[Porn Friday] On Your Dime - Smith/Wesson - NC-17
title. On Your Dime
pairing. Dean Smith/Sam Wesson. Sam Wesson/Others.
rated. Adult Like Whoa [NC-17]
warnings. Phone Sex Ahoy! AU for 4x17.
n.b. Written for Porn Fridays! Also, inspired by jumpuphigh and she has NO idea about it. She knows where it came from. =)
summary: See warning. Sam Wesson gets a new job, one that lets him pursue his "hobbies". Dean Smith just has to interfere.
"Yeah, tell me how much you want my dick."
The pieces of the stripped Colt M1911 are laying on Sam Wesson's coffee table between his half-finished Coke and a creeping Philodendron that's seen better days. He really needs to water that damn plant.
On the other end of the line, Sam's third caller of the night wheezes, a strange sound considering that this guy's about two minutes from coming as he imagines Sam Colt's hard cock pounding into him.
Two minutes, okay. With the Bluetooth in his ear, his hands are free. The wheezer probably thinks Sam's jacking off right along with him, but it's not really Sam's thing. But he does need his hands to multitask.
"Can you feel it?"
Sam picks up the stock with its signature double diamond Rosewood grip, blue steel finish already gleaming, and starts putting the pistol back together.
"God yes, I do. Come on, fuck me!"
Stock. Barrel. Firing Pin.
"Your ass feels so good. Tell me how hard you want it."
"Harder - unh, I want you to fuck me so hard!"
Bushing. Slide.
"I want you to come for me. Are you gonna come so hard for me, baby?"
"I want to come. Oh, fuck - I'm gonna come. Can I - please let me come!"
Lock it together. Hit the catch. Load the magazine.
"Just a little more baby, come on."
"Fuck - I can't - I need to come! Your cock is amazing!"
"All right, I want you to come for me. Feel my cock inside you, drilling you. So deep and-"
"Uh, yes! Oh -"
The M1911's fully assembled - he's getting faster.
The wheezer's finally coming, more rapidly than Sam anticipated. Doesn't matter - it's not like he gets paid by the minute.
Deep, gasping breaths across the line. "You were so good, are you close?"
"Oh yeah, I'm close. I love your ass - I'm gonna come in you. Are you ready for it, baby?"
"Please, I want you to come in me!"
There's really no art to bullshitting your way through an orgasm. Besides, his callers aren't really looking for perfection, and they're usually too messed up to care what he sounds like, so long as he goes through the motions. He doesn't get why women think it's such a big deal.
A few choked off moans, hitched breaths, and a long whine as he grips the gun tight.
Another satisfied customer.
Clicking off the Bluetooth, he unloads the Colt and sets the magazine down.
It's a good gun - Sam's first. His neighbor Carl is ex-Army and suggested the Series 70 handgun when Sam asked. He even recommended a reputable dealer. More importantly, Carl hadn't asked why a normal, twenty-six year old suddenly needed a reliable firearm.
~
The money's pretty decent and the agency had been impressed with his experience manning phone lines. That, or they took one listen and decided 'yeah, he'll have guys blowing their loads, no problem.' They also don't give a shit about his "day job" - not that hunting's a job yet - just that he manages to draw repeat customers after only a week.
"God Sam, you know just how I like it."
"Always do, Eric. Now spread your legs for me and work yourself open."
'Eric' is a regular now and while Sam knows just what pushes this man's buttons, it also means getting a little more creative each time. And his mother thought he'd never use his imagination for work.
Sam's getting nothing but moans and slick sounds from Eric's end.
"How many fingers do you have inside you now, baby?"
"Just - oh, so good - just one."
"Slick up another one, I want you nice and loose for my big dick."
Sam feels a little bad about how distracted he is tonight, but he's seriously been trying to build an EMF detector for three days. Those Ghostfacers really were useless sometimes. He's got a bundle of wires, an old Walkman, and every other piece the website said he needed, but nothing. He never thought hunting ghosts required such a high I.Q. or an engineering degree.
"I'm almost ready, Sam. Got three fingers..."
"Good boy, Eric. Get yourself nice and slick for me."
Why doesn't anyone sell EMF detectors on eBay? Sam hasn't found any kind of resource where retired hunters sell their old equipment. Shouldn't everything be on the internet? Sam would be all over that. Of course, he wonders how many hunters actually make it to retirement.
"I'm so open - I want your cock, Sam."
"You'll get it soon, baby, just a little longer. It's gonna feel so good when I'm inside you."
"Always does."
Eric's usually more into the action than the others. It takes more focus so he sets the unfinished detector aside and commits. The guy's got a decent voice and is hot for it. It's been a while since Sam got anywhere close to getting laid.
Never let it be said he's not great with customer service.
"All right, you're ready for me, Eric."
"God yes - fuck me, Sam."
It could be worse.
~
Finding hunts is the hardest part. He doesn't know any hunters and his dreams aren't exactly providing names and coordinates. Ninety percent of what he finds on the internet is a bunch of crap, so Sam's left trying to fit together patterns on his own. It's taken a few weeks, but he thinks he finally has one.
The feeling's better than any payday.
He's getting excited, making plans and deep into research on a Friday night when the phone rings.
"Hey Rico."
"Got another for you Sam," Rico's got a pronounced lisp, sidelining him from active sex-line duty but he gets to live vicariously through the auditory liaisons he arranges. "Special request for one Sam Colt."
"Put him through."
"Have fun, stud."
"Samuel Colt," he drawls nice and low when the line clicks. "What can I do for you tonight, baby?"
"Samuel Colt? Really?" There's a huff of breath on the other end. "That's pretty lame, man."
The smooth voice triggers more than a memory in Sam's head.
"Dean?" No, this isn't happening. "What the hell?"
"When you quit, I thought you wanted an actual change. I didn't know you were spending your nights studying to be a sex operator. How's that pay, anyway?"
"You should know, you just paid to talk to me."
"I can spare it. Got a bonus right after you left."
"How the hell did you find me?"
"I heard about your new job from - shit, what was her name? One of your friends down in Tech Support. Callie? Crystal?"
He really only had one friend left after...well, after.
"Um, Susie?"
"Yeah, that was it." Sam never claimed Dean was particularly observant. "Susie thought it was hilarious when I asked where you ended up."
"So you thought you'd just call, have a casual chat?"
"I wanted to see how you were doing."
Such bullshit, but Sam doesn't call him on it. He hasn't tried contacting Dean since he quit - figured he knew a lost cause. But his dreams never stopped coming. There were always more hunts, always with a partner - with Dean. Once, he thought they might be visions of a future, no matter how crazy it sounded.
"I'm all right, still managing."
"Still hunting?"
"I'm trying to," he sighs. "It's a little harder to get started than I thought." Especially when you're doing it alone. "At least Sandover landed right in our laps."
"You were into it, you'll do fine."
"So, you want to tell me why you really called?"
"I told you-"
"Yeah, and that was total crap, Dean. Tell me what you want."
There's a good reason he's got so many returning customers. His voice can go from conversational to licking-your-ass-open dirty in less than five seconds, and Dean can hear the change.
"That's not funny, Sam."
There's a tightness in Dean's voice that gives him away and sets Sam's mind a-spinning. He'd wanted this, plain and simple. Hell, he'd done everything but draw Dean a diagram. There had been a flicker of interest, quickly smothered, with every innuendo he'd let slip.
And seriously? Dean's already paid for this. What's the worst that could happen?
"I could tell you about my dreams, Dean."
"Already heard those, remember?"
"The other ones," he intones, voice going lower. "The ones where we're fucking in that elevator. Where I get you bent over every flat surface I can find."
"Stop it, Sam."
"You don't sound so sure there, Dean," he sprawls out on his couch, shoving print-outs aside and getting comfortable. Sam's already in the game and he wants Dean to know it. "Makes me so hard when I wake up with those images in my head."
"I know you're jerking off, Dean," Sam palms his dick, the pressure so good beneath his jeans. "I know you."
“Not nearly enough.”
Sam doesn’t know how to take that - a correction or a promise. Fuck, he'll make it a promise.
“I want to know everything,” he continues, listening to the shuffling over the line, tell tale signs of Dean getting settled, the buzz-pull of a zipper being undone. “What it’s like to hunt with you, to kiss you, to have you on your hands and knees.”
“Sam.”
There’s less conviction, more need. From the rhythm of Dean’s breath, Sam knows he has his cock in hand, slowly working what has got to be a gorgeous dick, built like the rest of Dean. Thick and beautiful.
“I can spread you open, fit my fingers inside you and have you begging for me.”
“Please...”
“And I can wait until you’re rocking onto my hand, so needy, and then I’ll fuck you. It’ll be so slow, Dean, driving you out of your fucking mind.”
“I don’t want it slow.”
And there it is.
“You take it however I want you to, Dean,” he hisses, full of want and threatened pleasure. “Slow until you’re falling apart, then hard and deep until you’re screaming.”
Now all he gets from Dean are moans and dirty curses; Sam can see him sitting with his palm tight around his blood-flushed cock. His shirt will be open, showing that taut torso, and the wireless headset in his ear providing all the dirty details.
“And then you can come,” Sam promises, “from nothing else than my cock inside you and my hands gripping your hips.”
"Fuck - Sammy..."
"Don't call me Sammy."
And that's when Dean comes. He can hear the bitten off grunts and soft thump when Dean's hand slaps whatever he's sitting on. Like a porn with no video, he just listens to Dean falling apart and strips his own dick in time.
He's got new callouses on his hands - handling guns, knives, everything but his erection in the last few weeks. It's a different sensation. Closing his eyes he can imagine it's Dean's hand on him.
Dean, already fucked-out with his stomach covered in his own come, wrapping one of those strong hands around and fisting it tight.
"Yeah, Dean, just like that..."
"Sam?"
"Faster Dean, 'm almost there."
God bless Dean Smith, he catches on fast.
“Shit - you’re going to come just from my voice?”
Dean’s voice, his memory. Everything.
“Just a little more - fuck, right there!”
“Fuck your fist, Sam. Are you pretending I’m there?”
His strokes quicken as the mental picture solidifies. “Yeah.”
“On my knees in front of you, stroking your dick. I’m just waiting for you to come.”
“Oh shit, Dean...I’m gonna - “
“Yeah, I want to watch you. C’mon Sammy...”
The nickname does it again - like it’s the magic word - and Sam’s spilling into his fist, onto his shirt, hard and fast. So fast that he thinks Dean should be the one working for a sex-line. Jesus.
Dean’s laugh is low and smug while Sam catches his breath. He suddenly wants to be there next to Dean, see what he looks like right now instead of having to listen.
Then he remembers all of his research. Dean called him tonight - hell, he doled out some serious cash for the honor - and that’s got to mean something more than seeing how Sam's doing.
"So, I think I found a hunt not too far away. Down around Elkhorn City?"
No answer. Hopefully Dean's cleaning himself off and not ignoring Sam.
"Doesn't seem like anything major," he coughs. "It's probably just a haunted Inn, and I think we're pretty awesome at dealing with ghosts together, dude."
It feels a little weird, calling a guy he’s just had phone sex with ‘dude’, but it is Dean.
"I still need a partner, Dean."
"Oh yeah?" Dean's not blowing him off, and that's a step in the right direction. "How far is it?"
"About two hundred miles." He takes a breath. "Look, I can pick you up in the morning and I promise to have you back Sunday night. You won't have to miss -"
"Jesus, shut up, Sam," the laughter's tinny but awesome to hear. "Pick me up at seven, and you'd better have a latte, bitch."
"Jerk."
Dean hangs up.
Sam waits a minute. He said yes. Almost too easily, but Sam doesn't care.
He tosses his Bluetooth on the chair and tears into his bedroom, grabbing the first duffel bag that's clean.
He's got to pack.
FIN
Feedback welcomed! Unbeta-ed This is actually the FIRST time I've posted Sam/Dean in a slashy form. Imagine that! Other stories can be found H E R E.
Additionally, if you write J2 fiction and want to be included in the J2 Author Database, please go here to sign up! Any J2 writer can be included.
pairing. Dean Smith/Sam Wesson. Sam Wesson/Others.
rated. Adult Like Whoa [NC-17]
warnings. Phone Sex Ahoy! AU for 4x17.
n.b. Written for Porn Fridays! Also, inspired by jumpuphigh and she has NO idea about it. She knows where it came from. =)
summary: See warning. Sam Wesson gets a new job, one that lets him pursue his "hobbies". Dean Smith just has to interfere.
"Yeah, tell me how much you want my dick."
The pieces of the stripped Colt M1911 are laying on Sam Wesson's coffee table between his half-finished Coke and a creeping Philodendron that's seen better days. He really needs to water that damn plant.
On the other end of the line, Sam's third caller of the night wheezes, a strange sound considering that this guy's about two minutes from coming as he imagines Sam Colt's hard cock pounding into him.
Two minutes, okay. With the Bluetooth in his ear, his hands are free. The wheezer probably thinks Sam's jacking off right along with him, but it's not really Sam's thing. But he does need his hands to multitask.
"Can you feel it?"
Sam picks up the stock with its signature double diamond Rosewood grip, blue steel finish already gleaming, and starts putting the pistol back together.
"God yes, I do. Come on, fuck me!"
Stock. Barrel. Firing Pin.
"Your ass feels so good. Tell me how hard you want it."
"Harder - unh, I want you to fuck me so hard!"
Bushing. Slide.
"I want you to come for me. Are you gonna come so hard for me, baby?"
"I want to come. Oh, fuck - I'm gonna come. Can I - please let me come!"
Lock it together. Hit the catch. Load the magazine.
"Just a little more baby, come on."
"Fuck - I can't - I need to come! Your cock is amazing!"
"All right, I want you to come for me. Feel my cock inside you, drilling you. So deep and-"
"Uh, yes! Oh -"
The M1911's fully assembled - he's getting faster.
The wheezer's finally coming, more rapidly than Sam anticipated. Doesn't matter - it's not like he gets paid by the minute.
Deep, gasping breaths across the line. "You were so good, are you close?"
"Oh yeah, I'm close. I love your ass - I'm gonna come in you. Are you ready for it, baby?"
"Please, I want you to come in me!"
There's really no art to bullshitting your way through an orgasm. Besides, his callers aren't really looking for perfection, and they're usually too messed up to care what he sounds like, so long as he goes through the motions. He doesn't get why women think it's such a big deal.
A few choked off moans, hitched breaths, and a long whine as he grips the gun tight.
Another satisfied customer.
Clicking off the Bluetooth, he unloads the Colt and sets the magazine down.
It's a good gun - Sam's first. His neighbor Carl is ex-Army and suggested the Series 70 handgun when Sam asked. He even recommended a reputable dealer. More importantly, Carl hadn't asked why a normal, twenty-six year old suddenly needed a reliable firearm.
~
The money's pretty decent and the agency had been impressed with his experience manning phone lines. That, or they took one listen and decided 'yeah, he'll have guys blowing their loads, no problem.' They also don't give a shit about his "day job" - not that hunting's a job yet - just that he manages to draw repeat customers after only a week.
"God Sam, you know just how I like it."
"Always do, Eric. Now spread your legs for me and work yourself open."
'Eric' is a regular now and while Sam knows just what pushes this man's buttons, it also means getting a little more creative each time. And his mother thought he'd never use his imagination for work.
Sam's getting nothing but moans and slick sounds from Eric's end.
"How many fingers do you have inside you now, baby?"
"Just - oh, so good - just one."
"Slick up another one, I want you nice and loose for my big dick."
Sam feels a little bad about how distracted he is tonight, but he's seriously been trying to build an EMF detector for three days. Those Ghostfacers really were useless sometimes. He's got a bundle of wires, an old Walkman, and every other piece the website said he needed, but nothing. He never thought hunting ghosts required such a high I.Q. or an engineering degree.
"I'm almost ready, Sam. Got three fingers..."
"Good boy, Eric. Get yourself nice and slick for me."
Why doesn't anyone sell EMF detectors on eBay? Sam hasn't found any kind of resource where retired hunters sell their old equipment. Shouldn't everything be on the internet? Sam would be all over that. Of course, he wonders how many hunters actually make it to retirement.
"I'm so open - I want your cock, Sam."
"You'll get it soon, baby, just a little longer. It's gonna feel so good when I'm inside you."
"Always does."
Eric's usually more into the action than the others. It takes more focus so he sets the unfinished detector aside and commits. The guy's got a decent voice and is hot for it. It's been a while since Sam got anywhere close to getting laid.
Never let it be said he's not great with customer service.
"All right, you're ready for me, Eric."
"God yes - fuck me, Sam."
It could be worse.
~
Finding hunts is the hardest part. He doesn't know any hunters and his dreams aren't exactly providing names and coordinates. Ninety percent of what he finds on the internet is a bunch of crap, so Sam's left trying to fit together patterns on his own. It's taken a few weeks, but he thinks he finally has one.
The feeling's better than any payday.
He's getting excited, making plans and deep into research on a Friday night when the phone rings.
"Hey Rico."
"Got another for you Sam," Rico's got a pronounced lisp, sidelining him from active sex-line duty but he gets to live vicariously through the auditory liaisons he arranges. "Special request for one Sam Colt."
"Put him through."
"Have fun, stud."
"Samuel Colt," he drawls nice and low when the line clicks. "What can I do for you tonight, baby?"
"Samuel Colt? Really?" There's a huff of breath on the other end. "That's pretty lame, man."
The smooth voice triggers more than a memory in Sam's head.
"Dean?" No, this isn't happening. "What the hell?"
"When you quit, I thought you wanted an actual change. I didn't know you were spending your nights studying to be a sex operator. How's that pay, anyway?"
"You should know, you just paid to talk to me."
"I can spare it. Got a bonus right after you left."
"How the hell did you find me?"
"I heard about your new job from - shit, what was her name? One of your friends down in Tech Support. Callie? Crystal?"
He really only had one friend left after...well, after.
"Um, Susie?"
"Yeah, that was it." Sam never claimed Dean was particularly observant. "Susie thought it was hilarious when I asked where you ended up."
"So you thought you'd just call, have a casual chat?"
"I wanted to see how you were doing."
Such bullshit, but Sam doesn't call him on it. He hasn't tried contacting Dean since he quit - figured he knew a lost cause. But his dreams never stopped coming. There were always more hunts, always with a partner - with Dean. Once, he thought they might be visions of a future, no matter how crazy it sounded.
"I'm all right, still managing."
"Still hunting?"
"I'm trying to," he sighs. "It's a little harder to get started than I thought." Especially when you're doing it alone. "At least Sandover landed right in our laps."
"You were into it, you'll do fine."
"So, you want to tell me why you really called?"
"I told you-"
"Yeah, and that was total crap, Dean. Tell me what you want."
There's a good reason he's got so many returning customers. His voice can go from conversational to licking-your-ass-open dirty in less than five seconds, and Dean can hear the change.
"That's not funny, Sam."
There's a tightness in Dean's voice that gives him away and sets Sam's mind a-spinning. He'd wanted this, plain and simple. Hell, he'd done everything but draw Dean a diagram. There had been a flicker of interest, quickly smothered, with every innuendo he'd let slip.
And seriously? Dean's already paid for this. What's the worst that could happen?
"I could tell you about my dreams, Dean."
"Already heard those, remember?"
"The other ones," he intones, voice going lower. "The ones where we're fucking in that elevator. Where I get you bent over every flat surface I can find."
"Stop it, Sam."
"You don't sound so sure there, Dean," he sprawls out on his couch, shoving print-outs aside and getting comfortable. Sam's already in the game and he wants Dean to know it. "Makes me so hard when I wake up with those images in my head."
"I know you're jerking off, Dean," Sam palms his dick, the pressure so good beneath his jeans. "I know you."
“Not nearly enough.”
Sam doesn’t know how to take that - a correction or a promise. Fuck, he'll make it a promise.
“I want to know everything,” he continues, listening to the shuffling over the line, tell tale signs of Dean getting settled, the buzz-pull of a zipper being undone. “What it’s like to hunt with you, to kiss you, to have you on your hands and knees.”
“Sam.”
There’s less conviction, more need. From the rhythm of Dean’s breath, Sam knows he has his cock in hand, slowly working what has got to be a gorgeous dick, built like the rest of Dean. Thick and beautiful.
“I can spread you open, fit my fingers inside you and have you begging for me.”
“Please...”
“And I can wait until you’re rocking onto my hand, so needy, and then I’ll fuck you. It’ll be so slow, Dean, driving you out of your fucking mind.”
“I don’t want it slow.”
And there it is.
“You take it however I want you to, Dean,” he hisses, full of want and threatened pleasure. “Slow until you’re falling apart, then hard and deep until you’re screaming.”
Now all he gets from Dean are moans and dirty curses; Sam can see him sitting with his palm tight around his blood-flushed cock. His shirt will be open, showing that taut torso, and the wireless headset in his ear providing all the dirty details.
“And then you can come,” Sam promises, “from nothing else than my cock inside you and my hands gripping your hips.”
"Fuck - Sammy..."
"Don't call me Sammy."
And that's when Dean comes. He can hear the bitten off grunts and soft thump when Dean's hand slaps whatever he's sitting on. Like a porn with no video, he just listens to Dean falling apart and strips his own dick in time.
He's got new callouses on his hands - handling guns, knives, everything but his erection in the last few weeks. It's a different sensation. Closing his eyes he can imagine it's Dean's hand on him.
Dean, already fucked-out with his stomach covered in his own come, wrapping one of those strong hands around and fisting it tight.
"Yeah, Dean, just like that..."
"Sam?"
"Faster Dean, 'm almost there."
God bless Dean Smith, he catches on fast.
“Shit - you’re going to come just from my voice?”
Dean’s voice, his memory. Everything.
“Just a little more - fuck, right there!”
“Fuck your fist, Sam. Are you pretending I’m there?”
His strokes quicken as the mental picture solidifies. “Yeah.”
“On my knees in front of you, stroking your dick. I’m just waiting for you to come.”
“Oh shit, Dean...I’m gonna - “
“Yeah, I want to watch you. C’mon Sammy...”
The nickname does it again - like it’s the magic word - and Sam’s spilling into his fist, onto his shirt, hard and fast. So fast that he thinks Dean should be the one working for a sex-line. Jesus.
Dean’s laugh is low and smug while Sam catches his breath. He suddenly wants to be there next to Dean, see what he looks like right now instead of having to listen.
Then he remembers all of his research. Dean called him tonight - hell, he doled out some serious cash for the honor - and that’s got to mean something more than seeing how Sam's doing.
"So, I think I found a hunt not too far away. Down around Elkhorn City?"
No answer. Hopefully Dean's cleaning himself off and not ignoring Sam.
"Doesn't seem like anything major," he coughs. "It's probably just a haunted Inn, and I think we're pretty awesome at dealing with ghosts together, dude."
It feels a little weird, calling a guy he’s just had phone sex with ‘dude’, but it is Dean.
"I still need a partner, Dean."
"Oh yeah?" Dean's not blowing him off, and that's a step in the right direction. "How far is it?"
"About two hundred miles." He takes a breath. "Look, I can pick you up in the morning and I promise to have you back Sunday night. You won't have to miss -"
"Jesus, shut up, Sam," the laughter's tinny but awesome to hear. "Pick me up at seven, and you'd better have a latte, bitch."
"Jerk."
Dean hangs up.
Sam waits a minute. He said yes. Almost too easily, but Sam doesn't care.
He tosses his Bluetooth on the chair and tears into his bedroom, grabbing the first duffel bag that's clean.
He's got to pack.
FIN
Feedback welcomed! Unbeta-ed This is actually the FIRST time I've posted Sam/Dean in a slashy form. Imagine that! Other stories can be found H E R E.
Additionally, if you write J2 fiction and want to be included in the J2 Author Database, please go here to sign up! Any J2 writer can be included.