He squints in the sunlight, looks at the freckles on Dean’s face, shell of his ear, sunlight bathing Dean, a beautiful contrast to his sloppy eating. “Yeah, I bet you would.”
Now! Back to regular old genderswappin’ fic revisin’ hijinks!
For kashmir1: Teddy Bear
Jared/Jensen, teddy bears (PG)
I apologize for the utter schmooptasticness but like… *hand gestures!*
It’s a month into hiatus and they’re out shopping. Dressed down, Jared’s cap pulled down low (“like they won’t see you from a mile away, yeah, that’ll really distract ‘em.”), Jensen wearing shades and looking through a cheap DVDs bin, searches for a crappy movie for ten bucks they can watch, later, after dinner.
Jared comes around a corner, nearly bounds right into Jensen, pulls out his iPod earbuds and wags a toy bear in Jensen’s face. It’s about as big as his hand, a bear with sunglasses and a freaking guitar.
“What the hell’s that?” Jensen asks, scratches his neck. He’s grown out his beard and it’s itchy today, doesn’t help that there’s no A/C in this crappy department store.
“Dude! Check this out. You press it here and it sings, I gotta have it, oh, I’m totally buying it,” Jared’s saying, mile a minute, poking the bear’s belly on a well worn sticker, trickle of tinny rock and roll music petering out.
“What do you need that for? It’s a piece of junk.”
Jared frowns, and then he suddenly smiles, like he’s struck with an idea. “You're right. I can poke you instead. You're fuzzy and you'll sing.”
Doesn't waste a second, Jared, already wagging a long finger under the hem of Jensen's shirt, pokes him in the side, causing him to gasp and bat Jared's hand away.
He bites out, terse, “Cut that out!”
Jensen wriggles in Jared’s grasp, all of a sudden pressed against him, arm around his waist, and Jared leans in close to his ear, saying, “Shut up and start singin’.”
They’ll get a movie to buy, sure, but it’s not like they’re gonna watch it-after all, Jensen can’t turn down a challenge.
For regala_electra: Jared/Jensen, chocolate sauce escapades
Feel Your Taste
(Jared/Jensen; NC-17)
Jensen stages an intervention. A healthy one. Jared’s not exactly sure how this qualifies, but he’s not going to complain either.
regala_electra is a pushy whore.
For moveablehistory: The Fort
Sam/Dean, post-AHBL pillow fort (R)
Mmm. Pillow fort. You know, I missed out on the pillow fort fic train in fandom. Huh.
Dean doesn’t really make a list, shouldn’t have to-sex and food, and car, and movies, and Sam-and yet this sneaks on by, a couple months into the last year of his life when he tells Sam “remember that summer-”
Couple hours later, room service scratching their heads, empty beer bottles roll on the floor as Sam’s head pokes out, hair tousled, eyes half-lidded, murmuring, “Where’d you go?”
He gets this cackling from somewhere a few feet behind his ass, so he’s navigating the mess of soft, pillow-y tunnels he-and his brother-constructed between the twin queen-sized beds. The room’s a sea of white and pale blue and little dots and flowery pillows, bags of discarded junk food, duffels open, to the side, TV stuck on some low budget B movie with tits and aliens.
Dean’s laid out in one whole ‘tunnel’, arm behind his head, this lazy grin, taking a sip of beer. Sam crawls on his knees and elbows, starts crawling on top of Dean, makes the top pillow ‘ceiling’ bump up with every movement forward. He bends down and starts to kiss a path right near the waistband of Dean’s boxers up his belly, chest. Moves forward and lowers his waist, erection pressing against Dean’s thigh.
“You’re such a freak,” Sam says, grins. Dean almost pouts before he smiles in response. “What’s next on the childhood fantasies? Boys locker room?”
“Nope. Cave in.”
“Cave in?”
Dean whacks the pillows up and to the sides of them with a clenched fist, flash of white teeth in the dark as the pillows fall and Dean angles his head up to kiss Sam’s mouth.
For glimmerella: Trust
Evil!Dean/Sam (NC-17)
There is NOT ENOUGH Evil!Dean. Unfortunately, I can vaaaguely attempt. Vaguely.
“That’s it, Sammy. That’s it.”
Dean’s fisting Sam, shallow pumps, building it up, this drawn out process, this thing, and he’s breathing against Sam’s ear, says, “Come on, Sammy.”
Sam’s shoulders are hunched forward, this moan tearing from his throat, bangs stiff, sticky with blood on his temple. Dean’s free hand is there, stroking Sam’s forehead, temple, shushes, this low, soft noise. His body angles closer to Sam, knee pushes Sam’s long leg, body scrunched down in the passenger seat. Sam’s just on the edge of orgasm when Dean reaches his free hand towards the empty spot on the driver’s seat, picks up the Colt.
He places it in Sam’s blood streaked hands, murmuring, “Come on, Sammy, get ready. Get ready.”
Then, twist of a snarl to his mouth, closer still, stubble scrapes stubble, going, “Gonna taste you, and then your mouth, your lips, gonna see them wrapped around my cock.”
Sam comes all over Dean’s fist, groaning, clears his throat and he’s shaking, a little, jerks his head, this twitch. Dean says, whiskey-deep voice, “You trust me, Sammy? You know I’ll always take care of you?”
He can’t talk, panting now, shakes the blood stiff hair out of his eyes, responding, “I trust you, Dean.”
“Good boy,” Dean says, and his eyes are green, bright in the dark, no yellow, no black, no holy water, just red, scrape of burned bruises against his temple. He grins, teeth look too bright in the little light available, blurred by rain coated windows. “Hold onto that. We’ll need it when they come.”
Sam zippers up. His boxers and jeans are stained with a mess of come. Blood streaked hands shake from the gun’s weight.
He made the wrong deal.
For katjad: Something Special
Sam/Dean, post-AHBL, Sam brings home a puppy (G)
For this I kept thinking about regala_electra’s The Dog Begging Bone. So um. I can never do Winchesters & dogs justice. Read her story. It’s lovely. :)
“We’re not keeping that.”
“Why not? I thought you’d like a puppy.”
“Sam-”
“You told me you’ve always wanted a puppy.”
“I was drunk. Real drunk.”
“Yeah, but you said you wanted a puppy. We even stopped outside a pet store so you could take a look before you threw up on my sneakers.”
“Whatever.”
But then Sam like, grabs the puppy with one hand, this little mutt, holds him up under his chin and laughs, tickles behind the puppy’s ears. His smile is a rare thing nowadays; something twists in Dean’s gut at the sight of it, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile in response, can’t help it.
“Fine. But you’re cleaning up after him. S’only fair after I had to do that shit with you.”
“Hey!”
“What. You were a mess, Sammy.” Dean throws on his jacket, fixes the collar when he says, “And if that mutt fucks up the Impala’s upholstery, it’s not the only thing that’s gonna be neutered around here.”
Sam stands up, tugging his hoodie closed, balances the soft little furry creature in one hand. He says as he walks by, eyes half-lidded, “It’d be your loss.”
And fuck if Dean’ll admit it, but Sam really does have a point.
“Fine, fine, Sammy. Hey! That’s a good name for a dog, don’t you think? Oww!”
For crazyjoyfulgirl: No Stop Signs
Sam/Dean, impala, middle of nowhere, silent communication (NC-17)
…because this is how it works, yo.
They’re on the side of the highway in Arizona, sky clear as crystal, dust clouds settling. There’s streaks, dust, mud on the Impala’s rims, tires; they need to clean her up.
They will, sure as anything, sure as the way Dean’s teeth scrape, barely, deep throats, licks the underside of Sam’s cock.
His hands clamp onto Sam’s hips, curve of muscle, bone, gazes up, the bare flesh of Sam’s exposed throat. Sam’s back, on the Impala’s car door, burns a little, this warmth from the heated surface. The heat, the humidity in the air make his bangs stick to his temples. Sam’s hips arch into Dean’s mouth.
Grunts a little, palms at Dean’s head, tugs, and Dean goes faster. Doesn’t have to say a word, only sounds are wet, moaning, shuffle of boots and denim clad knees on dirt, gravel.
Shudder of orgasm, Sam fumbling for leverage, and Dean’s hands are already there, holding, steady.
Holding.
For sloane_m: Grass Stains
Sam/Dean, jeans and grass stains (G)
I need to read more teenage!Sam. Teenage!Sam makes me happy.
Sam’s seventeen, this gangly, awkward dork, all laid out on the grass, eyes turn into slits when his face is covered in shadow.
“Go away, Dean.”
He’s twenty four, taller, heavier, broader. That same shadow, different, taller, and Sam says, again:
“Go away, Dean.”
The difference is in his smile, and the day-seventeen, baseball game, rare look or training, bottles of Coke and treasured cold sandwiches Dad brought as a reward for once. Twenty four, no Dad, just them, rare moment of peace, Dean trying to charm his way into getting some food at a family barbeque a couple dozen yards away.
Public place, doesn’t matter how they act around each other. Nobody knows.
A nod or wave that Sam gives, that he gets, and Dean sits on the ground heavily, jeans streaked with dirt, green, hands over a paper plate of barbequed ribs and mashed potatoes. He tears into a sandwich, Sam shaking his head in amusement.
“You’re kidding me. Dean, you can’t just-”
“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Sammy. And eat your food. Or I’ll do it for you.”
Sam sits up fully, plate on one thigh. He squints in the sunlight, looks at the freckles on Dean’s face, shell of his ear, sunlight bathing Dean, a beautiful contrast to his sloppy eating. “Yeah, I bet you would.”
Now! Back to regular old genderswappin’ fic revisin’ hijinks!